by Mary Balogh
“I will not pretend to anything,” she said, “just to clear myself of something I did not do. And I will not play the coward by leaving my job. I don’t want to leave it. I like it. I like Verity.”
And yet she felt sick. She was already pretending to something. But she could not tell him now. It would make her seem guilty of the other charge. And she was not guilty. Oh, he must believe that she would never have done that.
“Enough of this nonsense, Siân.” His tone was harsher. He released his hold on her chin finally. “You must see that it is for your own good, and I am getting very tired of your stubbornness. In less than two weeks’ time you are going to have to finish working, anyway, because you will be my wife. What difference do a few weeks make? Especially when being stubborn will increase the gossip and perhaps make a few people turn nasty.”
“I will not do it,” she said. “I will give up my job when I am ready to do so or when my services are no longer required. I will not give it up out of fear because a few people believe I might have told the Marquess of Craille about the meeting last night.”
“Or because I ask it of you, cariad?” He was looking very steadily at her.
She dropped her eyes and swallowed. “It is not something you should ask, Owen,” she said. “If I asked you to give up your job or if I asked you to give up your leadership of the workers because it might be dangerous to you to continue, you would not do so, would you?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I am a man.”
“And I am a woman,” she said. “No inferior creature to whom a job and pride mean nothing, Owen. I am a woman.”
Unexpectedly he smiled. He set his hands on her shoulders and drew her against him. “I had noticed,” he said. “But damn you, Siân, you are a woman who is going to need a heavy hand.”
He kissed her hard. She felt panic for a moment and terrible guilt. But she could not tell him now. God forgive her, she could not.
“It is going to be a toss-up on our wedding night,” he said, “whether you will go over my knee or into my bed first. If you would prefer the second, you had better keep your mouth shut all day, girl, after you have said what the Reverend Llewellyn will have you say. Why are you crying?”
She shook her head and hid her face against his shoulder. Owen! She had come so close to loving him. So very close. She could not understand what that small something was that had held her back. He was everything she could want or need. Almost any other unmarried woman of Cwmbran or the neighboring valleys would jump at the chance to be in her shoes. She wished she loved him. Even now she wished it.
If only it had been Owen up on the mountain last night—loving her as she had been loved, making her feel as she had been made to feel. If only. With a wedding to look forward to and a whole future of married life and motherhood. If only she could love him, she would even be willing to subject her will to his and take the consequences when he was displeased with her. Or at least, she would try to be willing. If only she loved him.
“Owen,” she said, “I care for you so very much. Please always believe that.”
“You can show me on our wedding night, fach,” he said, kissing her temple until she turned her head and he could kiss her lips. “You can show me all night and in the morning I will tell you if I believe you or not. If I don’t, you will have to show me all over again. It might take a week before I am convinced.”
She drew away from him. Owen affectionate and playful was so much more difficult to be with at the moment than Owen grim and masterful.
“Take me home?” she said. “Gran said I was not to be late.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “And Gran is to be obeyed,” he said. “You sounded just like a meek child then, Siân. I will have to ask Mrs. Rhys what her secret is. Back home it is, then, cariad. Pretty soon it will be back home to our own house. Then I will not drag my feet.”
He took her hand again and laced his fingers with hers.
* * *
He stopped outside the drawing room door and set his hand on the knob, as he often did. Sometimes he turned it and went in for a few minutes—to listen to Verity’s progress in her music lessons, he always said, not entirely untruthfully. She was excited when he did so and had to demonstrate for him all the scales she had mastered and play him one or two of the simple tunes she had learned. Sometimes he remained outside the door listening for a few minutes and then moved away.
Today it was Siân playing, not Verity. Verity was singing.
Siân. He had had difficulty sleeping last night despite his tiredness. He had had a great deal on his mind. But it was one fact alone that kept him awake. He had kept wishing that it was the night before. He had relived their lovemaking moment by moment and longed to have it again.
He longed to see her again. To hear her voice. To touch her. Alexander, she had called him. Not Alex, but Alexander. It was the first time she had called him anything at all. And then she had called him cariad—my love. She had told him later that she had meant it, that it had not been simply passion speaking.
Siân. He set his forehead against the door and then withdrew it again and opened the door.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“Papa”—Verity’s face lit up as she came bounding across the room to take his hand in hers—“I am learning to sing a real Welsh song. In Welsh. I am ever so clever, aren’t I? Mrs. Jones is teaching me. She says that when I am grown up perhaps I will be able to sing in the eisteddfod.”
“I shall come and cheer you on when that happens,” he said, “and carry you about on my shoulder when you win.”
She laughed. “Come and listen to me.”
He looked across the room at Siân, who was sitting at the pianoforte, looking back. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright—devouring him as his were devouring her. God, he thought, it had been real. It had been no vivid, erotic dream. It had been real.
“May I?” he asked. “Is she ready for an audience yet?”
“Yes, indeed,” Siân said, “since the audience will be partial. We have to work more on the pronunciation and the expression, but she has a sweet voice.”
“Coming from a Welshwoman,” he said, “that is quite a compliment.”
Verity sang for him and then played him all her scales and a new tune she had not mastered at all. And then she had to tell him that King Henry VIII had had six wives and that Vienna was the capital of Austria and that Mrs. Jones had said her penmanship was improving.
“Not one blot this morning, Papa,” she said.
“Goodness,” he said, “soon I am going to have such a scholar on my hands that I will be put to shame.”
She laughed with delight. “Don’t be silly, Papa,” she said. “Two of King Henry VIII’s wives had their heads chopped off.”
“Painful,” he said. “I believe school is over for the day. Why don’t you run up to the nursery and ask Nurse to order up tea? I need to speak with Mrs. Jones for a few minutes.”
“All right, Papa,” she said. “But come up later. I want to show you my penmanship sheet and the painting I started this afternoon. Good-bye, Mrs. Jones. May I sing again tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Siân said. “What would a day be without song in it?”
Verity whisked herself from the room and shut the door behind her.
There was silence for a few moments as Siân stood beside the pianoforte and Alex stood several feet away. They looked at each other with some wariness but no embarrassment. Then he opened his arms and she walked into them, pressing herself against him while he closed them about her.
“You got home safely and undetected?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her face was against his cravat. “Thank you for my gift.”
“Gift?” he said.
“The proof that I can trust you,” she said. “For giving more
than you were asked for yesterday morning. It was a more precious gift than jewels would have been.”
“Was it?” He kissed the top of her head. “I would like to give you all the jewels money can buy, Siân. But you would not accept them, would you?”
She lifted her head away from his chest to look up at him. “No,” she said. “I do not need jewels. I need to believe in you, and now I do.”
He feathered the backs of his fingers over one of her cheeks.
“You have told him?” he asked.
She shook her head and bit her lip. “Not yet.”
“But you will not marry him, Siân?” He should be wishing that she would. He should be wishing for a secure and contented future for her. She would not be his mistress. He should wish that she would be Parry’s wife, then. But he could not bear the thought of her being with another man. Least of all Owen Parry.
She shook her head again.
“What have they decided?” he asked. “Have they agreed to the meeting?”
She looked inquiringly at him.
“He has not told you?” he asked. “I want to meet with Parry and other representatives of the people to discuss what else may be done to make life better here. He is to arrange it.”
“I know nothing about it,” she said.
He smiled at her. “I found it hard to sleep last night,” he said. “I wanted you.”
He watched a flush brighten her cheeks and knew that she had wanted him too. He lowered his head and opened his mouth over hers. But it was neither the time nor the place for passion.
“Come and sit down,” he said, leading her to a sofa, and seating her close beside him, his arm about her shoulders. “Tell me something, Siân. If you had unlimited resources of money and manpower, what changes would you make in Cwmbran? What improvements?”
“Oh,” she said. She set her head on his shoulder and was silent for a long time. “I would find a way to produce iron without all the smoke and dust and to mine coal without the danger of explosions and the coal tips and the coughing sickness that most miners seem to end up with. But you mean within the bounds of reality?”
“Yes.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head. “Within the bounds of reality, though perhaps in time we can tackle those problems too.”
“I would have waterworks and sewers put in,” she said, “and the river cleaned up. I would make sure that no children worked. I would have schools for them all. And the chance for them to do something else in life than laboring in the works or mine if they wished and if they had the ability. I would have more doctors. And a level of wages below which it was not permitted to go. I would have pensions for the elderly and sick. And a library and speakers and readers coming in to keep us informed about the rest of the world. We already have music. I would have—is that enough?”
He chuckled. “I think quite enough to be going on with,” he said. “And more houses, perhaps, so that families would not be so crowded together?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Definitely that.”
“I shall have to make you my program manager,” he said.
“Are you really planning to do any of those things?” she asked.
“As many of them as I can,” he said. And he realized even as he said it that he meant it. And that therefore he was making a huge commitment of time and energy and money to Cwmbran. No longer could he tell himself that he was here for just a short time. If he really did intend to make these changes—and he did—then he was committing himself to making Cwmbran his home for many years to come.
What had happened to the feeling that he was a stranger in a strange land? Ah, but there was that other feeling he had had right from the start, right from that walk he had taken out onto the hills with Verity—that feeling of longing, that feeling that somehow he had come home, though he had not quite understood it at the time. But that was what the feeling was.
He had come home.
And he had found his love there.
“Alexander,” she said, “why?”
“Because I want to,” he said, “and because I am able to.”
“Is it because of me?” Her voice was so quiet that he could scarcely hear the words.
“Partly,” he said. “Not entirely. But partly, Siân, it is because of you. I love this valley and this town and these people—but I cannot separate any of them in my mind from you.”
“I must go,” she said, lifting her head from his shoulder and getting to her feet.
He got up too and took her hands in his. He lifted them one at a time to his lips.
“I did sleep last night,” she said breathlessly. “The few times I woke up I willed myself back to sleep quickly. I dreamed of you all night long.”
He smiled at her. “Call me what you called me up on the mountain,” he said.
“Cariad?” She raised her eyebrows and flushed. And then looked at his mouth. “Cariad.”
He kissed her mouth softly.
“I must go.” She drew her hands free.
He crossed the room to open the door for her and watched her as she descended the stairs quickly and lightly to the hall.
God, he loved her. Her body, her mind, her soul. Her. He loved her. Yet they had somehow got themselves into an impossible relationship. She was not his mistress and yet had not ruled out the possibility that they would be occasional lovers. They were not established lovers, yet she was willing to let him kiss her and hold her. She was willing to call him her love.
Siân Jones was an incredibly generous woman, he realized. The night before last she had given herself without any thought of getting anything in return. And now she was giving her love—yes, it was love—without demanding any type of security. Only the knowledge that she could trust him. She did not need jewels, she had said. She needed only to believe in him.
If he possessed the universe, he thought, he would spread it beneath her feet. Well, he did not own as much, but he owned enough. He would spread what he had as a carpet for her, so that she would be able to look about her in Cwmbran and like what she saw.
And know that she had not trusted him in vain.
18
ALEX woke in a cold sweat and found himself gazing up at the canopy above his bed and listening intently. The sound had died away by the time consciousness had fully returned, but he knew very well what he had heard.
Scotch Cattle.
Damnation! He clamped his teeth together and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He had hoped to avoid this.
He was foolish, he supposed, to have believed that matters would move fast, that everyone would see things his way, that they would forget about the larger issue and throw themselves with enthusiasm into making Cwmbran a livable place and a model to all surrounding towns.
He had not not heard anything from Owen Parry in three days. He had heard plenty from his fellow owners, who were still holding out against their striking workers. None of what they had to say was complimentary.
The Chartists were still pressing forward with their plan. That was obvious. Yet again they were trying to force every man and boy to join their organization and prepare for the march on Newport. It was not going to be so easy to deflect them from that purpose, obviously.
Damn it all to hell! Some poor men were going to be punished again. For nothing. He wondered if Siân’s young brother-in-law would be among them once more. Did Scotch Cattle punish the same man twice? He was going to have to call Owen Parry back tomorrow and see if something could be settled and to find out what progress had been made in organizing a meeting with representatives of the town’s workers.
And then that chilling wailing and howling started up again and Alex got out of bed to cross to the window. Not that he could see anything from there, of course. Should he get dressed and go outside? Doubtless they would be gone before he could come up with them. If they were fol
lowing their usual pattern, this must be a night of warning since they did not usually punish without a warning first. Besides, even if he went out and found them, what could he do—one man against ten?
While he hesitated, he was chilled by another sound—screaming from within the house. Verity! She must have awoken and been frightened by the sounds. He grabbed a dressing gown, thrust his arms into the sleeves, and belted it about his waist as he ran.
Verity’s nurse was just arriving at the child’s bedside, but Alex waved her away and scooped up his screaming daughter in his arms.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said to her. “It’s all right.”
“Dada, I’m frightened,” she wailed. “There are wolves. They are coming to get me.”
He had noticed ever since the day of the eisteddfod that she tended to give him a Welsh title when she was in any sort of emotional state.
“Papa has you,” he said, tightening his hold on her for a moment so that she would feel the strength of his arms. “And we are inside a strong castle. No one and nothing is going to get you. Papa will not allow it.”
“Wolves,” she moaned against his neck. “Nurse said there would be wolves and I thought it was funny.”
It was probably better for her to believe in wolves than in wild men, he thought, having to make a quick decision.
“Just wild animals of some sort,” he said. “They don’t come close to Cwmbran or to Glanrhyd Castle because they are afraid of people. But in the night the sound of their howling travels a long, long way and makes them seem close.”
“I’m frightened, Dada.” She burrowed closer.
“I know.” He pulled the top cover from her bed, sat down with her on an armchair, and covered her up warmly. “It is a frightening sound, isn’t it? But there is nothing really to be scared about. Papa has you safe. Nobody is going to get my little girl.”
