by Janet Woods
Patrick had saved a bit of money over the years and the reward had added to his next egg considerably. Now, he hoped to get a permanent job on the estate and find another ratter as good as Spot. He had a craving to settle down with a wife of his own, and he had always liked the countryside here.
When Spot whined and gazed towards the door, he smiled. ‘There’ll be plenty of rats around these parts for you. And the country girls are as fat as butter, with bellies as round and as quivering as a greased hog. They keep their comforters hidden under little beards, so they stays warm and moist. A man can slide right into her. There be nothing like a warm and willing woman, Spot.’
Spot gave a little yap.
‘That one we saw today was a bit on the slender side. Suits somebody, though, for she’s got one settled in the pod. Scared to death when she set her eyes on us, as if she’d seen a ghost, or something. I knows her face, but I can’t bring the where or how of it to mind.’
Spot barked and leaped at the door latch.
‘Want to cock your leg up, do you? Now don’t you go down any rabbit holes. Remember, you’re not used to the country, even though you was born here.’ Patrick opened the door and watched the dog run off up the lane into the mist, yapping something fierce. There followed a couple of squeals, which abruptly stopped.
Odd, Patrick thought, shaking his head when his whistle brought no response. Spot must’ve gone down a rabbit hole. Somewhere in the mist a horse whinnied. It was getting dark. Patrick went indoors to light the oil lamp and prepare his supper of bread, cheese, and a slab of raw onion.
A scrabbling at the door brought his head turning, and he went to let the dog in. His smile faded when he saw the man. This was no rough labourer. ‘Who might you be, then?’
The man’s smile didn’t reach his glittering eyes. ‘My name is Marcus Ibsen. I own Cheverton Estate.’
Taken aback, Patrick retreated a step and said respectfully, ‘How can I be of service, sir?’
‘The lady you spoke to this afternoon in the garden pavilion is my wife.’
Puzzled, Patrick stared at him. ‘I meant her no disrespect, sir. I didn’t mean to startle the lady, or to trespass. The last time I was in these parts there was a copse and a barn where the garden and lake are. I lost my bearings.’
‘Ah, yes, the copse. Do you remember two men. They were called Henry Ruddle and Silas Barton. They assaulted and raped a young girl there.’
The blood ebbed from Patrick’s face as he remembered why the woman’s face was familiar. She had been little more than a maid, then. He recalled the girl pleading with Henry and Silas as he walked away. Suddenly he felt sick. ‘I had nothing to do with that, sir. Honest.’
His employer gave a weary sigh. ‘Ah, so you remember what happened to my wife. I want to know where I can find the other two. I intend to bring them to account.’
‘Silas Barton went to sea on the Mary O’Connor. Henry Ruddle has lately been transported to New South Wales for the term of his natural life. It was me who reported his crime, sir. He killed a girl.’
‘He killed part of a girl here to, and left the other part of her suffering. Can you write, Mr Pethan? I need a witness statement.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Handed a piece of paper and a pencil, Patrick scribbled down the information his employer required, making sure his own innocence was accounted for. Marcus read the document and gazed at him. ‘This pleading you mentioned. Didn’t it occur to you that it was your duty to prevent the assault on her going ahead?’
‘I was drunk, sir. We all were. Henry and Silas would’ve killed me if I’d interfered. Their blood was up, see. I pleaded with them to leave her alone, though.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Pethan. My wife was very young at the time and she suffered a great deal from that assault. I intend to redress that by making the perpetrators pay for their crime.’
Beginning to sweat a little under the man’s steady gaze, Patrick hung his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘We have a problem. My wife wouldn’t want this vicious assault on her to become common knowledge.’
‘No, sir. I won’t say a word to anyone. As I wrote in my statement, I had no part in the attack.’
‘Ah, but you’re wrong, Mr Pethan. You did. The assault was a cowardly act against a young girl who was helpless to prevent it. Just as cowardly, you left her to her plight. It was a great pity you didn’t attempt to stop them, really it was, then this wouldn’t be necessary.’
As the man took a step towards him, Patrick became aware of an aura of danger surrounding him. Suddenly filled with fear, his head jerked up. When he tried to push past, the man’s arm looped almost casually around his neck. There was a swift tightening, then sharp pain as his neck was twisted.
Patrick barely heard the crack.
Laying the body on the bed, Marcus gazed down at it with an indifferent smile. It had all been so easy. Gently, he tipped over the oil lamp. When the flame took hold he dropped the witness statement into the flames, watching while the damning document curled and blackened.
‘Tried, found guilty and punished,’ he said dispassionately as he strolled from the cottage and closed the door behind him.
He should dispose of the dog as well, but he didn’t have the heart. Stopping to retrieve it from the bushes, he released the handkerchief tied around its snout. It gave a little yelp and cowered against his body, a bundle of quivering flesh.
Marcus was wondering what to do with it when he saw the lights of Croxley Farm. He remembered the Ponsonby family had several children. There was a rich aroma of mutton stew coming from the house.
Dismounting, Marcus crept up to the front door and left the dog in the porch. He’d hardly returned to his horse when the dog set up a series of whines and yelps.
‘’Tis a poor little stray,’ he heard one of the children say.
‘Let’s ’ave a look at ’im, then, our Timmy. He be a ratter by the looks of him. Happen he could catch that big black un that takes off with the hens’ eggs.’
A round shadow appeared in the doorway. ‘Can thee smell smoke, our Rudd?’
‘Of course I can smell smoke. I’ve just put a log on the fire, ’aven’t I? Bring the dog in. We can’t leave the poor little creature out in the cold to starve. Likely, he’ll enjoy a bowl of your mutton stew, Abbie.’
When the door closed, Marcus mounted his horse and rode unhurriedly away, ignoring the faint red glow where the old village stood.
5
It had been many years since anyone had left the isolated Welsh village. The last to have done so had been Megan Lewis who’d lain with the preacher, Gruffydd Evans, and had got herself with child. Although the village women had shorn the hair from Megan’s head and thrown dirt at her for her sins, Megan had kept her chin held high as she’d walked out of sight.
‘Twenty-seven years ago,’ Wynn muttered. She remembered it well, for Megan Lewis had been her niece, the preacher man, her own intended. Both were dead now, and good riddance to them.
More recent was the visit to Wales by the bastard girl born from the coupling. The bastard was as beautiful as her mother had been, with the same green eyes and her hair as dark and as glossy as the coal wrested from the heart of Wales. It had been a shock seeing the girl at Bryn Dwr. So like her mother, she was, for her chin had been tilted with the same proud spirit. She’d been named Siana, after her great-grandmother.
Despite the circumstances, Wynn had admired the spirit of the Lewis bastard. She’d spied on her for the remainder of the time she’d stayed at the house her father had left her. It hadn’t taken long to figure out why she was in Wales. There was another girl with her, hardly out of childhood. Both had swollen stomachs, but only one had a wedding band on her finger. And only one infant had left the place with them. The man with them had stayed at Bryn Dwr before, and had been supportive of them both.
The girl with Siana had braved the dangers of the Gwin Dwr to wash away her sins. Such suffering had been in her face, and an abu
ndance of sympathy and love Siana Matheson had shown her, too. Siana had taken the girl’s sin upon her own back, showing her more compassion than had been shown to her mother by the village women. Wynn remembered the man watching over both of them, telling the younger girl of his love for her.
‘Siana’s compassion will bring her no favours,’ Grandmother Lewis had said when Wynn had told her what she’d observed. ‘The Welsh-born child is a catalyst for tragedy.’
The village was nestled in the foothills of the Black Mountains, fed from a spring which disappeared underground before it reached there. Its flow was captured by an iron-handled pump situated in the middle of the village square. The pump was a meeting place for the village women, and a hive of gossip.
Wynn could almost hear the talk that would be left behind her, if she found the courage to do what she was thinking of doing.
‘Gone?’ they would say. ‘Poor old Wynn Lewis, her as sour as onions because she never had a man?’
‘Gone. Who, that dried-up old lizard?’
‘Her tongue is as sharp and nasty as the stinger on a wasp. How will she live, for nobody will employ her?’
Who indeed, Wynn thought, feeling sorry for herself, for she had no skills.
The village community generally lived on the produce they grew. The men planted vegetables in the surrounding allotments or, with their dogs, tended to the sheep which roamed the hills growing fat on the lush grasses. The fleece was spun into yarn. Some was woven and fashioned into garments, the rest sold to the wool merchant in Monmouth. The animals which didn’t end up in the pot were driven into market. Life had a certain rhythm to it, born out of routine and centred on survival. They made a living, but not a profit.
At one end of the village was a small chapel which was filled to overflowing on Sundays. Mostly they were Godfearing people, and respected the law, which was applied with a slathering of Methodist fire and brimstone.
Wynn had spent much time on her knees in the chapel over the years, praying for something to happen so she could escape.
Now something had happened. Grandmother Lewis had died.
She gazed around the cottage she’d once shared with the old woman. Now she was gone, Wynn had to leave the cottage which had always been her home. She had to make room for her young nephew, who was about to be wed.
At sixteen years of age, Gwynneth, the bride, was to all intents and purposes a woman. Already, the girl had ingratiated herself into the good graces of her future parents-in-law. Having made her arrangements with the elders of the family, today, not an hour after the service to save Grandmother Lewis’s pagan soul, Gwynneth had taken it upon herself to visit her future home, to decide which pieces to keep.
Wynn protested, ‘My mother left certain pieces to her English great-granddaughter, the rest is left to me.’
Gwynneth shrugged. ‘It’s greedy, you are, Aunt Lewis. It’s not as if you’ll be taking it to your brother’s house, for there’s no room there for it.’ Her eyes gleaming, the girl fingered a piece of the fine lace. ‘And how will the Lewis bastard know she’s been left anything? Is it taking it to your great-niece yourself, you’ll be doing? Not that it would be a bad thing, mind you. The Lewis family doesn’t know what to do with a dried-up old spinster woman, especially one whose disposition is as mean as a witch. Mind you, you don’t frighten me, poor sad old thing that you are. It would save us the trouble if you left altogether, see.’
So that was the way the wind blew. It might not be a bad thing at that. After Gwynneth had departed, Wynn locked the door and sat on the bed to think about her position. Normally, she would never have dreamed of opposing her brother. But when he’d mapped out a life of servitude for her it had been a shock. She deserved more respect after a lifetime of looking after Grandmother Lewis. She hadn’t found the courage to say so, though.
‘You’ll help my wife in the house for your daily bread and sleep in the room off the kitchen,’ he’d told her after the burial. It meant a life of hardship ahead for her, for she’d grown too bitter to appreciate anyone else’s company but her own. She didn’t get on with her sister-in-law.
Now, on her last night in the quiet little cottage where she thought she’d end her days, Wynn’s mind was in a turmoil. She should have set her pride aside and left the village long ago. But someone had needed to look after Grandmother Lewis. Wynn had been left her mother’s savings, the money earned from selling her lace work, telling stories, or predicting the future for those who would pay her.
And the old woman had said just before she died, as peaceful as a lamb in her rocking chair before the fire, ‘Don’t let the past sour the rest of your life, cariad. Gruffydd Evans is dead, and glad of it, I am, for the man was a black-hearted scoundrel. Release your angry thoughts so they no longer lie ugly upon your face, my Wynn. You have a journey to make, but beware. Seek not to reveal the past, for it will destroy you.’
Although she’d never believed in her mother’s pagan sight, Wynn had experienced a flicker of excitement at being told there was the possibility of something beyond the Welsh borders for her. She wasn’t afraid of hard work. Perhaps she could find a job in England in one of those grand houses, be paid for her efforts. Perhaps her great-niece would be kinder to her than her brother’s family. She would take her the old woman’s legacy, there was no harm in that, mind. But as for Gruffydd Evans, the preacher man, she would never forgive him and she hoped he rotted in hell, for the man had broken her heart.
Her mind made up, Wynn collected together the things Grandmother Lewis had wanted her namesake to have. There was precious little. Her finest hand-made, lace pieces, a love spoon given to the old lady by her husband so many years ago, the wood now worn smooth by constant handling. There was a lock of dark hair fashioned into a brooch.
Then there was the book of poetry written by someone called Hywell Llewellyn. It was written in the old language, so the girl wouldn’t be able to understand it. Still, it was a pretty piece. Illustrated in gold leaf, the colours seemed as bright as the day they were laid onto the page. Wynn wrapped it carefully in a cloth.
To her bundle she added her Sunday dress, made of thick blue cotton, and a warm jacket. The dress was plain, like her. A yard of vinegar, her sister-in-law had called her. Well, she would not stay where she was not welcome.
Her cache of coins went into the toe of one of her spare boots, a hairbrush and a clean bonnet into the other. Tying the boots around her neck, she pulled her shawl over the top then donned her mother’s black hat.
Two boiled eggs, a piece of cheese and an apple were wrapped in a clean cloth and tucked into the pocket of her apron with a chunk of bread. Her bible went under the bib, for she went nowhere without the good book to guide her.
Wynn took the quilt from her bed. Rolling it tightly, she fashioned a harness from rags and slipped it over her arms to carry on her back. There now. She was weighed down like a beast of burden and could carry no more.
Seated on a chair by the window, Wynn waited until the sun was a warm golden light shining through the glass. She waited longer, until the shadows of the cottages were laid low along the ground. Lighting a candle, she drew the curtains across as she usually did.
Only when the purple dusk sank into blackness did Wynn pick up her bundle and her mother’s walking stick. She slipped from the cottage and trudged silently and surely through the darkness, the air a humid kiss against her cheek. She’d walked these hills since childhood. Even in the mists that rolled stealthily down from the Black Mountains to shroud the green valleys, she knew her way, though others may be lost.
When she reached the top of the hill she looked back, down over the village. She could see the light from candles through the chinks in the curtains, smell the smoke rising from cottage chimneys. She suffered a moment of remorse at leaving what was so familiar to her.
They would not miss her until morning. By that time she’d be long gone. Her limbs began to tremble. It would be easy to return now, before they discovere
d her flight. When they did, there would be no turning back, for the doors would be closed against her.
But there was a sense of freedom in her now and an inner voice seemed to urge: It’s just as easy to go forward. The English border isn’t far, you can see it from the top of the next hill.
A sudden gust of wind lifted the black hat from her head and sent it bowling back towards the village. An omen? She laughed out loud, dismissing the thought, for the sense of destiny was strong in her now. ‘Going back to where you belong, are you? It’s just as well, for the English would laugh at you, funny old Welsh thing that you are.’
Above her, the stars burnt holes in a sky of darkness, giving her a glimpse of something mysterious and infinite beyond. It was a moment of beauty within the vastness of the silence and for once, Wynn felt at peace as she said, ‘God, strike the devil from my shoulder and guide my footsteps.’ When the moon rose over the next hill to light her path, her spirits lifted and her stride lengthened.
Reverend Richard White was about to eat some bread and cheese for his breakfast, when the woman presented herself at his kitchen door.
‘I’ll be speaking to the woman of the house?’ she said, fixing eyes as dark and as shiny as autumn berries on him.
‘I have no wife. I’m Reverend Richard White, rector of the church over yonder. I live here alone.’
‘I’ve been walking for several days, sir. Can you spare me a drink of water and perhaps allow me a little bread?’
Richard hesitated. The women was handsome in a gaunt, worn sort of way, with brown hair streaked through with grey and twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked harmless, but tired and dusty.
It was his Christian duty to offer her sustenance, but his housekeeper had recently retired to her brother’s house with the rheumatics. So far, Richard had been unable to hire another woman, for it was harvest time and all the available workers had been taken on by Cheverton Estate.
‘I can pay for the bread, mind,’ she said sharply.
