‘And you, Tomas and the other servants are going to find it easy to take orders from Uncle Morgan, as you had to today?’ Sali watched the housekeeper in the mirror as she removed her mourning cap, jet hair ornaments and brushed her hair out of the chignon she had worn for the funeral.
‘As Tomas said when we shared a glass of sherry in the butler’s pantry just now, it’s not as if your Uncle Morgan lives in the house. Of course it will be quieter with only the mistress and Miss Llinos at home, and it’s going to be odd just laying the dining table for Miss Llinos ...’
Sali opened the drawer of her dressing table and handed Mari one of her own black-bordered handkerchiefs as the housekeeper began to cry – again.
‘There are many decisions to be made and changes to be organised, Mari.’ Sali left the stool, untied the belt of her dressing gown and dropped it on the footboard of her bed. ‘But they will have to wait until tomorrow.’
‘It is thoughtless of me to keep you up, Miss Sali.’ Mari folded back the bed. ‘Drink your cocoa and get a good night’s rest.’
‘Thank you, Mari.’ But even as the housekeeper turned down the wick on the oil lamp and closed the door, Sali knew sleep was impossible. The minute she closed her eyes, her father’s face, smiling, vibrant, wonderfully and unbearably, painfully alive, filled her mind and the tears she had managed to hold in check all day, finally flooded down her cheeks.
Chapter Three
At five o’clock, Sali heard the servants walk down the uncarpeted back staircase that led from their sleeping quarters in the attics, to the kitchens. A few moments later she left her bed. The fire had burned low in her grate, but it had kept the temperature in the room high enough to prevent the water from freezing in her wash jug. She filled the china washing bowl and threw in her sponge and soap. It was icy, but the maid wouldn’t be up with warm water for at least another hour and there was something she had to do that couldn’t wait.
She stripped off her nightgown and soaped her sponge. She winced as she rubbed it over her breasts, but braced herself to bear it. She might be cold, but it was colder for her father lying in his oak coffin under the ground.
After emptying her bowl into the slop bucket and wiping the splashes from the marble-topped washstand, she slipped on her camisole, laced up her front fastening, Coutille corset and brassiere bust bodice, and rolled on a pair of black woollen stockings, fastening them with the corset suspenders. All of her white Directoire knickers and petticoats had been replaced by black, and by the time she finished dressing in one of the plain black serge suits and a black flannel blouse, she felt as though all colour had been drained from the world.
Brushing out her waist-length dark-brown hair, she drew it back, away from her face, plaited it, rolled it into a chignon on the crown of her head and secured it with jet hairpins. She laced on her walking boots, turned back the bed and opened the window. Stopping only to pick up her jet-headed hatpins, she ran lightly down the stairs and opened the hall cupboard, lifting out her woollen winter coat, which had been dyed from light grey to black. After buttoning it, she pinned her hat to her head, drew on her gloves, wound a black muffler around her neck, unbolted the door and stepped outside.
The air was breathtakingly sharp and clear, the sky, still night dark. Snow glistened palely on the rooftops and in drifts that sparkled under the street lamps. Setting her foot forward and her head down, she turned right at the front gate, and walked at a brisk pace up Taff Street towards Penuel Chapel. Within minutes, the high, triangular capped facade of the chapel loomed ahead of her. Opening the barred metal gate, she walked around the building to the burial ground. Someone moved as she approached and she started nervously, until she recognised the massive figure of Iestyn, Owen Bull’s simple-minded younger brother, who dug the graves and cared for the graveyard. He had been busy. The cover had been replaced on the grey-slabbed family tomb and it was heaped high with carefully balanced wreaths of evergreen and winter roses that reminded her of Christmas.
She called out, ‘Thank you, Iestyn.’
He touched his cap and grinned vacantly at her before disappearing around the side of the chapel.
She knelt beside the tomb and scraped the snow from the inscriptions.
Here lie the mortal remains of Henrietta Watkin Jones 1836-54, beloved wife of John Watkin Jones and much loved mother of Harry Glyndwr. Blessed are they that walk in the way of the Lord.
Also the above mentioned John Watkin Jones 1829-1902.
She ran her fingers over the blank spot beneath her grandparents’ names and imagined her father’s name inscribed below that of her grandmother, who had died giving birth to him, and the grandfather she had loved almost as much as her father, who had died peacefully in his sleep three years ago. She bowed her head and tears trickled, cold and icy over her cheeks. Why did he have to die and leave her?
‘I thought it was you.’ Mansel James crouched on his heels beside her. ‘If you’d rather I went away ...’
‘No.’ She fumbled blindly for his hand.
‘I’d like to call on you later on today, if I may.’
She turned her tear-stained face to his and he helped her to her feet. His face was pale and hollow-eyed in the muted yellow glow of the street lamps, his blond hair shining as white as the snow around them.
‘Of course you may.’
‘I thought I heard voices.’ Her uncle walked around the chapel and headed towards them. His anger turned to fury when he recognised her. ‘Sali, what you are doing out at this ungodly hour?’
‘I wanted to see Father’s grave.’
‘And you, young man?’
‘I was walking to my office. I saw Sali and stopped to speak to her,’ Mansel answered boldly.
‘At this hour in the morning, in darkness? Have you no concern for her virtue or her reputation?’
‘I have every consideration for both, Mr Davies.’
‘It doesn’t look like it to me. Come along, Sali.’ Grasping his niece’s arm, Morgan frogmarched her away.
‘I will see you this evening, Mr James,’ Sali called back over her shoulder.
‘I think not,’ Morgan contradicted, his voice as frosty as the air. ‘And I expect my niece to know better than to screech like a fishwife in the street, especially when she is in mourning.’ He looked down at her skirt. ‘That is not crêpe.’
‘Crêpe isn’t practical for everyday use.’
‘It certainly isn’t practical to roam the streets dressed in crêpe, but you are in mourning and as such should remain within the house. I expect you to change as soon as we are indoors.’
‘I invited Mr James to call, Uncle Morgan.’ Sali tried in vain to free her elbow from his grip.
‘And I will leave instructions with the servants that you are not at home. Do you understand?’
Sali understood that her uncle was attempting to control her life. But given her secret, she would rather she wasn’t alone with him when he discovered there were some things in her life that were already out of his control.
‘You’ll see that Mr James gets it right away?’ Sali pressed an envelope into Mari’s hand.
‘I’ll send one of the maids to his office.’
‘Now?’
‘As soon as I reach the kitchens.’ The housekeeper pocketed the envelope.
‘And there’ll be three extra for dinner.’
‘Mrs James, Mr James and Mr Richards.’ Mari hesitated thoughtfully. ‘All three are hearty eaters so I’ll ask Cook to roast one of the legs of lamb hanging in the outside meat larder. She was making Palestine soup earlier. Your uncle isn’t keen on artichokes.’
‘So he says every time he eats one in this house, but there’s never anything left on his plate whenever he dines here.’ Sali was too preoccupied to worry about her uncle’s preferences, the dinner menu, or even if her uncle would dine with them that evening.
‘Then I suggest Palestine soup, fried haddock in anchovy sauce, followed by the lamb with potato croquettes, c
arrot soufflé and stuffing, chocolate pudding and oyster fritters for a savoury.’
‘I am happy to leave the menu to you and Cook,’ Sali murmured absently. ‘Thank you, Mari.’
‘You’d best get into that library before your uncle has an apoplectic fit,’ Mari muttered, as the library door opened and Morgan bellowed his niece’s name into the hall.
‘It is good of you to join us, Sali,’ Morgan said caustically, as she pulled a chair out from the sofa table where she had done so much of her studying, to join him, Mr Richards, her brothers and sister.
‘My apologies, Uncle Morgan, I was giving Mari instructions for dinner.’
‘A less wasteful one than yesterday, I trust. Given that this is a house of mourning, frugality should be the watchword.’ Morgan made a great show of opening a large notebook. The first page was covered with neat rows of his tiny handwriting. ‘I spent an hour after breakfast with my sister, Mr Richards. We discussed and agreed all the changes that need to be made in this household.’
‘What changes, Uncle Morgan?’ Geraint enquired suspiciously.
Ignoring Geraint’s question, Morgan continued to address the solicitor. ‘As you are the fellow guardian of my nieces and nephews, I trust you see the necessity for alterations in the family’s lifestyle in the light of my brother-in-law’s demise, beginning with the implementing of stringent economic measures.’
‘The late Mr Watkin Jones left his family well provided for,’ Mr Richards ventured guardedly.
‘And in mourning.’ Morgan’s tone was polite, but Geraint and Sali exchanged glances. They realised that in declaring he had already discussed and agreed changes with their mother, their uncle hadn’t only assumed the authority of a parent, but also increased the significance and consequence of any decision he made. Instead of being joint guardian to his client’s children, Mr Richards had been relegated to the position of one of three.
Despite Sali’s warning frown, Geraint sat back in his chair, tossed his pen on to the table and crossed his arms mutinously over his chest.
‘First,’ Morgan looked sternly at Geraint, ‘Geraint and Gareth will return to school early on Monday morning. If I weren’t opposed to Sunday travelling, I would send them tomorrow. It is vital their education be disrupted as little as possible. My brother-in-law’s plans for their future will remain unchanged. Boarding school until the age of eighteen and after that university.’
‘I concur absolutely.’ The solicitor nodded agreement, while Geraint continued to scowl defiantly and Gareth looked as though he had spent the entire night in tears and was about to break down again at any moment.
‘Llinos will continue to attend the Grammar School as a day pupil, for the moment.’
‘Why only for the moment?’ Geraint raised his eyes to his uncle’s.
‘Surely you don’t need me to tell you that your mother’s health is precarious. She requires rest and quiet, which is impossible in a house with a young girl. I will look for a suitable boarding school for Llinos.’
‘I don’t want to go to boarding school,’ Llinos whispered.
‘You, young lady, will do as your elders and betters dictate,’ Morgan lectured, ‘and you, Sali,’ he continued swiftly, denying Llinos the opportunity to make further protest, ‘will leave the Training College to run this house.’
‘I begin my final examinations in June. That is only a few months away.’
‘Your mother needs you to run this house, Sali,’ he repeated sternly.
‘But Mari is a perfectly capable housekeeper.’
‘That I sincerely doubt. On my many visits here I have observed her to be wasteful and extravagant. She needs to be curbed and she won’t be, unless she is closely supervised.’
‘I really must protest, Mr Davies,’ Mr Richards remonstrated. ‘The late Mr Watkin Jones encouraged Miss Watkin Jones in her studies.’
‘It is her mother’s decision as well as mine, Mr Richards,’ Morgan interrupted ruthlessly. ‘I have already written to the college requesting that my niece’s room be cleared and her personal possessions returned here, post haste. Now we must proceed to other matters or we will be here all morning and I have arranged to meet Mr Bull to discuss chapel business in one hour. I am giving up my house and moving in here.’
‘Do you really think that necessary?’ Mr Richards questioned mildly. ‘Mrs Watkin Jones –’
‘Is weak and ill,’ Morgan reiterated impatiently. ‘As the senior male member of this family I would be derelict in my duty if I did otherwise. It would be impossible for me to give my sister, nieces and the servants the attention they deserve if I live elsewhere. Given the state of my sister’s health and indeed my own, I have ordered the servants to prepare my late brother-in-law’s room for my occupation. It is ideally placed between my sister’s room and my niece’s, so, if either my sister or I are taken ill in the night, Sali will be on hand to care for us.’
Unable to meet Sali or Geraint’s horrified gaze, the solicitor looked down at the table.
‘And, as my sister and her family will be living a quieter, and less social life, my sister and I have decided to reduce the number of servants. I will give all but one parlour maid, kitchen maid and stable boy notice this afternoon, along with the footmen. The housekeeper, butler, cook and coachman will remain – for the present. But I have arranged to interview all four this afternoon to warn them that under the new regime, the wasteful, sloppy ways of the past will not be tolerated. You have papers that need to be signed, Mr Richards?’
‘Yes,’ the solicitor prevaricated, making no effort to extract the papers from his briefcase, ‘but before we move on, Mr Davies, is there no way that I can persuade you to reconsider your decision to remove Miss Watkin Jones from Swansea Training College?’
‘My sister and I have made our decision, Mr Richards. The papers, if you please.’
The solicitor opened his case and produced neatly tied bundles of papers. Sali took a deep breath and steeled herself. She had never hated anyone as much as she hated her uncle at that moment, but she fought to conceal her disappointment and her rage.
‘May I invite Mr Richards to dinner this evening, Uncle Morgan?’
‘I hardly think a dinner party appropriate in a house of mourning, Sali,’ Morgan reproved.
‘I have sent a letter inviting Aunt Edyth and Mr James. Mr Richards has details of the wedding Father planned for me this summer as well as the marriage settlement. I would like Mr Richards to review the documents to see if any changes need to be made to the arrangements.’
‘What wedding?’ Morgan narrowed his eyes.
‘Miss Watkin Jones’s wedding to Mr Mansel James,’ the solicitor interposed. ‘The late Mr Watkin Jones gave his blessing and consent to their engagement at Christmas on the understanding that the wedding would take place after Miss Watkin Jones qualified as a teacher.’
‘Something that will not now occur.’ Morgan’s lips curled upwards.
‘No,’ the solicitor agreed evenly. ‘But as Miss Watkin Jones comes of age in June, it is irrelevant. Because at that date she will be free to marry whomsoever she chooses without reference to her guardians and, on her marriage, claim her inheritance.’
‘Mother, please,’ Geraint pleaded, as he stood next to her bed. ‘Sali only has a few months left in college before she sits her final examinations. She will be back before you know it, then she can keep you company and run the house, if that’s what you want her to do,’ he added, suspecting that the decision to terminate Sali’s education had been entirely his uncle’s.
‘There is no point in her sitting examinations when she will never need the qualifications,’ Gwyneth Watkin Jones murmured lethargically, intoning her brother’s argument, as she clutched a lavender-scented handkerchief to her nose.
‘You can’t be sure she won’t need them. None of us knows what lies ahead.’
‘Sali’s future is mapped out, thanks to your father who never gave any consideration to my needs or wishes,’ Gwyne
th bleated peevishly. ‘I would never have allowed Sali to become engaged to Mansel James. It is the eldest daughter’s duty to stay at home and look after her parents, especially if one of them is in poor health and suffering. As I have been for years.’
‘Years during which Mari has run this house perfectly efficiently,’ Geraint countered.
‘Have you no compassion?’ Gwyneth pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘I am ill, your father has just died and you come here to argue, knowing how easily I am upset.’
‘Mr Richards and I think that Sali should be allowed to return to college.’ Geraint had lived too long with his mother’s protestations of ill-health to be moved by her threat of upset. ‘If you side with Mr Richards –’
‘Geraint, how dare you raise your voice in your mother’s room?’
‘Morgan.’ Gwyneth held out her hand as her brother entered.
‘Leave now, Geraint,’ Morgan ordered.
‘I am far too ill to be bothered.’
‘Of course you are, Gwyneth.’
‘My smelling salts and medication.’ She fell back weakly on to her pillows.
Morgan opened the drawer in the bedside cabinet and removed a jar of smelling salts and a green glass bottle. Realising Geraint was watching him, he snapped, ‘I’ll see you downstairs in the library before dinner, young man.’
Geraint left the room and walked along the landing to Sali’s door. He knocked and at her ‘Come in,’ entered to find her and Mari mothballing his father’s clothes and folding them into a trunk.
‘I asked Tomas and Mari to bring all Father’s things in here,’ Sali explained. ‘Uncle Morgan ordered his room to be cleared and I didn’t want to put anything in the attic without checking if it would spoil.’
Geraint sank down on the bed and picked out a small, leather-covered box from an assortment of hairbrushes, shaving gear, and pomander jars he had last seen on his father’s nightstand. Opening the box, he lifted out the gold cufflinks his father had worn with his dress shirt.
Beggars and Choosers Page 5
