‘No. I merely stepped outside for a moment, to breathe in some night air.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, then — ’
‘Don't go in yet.’ Owen looked into the girl's face. He saw that she was pretty, very pretty indeed. Dark hair framed her face, escaping from under her cap and curling charmingly round her ears. Dark eyes sparkled in the moonlight. Full, red lips curved in a delightfully sensuous smile.
She was probably older than he. Eighteen, at least. He knew her mistress had retired for the night. Perhaps she would like to take a short stroll? ‘Would you like to walk down to the waterfall?’ he enquired.
‘Will your master not miss you?’
‘No.’ Owen smiled. ‘He's engaged at dice. He won't get up again until he's lost everything in his pockets and pledged his mourning rings besides.’
So the girl took his arm and together they walked away from the inn.
There was a full moon, so the path was well lit and there was no fear of stumbling in the dark. ‘What's your name?’ asked the girl.
‘Owen Morgan.’
‘I'm Betty Taylor.’ The girl sighed. ‘Well — Betty's not my given name, of course. My mistress calls all her maids Betty.’
‘What is your given name?’
‘Dilys.’
‘I prefer that.’
‘So do I.’
Reaching the waterfall, Dilys sat down on one of the boulders near the water's edge. She patted the stone next to her, so Owen sat down as well. She smiled at him. ‘You may kiss me, if you wish,’ she said.
He did wish, very much. So now, hesitantly, he kissed her cheek. It was the first time he had ever kissed a girl who wasn't also a relation, and it felt very strange — but very exciting, too. He kissed her again.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Not like that!’ Shaking her head, Dilys turned towards him. She put her arms around his neck, then kissed him squarely on the mouth. ‘How old are you?’ she enquired when, a minute later, she drew away.
‘Seventeen,’ he lied.
‘Get away with you.’ She laughed. ‘I must go back now. But I'll see you tomorrow evening, maybe.’
* * * *
The following evening, Dilys met him outside the inn and led him down the path, past the waterfall and into the woods beyond. Sitting down in a grassy glade, she pulled Owen down beside her, then kissed him, opening his mouth with hers.
Then she placed his hands on her breasts, encouraging him to massage them while her own fingers fluttered to and fro across his lap, lightly stroking his private parts. ‘Is that nice?’ she whispered.
Nice? It was wonderful. But Owen found he could only squeak in reply.
So she kissed him again. Hours — or maybe it was merely a few minutes — slipped by. Then, suddenly, Dilys stopped stroking his lap and drew back a little. But this was only so she could pull up the skirts of her gown.
‘You may look,’ she said, lying back on her elbows. ‘You may touch me. You may even kiss me, if you wish. But you may go no further than that.’
Astonished, Owen merely stared at her. So she took his hand and showed him what to do. ‘Just there,’ she murmured. ‘That's right. In fact, it's bliss.’
It took a little practice, but soon Owen found he could do it. He could actually perform a miracle. In the space of a few minutes, he transformed a self–assured, rather bossy little woman into a shuddering, wild–eyed, moaning animal, who groaned and gasped and clawed at him as if she were drowning, and he the only creature who could save her — which, at last, he did.
He hadn't known he possessed such astonishing power.
But she had power, too. Now, he had no choice but to go on, to —
‘No, my dear. We mustn't.’ She clung to him. She was almost in tears. ‘I'd like to, in fact I'd love to, but if you get me with child — ’
‘Oh, Dilys! Please let me! I'll be so careful!’
‘Hush. This is almost as good.’ She undid his buttons, then took him in her hands, and worked on him. When his release came, he literally sobbed with relief. He thought he must die of it.
* * * *
They walked back to the inn hand in hand. ‘We go on to Brecon tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I shan't see you again.’
He gaped at her. He had to see her again! At this particular moment, he wanted to marry her. ‘Give me your address,’ he said. ‘I can write to you then.’
‘Write to me?’ Her eyes grew round. ‘You know how to write a letter?’
‘Well, of course I do.’
‘I can't even read.’ She hung her head. But then, she looked up at him. ‘You're a lovely young man,’ she said. ‘You'll meet dozens of other girls — most of them prettier and all of them cleverer than me.’
‘I doubt that. Oh, Dilys — ’
‘I'll remember you, Owen Morgan.’ Sadly, Dilys smiled at him. ‘I was the first, wasn't I? To touch you, I mean?’
‘No!’ Owen reddened. But then he admitted it. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘How old are you really?’
Owen shrugged. ‘Fifteen,’ he muttered, crossly. ‘But I — ’
‘A mere child.’ Dilys gave his hand a comforting squeeze. ‘I'm twenty two. Engaged to be married. I'm going to wed my mistress's butler next spring.’
* * * *
Jane and Maria looked out of their hotel window and down into the busy street below. Paris was fascinating. So exciting! To two country–bred English girls on their first trip abroad, it even smelled delicious, although some of the component parts of that smell were extremely unpleasant, to say the least.
Maria's hired maid had finally finished her lady's hair and gone on her way. ‘Well?’ demanded Maria.
‘You look wonderful.’ Jane smiled. ‘But my father will say you're too fine.’
‘He's just an old misery. He would have all the women in England dress as Quakeresses. Like you and Mama, in fact.’ Maria sighed. ‘Why don't you let Sophie do your hair for you? Style it à la Parisienne? You don't need to wear your gowns quite so loose, either. Tight sleeves would show off your arms, and a narrow bodice would become you very well.’
‘Would it?’ Doubtfully, Jane frowned. Today, in spite of long sleeves which came down to her wrists, her sister's creamy shoulders and bosom were almost naked, on display for all the world to admire. Before going out, her father would insist she put on a scarf, or even oblige her to exchange her lovely new gown for a more modest one, which left rather more — or in fact, everything — to the beholder's imagination.
Chapter 5
Rayner was proved right. The Peace did not last. By the May of 1803, England and France were at war again.
It had been strange, being at peace. It had also been rather unsettling, what with factory workers throughout the land suddenly being put on short time, or even thrown out of work altogether, and with bands of unemployed labourers roaming the countryside begging, poaching, thieving and worse. Surely, people murmured, being at war with France was the natural state of things?
The years were slipping by. Leaving school, Rayner was packed off to Oxford, where he learned to drink, swear, fornicate and gamble in earnest, like the red–blooded English gentleman he most assuredly was. Perpetually short of cash, and almost permanently in debt, he frequently found himself wondering how soon he might reasonably expect to inherit. How many years more might the old fellow last?
Sitting in her study one spring morning, Rebecca happened to glance at the calendar. Soon, it would be Rayner's birthday. Owen's, too. ‘They'll both be nineteen,’ she mused, astonished that time could have flown by so rapidly. ‘Quite grown up! In fact, if not in law.’
Jane was almost twenty three years old. These days, she was universally acknowledged to be the best catch in the district. After Isabel Graham, of course. A young, healthy, extremely pretty woman, whose father doted on her and would no doubt give her at least ten thousand pounds on her wedding day, she would probably have a yearly allowance of a good two thousand. If not more.
Courted and flattered by everyone, Jane herself seemed to favour Charles Harding, a local landowner's eldest son with good prospects and a rich uncle in Northumberland, who had no children and seemed likely to make Charles his heir. Nothing definite had been said, but nowadays both sets of parents went out of their way to be civil to one other, and complimentary about each others’ most delightful children.
Rebecca found herself thinking about orange blossom and wedding clothes. How many bridesmaids should there be? For, the match would definitely be a desirable one. So now, perhaps, those preliminary, tentative moves should be made.
First, there must be a gesture of good intent. Maybe, this summer, the Darrows might give a ball? Rebecca had never organised a ball, but she was confident that she could.
‘Ellis?’ At dinner that day, after everyone had been served and the servants had withdrawn, Rebecca laid her small, white hand upon her husband's sleeve. ‘Ellis, my dear? What do you think of our giving a small party this summer? I was wondering about having a little ball — just the neighbours and a few friends — for Jane?’
‘What does Jane think of that?’ Meeting his favourite daughter's steady, blue gaze, Ellis smiled at her. ‘Well, my dear? Should you like it?’
Jane smiled in return. ‘If you and my mother are so kind as to consider it,’ she began, ‘I'm sure I should be delighted — ’
‘But of course she'd like it!’ Excitedly, Maria threw down her napkin. She clapped her hands in glee. ‘In fact, she'd simply adore it! You'll invite the Hardings, naturally. Charles will engage Jane for every dance. Then, during the Boulangeries, Charles and Jane will slip away. He'll take her hand, drop down on one knee, and then — ’
‘Maria, please!’ Jane was blushing scarlet now.
But Maria was not to be silenced. ‘When shall it be?’ she demanded. ‘Not for six weeks, at least. We must wait until the roses are out. Until the evening air is heavy with their fragrance, until the jasmine and honeysuckle entwine. Until Charles Harding's courage is screwed to the sticking point!’
‘Indeed?’ Laughing at her younger daughter, Rebecca shook her head. ‘I shall consider some dates in May, I think. The evenings should be quite balmy then.’
‘But not too balmy!’ Maria laughed, too. ‘We don't want everybody wandering about outside, do we? Queering the pitch for poor Charles. Getting in his way.’
* * * *
Rebecca chose her date, marked it down in her private diary, then began to make her guest list. Realising Rayner would be at home that weekend, she decided to invite a friend or two for him.
But which friends should she select? Rayner's boon companions were louts. They drank, swore and gamed like heathens. Ellis loathed them all.
Perplexed, Rebecca chewed her pen. But then, in a flash, it came to her. She would invite Owen Morgan! He had been away from Easton for almost six years, and in all that time Ellis had never once suggested asking the poor creature to stay.
But, whatever Ellis thought, Rebecca now decided she would like to see her nephew again. So she wrote out the card.
‘Shall we invite your cousin Owen?’ she asked artlessly, when Jane and she sat down to afternoon tea, later that same day. ‘We could ask him to come on a short visit, perhaps? To coincide with the party, maybe?’
‘That's a splendid idea!’ Meeting her mother's eyes, Jane smiled. ‘He could keep Rayner in line, too. Prevent him and his horrible friends from becoming too drunk and disorderly.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ At the thought of Rayner and his cronies, Rebecca shook her head in dismay. But then, she brightened. ‘Jane, my dear?’
‘Yes, Mama?’
‘I wish to ask you something, and I mean to do so plainly. We all know Mr Harding likes you, and I believe you like him. My dear — you know what I'm about to say. If Charles should propose to you, do you mean to accept him?’
Jane coloured. ‘I wouldn't wish to presume,’ she began. ‘I like Charles Harding, certainly. I think he likes me. But, my dear madam — I don't know if he's thought of marriage. I — ’
‘Your father and I would be very happy to see you settled.’ Rebecca patted her daughter's hand. ‘We like Charles very much. We feel that if any man could make you happy, Charles Harding would be he. That's all I shall say.’
* * * *
Opening the double doors to the grand saloon, which had once been the great hall of the Elizabethan mansion, and even now took up almost half the ground floor of Easton Hall, Owen Morgan gazed all around. Such splendour, he thought. Such opulence! Such banks of hot–house flowers, such long tables, all spread with snowy linen and gleaming silver plate. The apothecary's snug little home, clean and cosy and smelling always of beeswax, lavender and sweet herbs, seemed merely poky when compared with all this.
‘So, Owen,’ Ellis had said earlier that day, ‘I understand you are to follow in your uncle's footsteps, and become an apothecary. A worthwhile calling indeed. Also, one eminently appropriate to your situation in life. How do you get on?’
‘Very well indeed, sir. I enjoy my work very much.’
‘I'm glad to hear it. Very glad.’
Owen had itched to get away. For, time had not softened Ellis Darrow's manner at all. Still stiff, still formal, still as cold as charity, he'd regarded his nephew with a cool, suspicious frown and seemed reluctant to talk to him at all. Although he himself had sought the interview.
But Rebecca, Jane and Maria had been delighted to see him again. Of that there was no doubt at all! Jane had declared herself overjoyed to see him looking so handsome and so well. She had hugged and kissed him like a sister. Indeed, the impression of her soft, warm lips yet remained.
Embracing him, Rebecca had called him her own dearest nephew, and remarked amazedly on how big and good–looking he'd grown. ‘I believe you must be at least three inches taller than Rayner,’ she'd declared, gazing up at him, squinting narrowly and pretending he was out of focus at such a great height. ‘My dear child! You're the image of your uncle! Of course, you don't need me to tell you that. You have only to look in a glass.’
‘I only hope I don't resemble the miserable old devil in character, too,’ Owen had observed. But only to himself.
* * * *
The room was filling nicely now. Ladies and gentlemen talked and laughed, engagements for the first two dances were sought, and chaperones made themselves comfortable in easy chairs placed well away from draughts.
Dressed in his best clothes, but still painfully aware that he must nevertheless look very much the poor relation, Owen prowled the perimeter of the room. Dodging past a huge vase of lilies, he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. That redhead over there! It wasn't — it couldn't be Isabel Graham? Rayner had told him she was still a scrawny thing. A green–eyed minx with crooked teeth and horrid, blotchy freckles. A skinny little jade.
So who was this voluptuous creature with glowing auburn curls, a creamy complexion only lightly dusted with the palest of freckles, and eyes like emeralds on fire?
The creature saw him. A second later, she stood before him. ‘Owen Morgan!’ she cried, beaming. ‘Can it really be you?’
‘Good evening, Miss Graham.’
‘My dear Owen! Don't be formal. Not with me.’ Impulsively, Isabel hugged him. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek.
But then, as she let him go again, Rayner appeared at her side. The look he gave Owen was far from cordial. ‘What's all this?’ he enquired.
‘Rayner, my dear! Don't be jealous.’ Charmingly, Isabel laughed. ‘I was merely expressing my pleasure at seeing your handsome cousin again. Hasn't he grown? He's so tall! Much taller than you'll ever be.’
‘Is he?’ Rayner looked at his cousin, who reddened. ‘Do be quiet, Isabel,’ he muttered. He met Owen's gaze. ‘As you can see, she's become a terrible flirt.’
‘Have I?’ Coyly, Isabel smirked. Then she strolled away.
Owen shook his head. ‘I'm sorry,’ he began. ‘For a moment, I thought I'd done something awful. I i
magined you and Isabel must be — well — ’
‘Engaged? Good God, no.’ Rayner shuddered. ‘She'd like to be, I'm sure. My father would be all for it, and so would hers. But they wouldn't have to live with her, nor take the creature to bed.’
* * * *
Finding Owen standing idle, merely talking to Rayner, Jane dragged him away to be introduced to Mr Harding, who was apparently her particular friend. ‘You'll like Charles,’ she promised. ‘He's clever, he's amusing, and he's kind.’
So he might have been. But as far as Owen was concerned, Charles Harding proved to be nothing but a short, sandy–haired individual with no special charm, whose mild, hazel eyes looked vacant, whose chin was weak, and whose soft, girlish mouth had a rather peevish air. He shook Owen's hand firmly enough, however, and said he was delighted to make his acquaintance.
Jane was satisfied. Charles Harding was proverbially shy, and she was pleased to see he was making an effort, for her sake if not for Owen's own. ‘Well now, my dear Owen,’ she declared, ‘since you are guest of honour here tonight, and the ball is given for me, I think it fitting that I should dance the first two dances with you. Charles? You won't mind that?’
‘No, indeed.’ Politely, Charles Harding bowed. ‘As it happens, I wish to discuss something with Mr Dyer, of High Cross. It's a business matter, and would merely bore you. So — you dance with your cousin. I'll take his place a little later, if I may.’
So Owen and Jane took up their positions in the set.
Owen was not an experienced dancer. But, naturally graceful, he was light on his feet, and by following Jane's lead and taking the nod from her, he managed very well. As they made their way down the dance, she smiled at him. ‘You're doing splendidly,’ she whispered.
‘I am?’ Owen wasn't so certain.
‘To be sure.’ Jane touched his arm. ‘Miss Fraser thinks so, too. She was pointing you out to her friend, just one moment ago. Now, they're both admiring you!’
‘They're observing me, you mean. Laughing at me for a clumsy, unfashionable poor relation, and hoping I'll be caught out.’
The Ash Grove Page 7
