‘Very good, sir, Miss Watkin Jones.’ The undermanager signalled to the assistants who had been poised, waiting behind the counter. ‘I will have the order packed and delivered to Ynysangharad House this afternoon.’
‘Thank you, Mr Horton.’ Mansel offered Sali his arm.
‘Will you be returning this afternoon, sir?’
‘No, Mr Horton, I will not. My aunt is expecting us as soon as we have completed our business at the jeweller’s. You will lock up and give the night watchman his orders?’
‘Certainly, sir.’ There was a hurt tone in the undermanager’s voice as if Mansel had suggested he would be derelict in his duty.
‘I will see you in the morning, Mr Horton.’
‘Yes, Mr James. May I compliment you on your final choices, Miss Watkin Jones.’
‘Thank you, Mr Horton.’
‘Half past two,’ Mansel breathed, as they stepped out of the shop into Market Square. ‘I’ve never made so many decisions so quickly.’
‘Let’s hope we can both live with them.’ Sali gripped his arm tightly and they rounded the corner into Taff Street.
‘I am not too sure about the Poppy tea service.’
‘You should have said!’
‘One of the perks of being a man is you don’t have to drink tea at home, except on Sunday,’ he grinned. ‘And with luck, as popular newly-weds we’ll receive a lot of invitations out.’
The moment the manager opened the silk-lined wooden box and showed them the ring, Mansel wanted it.
‘Do you like it?’ Mansel removed the wide gold band, which was engraved with a fine tracery of leaves and embossed with raised daffodils, and felt its weight.
‘It is beautiful,’ Sali murmured, not wanting to disagree with him, although she would have preferred a plainer ring.
Mansel set aside the trays of rings she, or rather he, had rejected, and studied the ring critically.
‘It is the most expensive ring in the shop, Mr James,’ the manager warned.
‘We’ll discuss the price later, Mr Fowler.’
‘Of course, Mr James.’
‘Try it for size, Miss Watkin Jones.’ Mansel slipped it on to Sali’s finger. It fitted easily, too easily. When she moved her hand it slid from her finger and fell to the counter. ‘Do you have it in a smaller size, Mr Fowler?’
‘I am afraid not, Mr James. That ring is a very singular and special one. Handmade, the design is unique to the goldsmith who cast it.’
‘Could you make it smaller?’
‘Not without damaging the pattern. But it might be possible to order in a similar one.’
‘Not similar, Mr Fowler, identical. The cost is immaterial. And I want it ready for collection sometime in the next six weeks.’
‘I’ll write to them today and make every effort to see that it is ready in time, Mr James. Shall I send a message to your office when they contact me?’
‘Please, Mr Fowler, and thank you.’ Mansel tipped his hat and opened the door for Sali.
‘I feel wonderfully, deliciously free.’ Sali pulled off her hat as she and Mansel left the old bridge behind them and strolled down the path that bordered the bank of the Taff. The town was across the river to their right, to their left lay a dense strip of woodland that bordered the fields around Ynysangharad House and although the area was usually busy at weekends, it was blissfully deserted on a weekday afternoon.
‘Six weeks from now we’ll have a fortnight of this with nothing to do but indulge our whims and no one to think about except ourselves. You are sure about wanting to honeymoon in Mumbles?’ Mansel slipped his arm around her waist as he led her away from the stench of the coal blackened river and closer to the trees.
‘Very sure. I loved every minute of our family holidays in Swansea and it will be good to be in a familiar place.’
‘And the hotel won’t remind you of the times you stayed there with your father?’ he said sensitively.
‘Yes, it will, but they are happy memories.’ Slipping away from him she stepped back from the path and leaned against the trunk of a birch tree, hoping for another kiss. ‘We are alone again, Mr James,’ she reminded him brazenly.
He glanced up and down the path to check before taking a box from his pocket. ‘I should kneel to do this, but I wouldn’t be in a good position to receive your thank-you kiss should you like it, or perhaps more importantly, monitor your reaction if you don’t. Your father didn’t want me to give you a ring until just before our wedding, and after he died, your uncle wouldn’t allow you to wear any jewellery so I saw little point in discussing what kind of engagement ring you would like. Then it occurred to me that you might like to wear my mother’s. And Aunt Edyth suggested that as we are marrying in six weeks, it was high time it came out of the bank vault so you could give your approval or not, as the case may be. Please don’t feel that you have to wear it. I’d be happy to buy you anything you wanted.’ He watched her face intently as he opened the box.
‘Oh Mansel, it’s lovely.’ She held out her finger as Mansel took the half hoop of diamonds and slipped it on to her ring finger.
‘You’re not just saying that. You really do like it?’
‘All the more because it was your mother’s. But do you think I should start wearing it today?’
‘Absolutely. And if your uncle or mother dare object, tell them as it’s only six weeks to our wedding day, Aunt Edyth ordered you to wear it.’ He rested his hands on the tree above her head effectively imprisoning her. ‘So, Miss Watkin Jones, may I have my kiss?’ Sure of her response, he bent his head to hers.
‘I hear footsteps.’ She jerked back quickly, hitting her head on a branch. As they looked down the path they saw the soberly garbed figures of Morgan Davies and Owen Bull marching side by side from the direction of the river bend.
‘Quick, duck down.’ Mansel pushed her back into the bushes. Creeping after her, he took her hand and led her into a thicket. Crouching low, they ran away from the path into the woods.
‘Do you think they saw us?’ She gasped for breath; her corset stays dug painfully into her ribcage.
‘No, because if they had, your Uncle Morgan would have chased us.’ Laughing, Mansel took off his coat and tossed it on to the bare ground beneath an oak tree.
‘It will get dirty,’ Sali warned.
‘Then the maid will have to clean it.’ He sat on his coat and pulled her down beside him.
‘Sssh, they might hear us.’
‘They’d need an ear trumpet. They are probably over the bridge and halfway down Taff Street by now, given the speed they were walking.’
‘What do you think they were doing here?’
‘I neither know nor care. Aren’t you warm in that coat?’
‘Yes.’ Her heart thundered at the implication of his question.
‘Then let me help you off with it.’
She turned her back to him and he eased off both her coat and jacket. Folding them into a pillow he pushed it beneath his head before drawing her down. Pressing the full length of his body against hers, he kissed her. Slowly, tentatively, she kissed him back.
His fingers moved to the buttons on her blouse and a draught of air blew across her throat as he exposed it. She shivered as he tugged at the front lacing on her corset, loosening it, he slid his hand inside and cupped her naked breast.
No man wants a wife who is too good.
The words rang out in her mind and she closed her eyes tightly so he wouldn’t see her fear – and embarrassment.
She buried her head in his shoulder as he kissed the soft skin at the top of her breast before pushing down her corset and exposing her nipples. She sensed him looking at her and instinctively tried to cover herself with her fingers.
He imprisoned her hands in one of his and pinned them above her head.
‘I’m sorry, Mansel,’ she said. ‘I am not used to this.’
‘I would be worried if you were.’ He kissed each of her nipples in turn. ‘You are very beautiful a
nd I promise you will get used to me looking at you this way because I intend to do a great deal of it.’
He moved away from her and she sat up to lace her corset. But he pushed her back down and brushed her skirt aside. His hand moved up her stockinged leg to her naked thigh and he slipped his fingers inside the leg of her drawers. Shifting suddenly, he slid both his hands beneath her skirt, lifted it and her petticoats to her waist and tugged her drawers down.
‘Mansel ...’
‘No one can see. We’re almost married.’ His voice was strange, husky, and it took all her powers of concentration to suppress her instinct to fight him off.
No man wants a wife who is too good.
They were almost married. Now or in a few weeks, what was the difference?
Tossing her drawers aside, he unbuttoned his trousers and knelt between her legs. She closed her eyes, mortified as he ran his hands over the most intimate parts of her body.
‘This may hurt a bit.’
She braced herself, but she wasn’t prepared for the pain that followed, or his thrusting that penetrated to the very core of her being.
Chapter Six
‘I didn’t mean to get quite so carried away, but that was rather wonderful.’ Mansel rolled on to the ground, rose to his feet and glanced back at Sali as he pulled up his drawers and trousers, tucked in his shirt and buttoned his flies. ‘Are you all right?’
Sali swallowed hard in an effort to control the tide of nausea rising in her throat. ‘I ... I think so.’
‘I didn’t hurt you, darling, did I ... oh God!’
She looked down and saw the lining of his jacket that he had spread beneath them and the edge of one of her petticoats were soaked in blood. Tears fell from her eyes as she covered them with her skirt. ‘I am all right,’ she whispered unconvincingly in response to the stricken expression on his face.
‘I should have waited ... we’re in the middle of nowhere ...’
‘I need to dress,’ she pleaded, unable to face trying to sort her stained and ruined underclothes with him watching her.
‘After what we’ve just done, don’t you think you’re being silly, darling? I can help you ...’
‘Please, Mansel,’ she begged, choking back her tears.
‘I’m sorry. You need time to get used to me. I’ll turn my back.’
‘Thank you.’ She picked up her drawers. They at least were free from stain and in one piece, but if the pain was any indication, she was still bleeding. She rose unsteadily to her feet, stepped into her drawers, straightened her petticoats, laced her corset, buttoned her blouse and retrieved her jacket and coat. ‘Do I look all right?’ she asked tremulously.
He turned around and studied her critically. ‘You look shaky, but your skirt is clean.’
‘Your jacket isn’t.’
‘I’ll fold it and carry it so the stains don’t show.’
‘People will stare if you’re only wearing your waistcoat.’
‘Let them,’ he said, more concerned for her than what people would think of them. ‘Here, lean on me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere where you can clean yourself up and we can be sure that we won’t be disturbed.’
The clock on St Catherine’s church struck four as they returned to Taff Street. Feeling as though everyone in the town knew what they had done and was watching them, Sali walked slowly, looking downwards as she clung to Mansel’s arm. He stopped outside the Taff Street entrance to Gwilym James. Taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he glanced up and down the street before unlocking a door set to the side of the shop window. ‘Inside, quick.’
Sali found herself in a narrow corridor, lit only by a stained glass skylight above the door. Holding his finger to his lips Mansel led the way to a steep staircase. Sick, queasy and breathless, Sali counted the steps as they climbed. At fifty-two, she felt as though her lungs would burst. The steps ended abruptly in a door. Mansel pulled the keys from his pocket again and unlocked it. He stepped inside, waited until she joined him, then closed, locked and bolted the door. To her amazement they were in the small inner hall of the rooms above the shop.
‘We walked up the fire exit,’ Mansel clarified briefly. He went into the drawing room and threw the bolt across the door that connected to the corridor. ‘Would you like me to make us some tea while you use the bathroom?’
Breathless, Sali nodded agreement.
‘Don’t worry about your clothes. I have sets of underclothes in the bedroom. Stockings too.’
‘People will have seen us coming in ...’
‘There was no one close enough to say whether we went into the shop or the side door. It’s never used and I’m sure no one was watching us that carefully. The shop shuts at seven tonight and by half past all the staff will have left. We’ll burn my jacket and your ruined underwear in the range, walk back down into Market Street, which is quieter than Taff Street at that time in the evening and, if anyone does ask, all we have to say is we went for a stroll by the river and on the way back you remembered that you had left your gloves here and we called in to pick them up.’
He went into the bedroom, opened the dressing-table drawer and removed several packages. Unwrapping a white silk robe from layers of tissue paper, he handed it to her. ‘I asked the buyer to put together a trousseau as a surprise for you,’ he explained in response to her quizzical look. ‘There’s everything you need and all in silk and lace. Drawers, petticoats, stockings, bust shapers, chemises ...’
‘I’ll never explain silk and lace underwear to Uncle Morgan.’
‘He looks at your underclothes?’ His colour heightened in anger.
‘Inspects the family wash.’
‘Hide them, or tell him Aunt Edyth bought them for you. You can’t go home in what you’re wearing. Hand me some towels from the bathroom. I’ll lay them on the bed and you can rest when you’ve washed. I’ll make us some tea.’
Her ruined underclothes and stockings bundled together ready to go in the range, her skirt, blouse, corset, and unsoiled petticoats, brushed down and checked, Sali left the bathroom for the bedroom in the white silk robe. Still feeling nauseous, she slipped between the sheets.
‘I’m sorry if I hurt you.’ Mansel stood beside the bed.
‘You didn’t,’ she lied, grateful for the gloom that shrouded the room in shadows.
‘I’ve made tea but the maid took the milk.’
‘It would have gone off.’
‘You don’t mind black tea?’
‘No, you?’
‘I’ve drunk worse.’ He poured her a cup and set it on the bedside table. ‘Are you in pain?’
‘No, not really.’ Mortified by his question, she looked away.
He poured his own tea, sat on the end of the bed and pulled at his tie. She stared at him in amazement as he began to undress.
‘You want to ... I mean again .. .’
‘In comfort this time.’ Kicking off his shoes, he unbuttoned his trousers. ‘We should have sneaked back here in the first place instead of walking up the river.’
She tried not to watch, as unconcerned by her embarrassment, he stripped to his skin. ‘You’ve never seen a naked man before?’ he smiled, clearly amused by her blushes.
‘No,’ she whispered, disconcerted. He climbed into bed beside her.
‘You’ll soon get used to seeing me.’ He slipped his hand between her thighs. ‘Did it hurt very much, darling?’
‘A little,’ she confessed uneasily, shocked by the sensation of his bare legs brushing against hers.
‘I am so sorry. Promise to tell me if I ever hurt you again.’
‘Yes.’
‘It shouldn’t hurt this time, not after what we’ve already done, but you are so beautiful, I can’t promise you that I won’t get carried away again.’ Untying the belt on her robe, he caressed her breasts. She steeled herself to receive his embraces. Whether it was the certainty of remaining undisturbed behind two locked and bolted doors, or becaus
e she knew what to expect, or was covered by a sheet and blankets, Mansel’s lovemaking was neither as painful nor as traumatic as it had been on the river bank.
But neither was it pleasurable or beautiful. Aunt Edyth had been widowed for over fifteen years, however, and it was possible that her memory wasn’t as clear as it had once been.
She thought of all the married women she knew and was confident that given time, she would overcome her shyness and become accustomed to Mansel touching her the way he was at that moment. She loved him, he was kind and thoughtful, and there were so many other, more enjoyable aspects to married life. She tried to think of them to take her mind off what he was doing to her.
Rides across the fields around Ynysangharad House ... dancing in warm, perfumed ballrooms ... long walks beside the river ... dinner parties with friends ...
‘You have withdrawn enough money from the bank to pay your hotel bill and buy anything you and Sali will need?’ Edyth placed her hand over her empty sherry glass as Mansel picked up the decanter.
‘More than enough, Aunt Edyth.’ Mansel refilled his own and Sali’s glasses.
‘And tonight, you won’t drink too much ...’
‘In the New Inn? With Mr Richards watching over me?’ He gave Sali an amused glance. ‘I think not, Aunt Edyth.’
‘I know what happens when young men get together in a hotel bar and just how hot-headed some of your friends can be.’
‘You are talking to a sensible, almost married man.’ He returned the sherry decanter to the sideboard.
‘Well, as this will be the last time that you two will see one another until the ceremony tomorrow, I’ll leave you to say your goodbyes in private. I promised Mr Richards I’d call on Mr Horton and his son at four o’clock to arrange payment of Mrs Horton’s funeral expenses from Gwilym James’s employees fund. I only hope that all the mourners will have left. The poor man looked absolutely dreadful in the chapel this morning.’
‘Although Mrs Horton had been ill for years, from the few things Mr Horton said about her, I think they were close.’ Mansel gave Sali a quick smile.
Beggars and Choosers Page 10
