Jane sat by the window, watching the light fade. Her lover came to stand beside her. ‘My dear Jane,’ he began, as he stroked her hair, ‘we agreed that I should visit you here this evening, so I have come. But I do understand that since we last spoke, you may have reconsidered. If you have, merely say the word, and I shall leave.’
‘I have not changed my mind.’ Standing up, Jane found her face was on fire. Shame and mortification washed over her, in white–hot, burning waves. For now, years of unquestioning obedience to the strictest of moral codes meant that she felt defiled, unwomanly, and unclean.
She laid her glowing cheek against her lover's chest. ‘I would like you to stay with me,’ she whispered, the words almost choking her. Helplessly, she shrugged. ‘But I can't — indeed, I don't think I should — ’
‘Poor Jane.’ Michael Atkins kissed the top of her head. ‘Don't worry,’ he murmured. ‘Your first child will not be born six months after your wedding day. There are ways to take care of things like that.’
‘Oh.’ Jane could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘I see.’
‘So, my darling.’ Raising her face to his, her lover looked into her eyes. ‘May I take you to bed?’
Jane stared back at him. Meeting that pale blue gaze, she realised she wanted him not merely to kiss her, but to possess her completely.
Tonight, she would be a bride.
* * * *
‘You'll be fortunate in childbirth,’ he observed, as he spanned her hips, as he narrowed his eyes to measure her from this angle and that. ‘Your sons and daughters will never hurt you! Well, not on the day they are born, at any rate.’
‘Will they not?’ Relaxed and sleepy, but also blissfully happy, Jane smiled. ‘How do you know that?’
‘My dear, I'm a farmer. So of course I can tell.’ Her lover smiled, too. ‘Believe me, you were made to be a mother.’
‘In that case — ’
‘We must lose no time. We must get you with child on our actual wedding day.’
‘When will that be?’
‘As soon as I can arrange it.’
‘Ah.’ Jane sighed. She turned her head away. ‘If you arrange it,’ she murmured, almost inaudibly.
‘You presume to doubt me?’ Catching her by the shoulder, Michael Atkins twisted her round to face him. ‘Well?’
That single word echoed all round the bedchamber. It made the windows rattle, and the vessels on the dressing table ring. Wide–eyed with alarm, Jane stared. ‘I — I do not doubt you,’ she whispered, fearfully. ‘But I was afraid you might despise me now. That you would think me shameless. Unprincipled — ’
‘No.’ Relaxing again, her lover kissed her. ‘How could I despise you? You have given me something precious tonight.’
* * * *
‘Who's my precious, then?’ Isabel swung her little daughter high in the air. ‘Who's my darling? My own dear heart's delight?’
Honor grinned and burbled, waving her fat baby fists and kicking lustily. But then, as the door of the little parlour swung open, she turned to see who had come in. ‘Dada!’ she squealed. ‘Dada, Dada!’
So Isabel was obliged to hand her over.
It was as well Honor loved Owen so dearly. Again and again, in fact every single time jealousy and irritation threatened to eat her up, Isabel reminded herself that if Owen loved the child in return, he would find it impossible to disown or desert her mother. Even if, one day, he should tire of Isabel herself.
The infant was so like him! Dark–eyed, dark–haired, she was fast growing up into the prettiest of Celtic maids, with nothing of Isabel's gold and white about her at all. For Honor's hair was as black as the coal they mined here in the Welsh valleys. Her eyes were pools of cool, grey water. Her soft, baby skin was as dark as Owen's own.
‘See what I've brought you today.’ Sitting the child on his lap, Owen rummaged around in his pockets until he found the new toy. A teething ring in the shape of a horse shoe, it was fashioned from pretty pink coral and hung with engraved silver bells. Straight away, Honor put it in her mouth.
‘She likes it,’ observed Isabel. Having threaded her needle, she reached for the next piece of plain sewing in the basket by her side. For, these days, she was a fine seamstress, and always had some little garment to hand, which she was smocking, hemming or finishing off. ‘Those bells are quite secure, I hope?’
‘Perfectly.’ Rubbing the child's nose with his own, Owen grinned. ‘But I had Ifan Evans cold–solder them again. Just to make sure. We don't want any accidents, do we?’
* * * *
On days like today, when Honor was good–humoured and Isabel neither cross with the kitchen maid nor inclined to scold him, Owen found he was relatively contented. The agonised longing for Jane, while it certainly never left him, dulled from a violent torment to a mild, almost bearable ache. If he had business to transact, orders to win, and little time to consider or reflect, even that mild ache became tolerable. Like a fretful infant, it could be wrapped in a blanket, and lulled to sleep.
After a period of relative inactivity, Owen suddenly found he had a great deal to do. That spring of 1814 saw the removal of Napoleon from office, and the consequent coming of peace boosted the economy wonderfully. Business in the metal trades was so brisk that Owen found he did not have to tout for custom. Instead, it came to him. Some days, there was so much to do at the works that the master actually rolled up his own shirt sleeves and laboured in the casting shed himself, alongside his men.
He went home to his mistress and her child filthy, starving, but tired enough to sleep for eight hours at a stretch. So, after a substantial dinner of the inevitable boiled mutton and mealy potatoes, he would retire for the night. Too exhausted even to dream, he lay in his bed like a corpse in its coffin, dead to the world and certainly oblivious of Isabel, who lay fidgeting by his side.
Waking at six to the prospect of yet another twelve, fourteen, or even a sixteen hour day, he realised that soon he was going to have to contemplate the unthinkable. He would have to start turning business away.
‘Could we put another furnace into blast?’ he asked the foreman that following morning, as he thumbed through a fat sheaf of orders, for hundredweight upon hundredweight of best quality pig.
The foreman scratched his head. ‘Where will you find the men to charge it?’ he enquired.
That was a good point. The shortage of labour in South Wales meant that Owen already employed boys as young as eight or nine, many of them on tasks far beyond their strength. ‘I'll advertise,’ he said, sticking a pencil behind his ear and looking round for his chief clerk. ‘I'll scour Worcestershire. Herefordshire. Gloucestershire. There are miners in the Forest of Dean who could earn twice their wages here in the Vale, working for me.’
But, as Owen pondered, Isabel was thinking, too. Like him, she reached a decision. When he arrived back at the stone cottage that evening, she dropped her bombshell. She told him she had decided to go home.
‘But why?’ he demanded, as she sorted linen and packed shifts and nightgowns in a brass–bound box. ‘What have I done, that you should wish to leave me?’
‘You ignore me. That's what.’ Isabel threw her combs and brushes into her valise. ‘You get up at dawn. You gobble down your breakfast, then you go out.’
‘But, Isabel — ’
‘You come home each evening filthy, stinking and foul. You wolf down your supper, then you go to bed. You never even notice your child.’
‘Isabel, listen — ’
‘You think of nothing but that wretched ironworks. You will not miss me.’
‘Of course I shall!’ Grasping her by the shoulders, Owen printed two sets of perfect, sooty fingermarks on Isabel's best lawn gown. ‘My darling Isabel! You and Honor are the dearest of all God's creatures to me. Of course I shall miss you!’
‘Indeed?’ Not convinced, Isabel shrugged. ‘Why don't you come with us, then?’
‘To Warwickshire?’
‘Yes. Why not?�
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‘I doubt if I would be welcome there.’ Owen bit his lip. ‘Do you intend to stay with your parents?’
‘No, of course not. I shall travel post to Warwick, then sleep in the horse trough, in the market square.’
Isabel went on with her packing. Chewing over what she'd said, Owen watched her. He supposed he ought to go with her, if only to see her safely there.
The maid set his supper before him. As he ate, he considered. Busy though the ironworks were, he could surely be spared for a week or two? The clerks knew their business. He had three excellent foremen, who were perfectly capable of overseeing things for a short space of time.
He wanted to speak to Rayner anyway, to ask if he would think about divorcing his wife. Divorce was a long– winded, expensive process, but if there was no chance of Isabel going back to him, Rayner would surely wish to marry again? If only to beget a son and heir?
Owen also wanted Isabel to be reconciled with her father. Even if he could not forgive his child, he ought to know his grand–daughter. He ought to love her, too.
‘I could come with you,’ he began, as Isabel strapped her bags, then began to rummage through the cupboards, looking for her light summer cloak. ‘We should try to come to some arrangement with Rayner, if only for the child's sake. For the sake, too, of any other children we may have.’
‘God forbid,’ muttered Isabel, shuddering. ‘That's another thing,’ she grumbled. ‘You promised me you'd be careful. But sometimes, you're so haphazard. You get so carried away — ’
‘That's not fair!’ Stung, Owen glared at her. These days, he was so damned careful that there was no pleasure at all in what was supposed to be an act of love. ‘But accidents do happen, and — ’
‘Owen, please stop muttering. Do you wish to know what my Papa had to say?’
‘You mean — you wrote to your father?’
‘Yes. Should I have sought your permission before I even took up my pen?’
‘No, but — ’
‘Then if you wish to be informed, don't interrupt me again.’
So Owen buttoned his lip, and Isabel told him how she had written to her parents, professing her sincere repentance, begging their forgiveness, and asking if they would at least consent to receive their innocent grand– child in their home. Even if they insisted her erring mother should remain standing on the gravel sweep, or in the stable yard.
She had at last received a grudging reply, offering Isabel and her bastard a roof over their heads for one week only. That Morgan fellow, however, was expressly forbidden to set even a foot upon the Graham estate. If he did, the dogs would be set upon him forthwith. He would be torn limb from limb.
* * * *
Having persuaded Isabel to defer her journey for just a few short days, Owen supervised the charging of the biggest furnace, made sure his most intelligent foreman understood what was required of him, and told the men to respect and obey Mr Davies as faithfully as they would Owen himself.
Then he booked his family's passage by express coach. Isabel had written to her parents again, to inform them of her imminent arrival. But since he was well aware that the corrupter of their child would never even be acknowledged in church, let alone received in the Graham family home, Owen made other arrangements for his own accomodation in Warwickshire.
He had always been on good terms with his cousin Maria. So, now that her parents were no longer living, he did not think there would be any difficulty if he asked for shelter under her roof.
Charles Harding could hardly object. The former model of a perfect son and heir had become, on inheriting, a reprobate, gambler and fornicator of some distinction, who neglected his estate and squandered his patrimony, who drank and whored as if his life depended on the same.
But he sincerely loved his wife — and Maria, wisely, turned a blind eye to his little defects of character. Provided the amount of her personal allowance was regularly reviewed, and generously increased.
* * * *
Having seen Isabel safely received by her mother, who readily took Honor into her warm embrace, but whose frightened eyes told Owen that she would suffer grievously if her husband learned the Morgan creature had dared to trespass on his land, Owen took himself off to Charles Harding's estate.
‘My dear Owen!’ Tripping elegantly down the front steps of the gracious Georgian manor house, Maria took her long lost cousin in her arms. She beamed up at him. ‘My dearest coz,’ she cried, ‘it's wonderful to see you again! Well? Do I deserve a kiss?’
‘My dear Maria, of course you do!’ Owen kissed her. Then he stepped back, to admire her. ‘You're looking extremely well,’ he said. ‘Extremely fetching, too.’
‘My dressmaker is a genius. My maid is a spellbinder of the first order. My friseur should be burned for a witch.’ Maria simpered charmingly. ‘You should observe me first thing in the morning,’ she continued, archly. ‘Or rather you shouldn't, for you'd scream in horror, and run quite mad. Because then, you see, I'm an absolute fright.’
‘Indeed?’ Laughing at her, Owen shook his head. ‘I can't believe that. Do you not recall the day I arrived back from India? When I came striding out of the morning mist, and —
‘I ran out in my shift and curl–papers, to welcome you home?’ Giggling, Maria hid her face. ‘How brazen of me! I'd never do such a thing now.’
She took his hand. ‘Do come in,’ she invited. ‘Everything is ready for you.’
Maria was such a chatterbox, such a gossip, that the day flew by. Following her about the house, inside which he had never been before, and which Maria kept done up in the latest fashion and style, Owen was entertained by a flow of ceaseless badinage and repartee. So much so that he never once managed to enquire after Rayner, or Jane.
* * * *
These days, Charles Harding drank so much, gambled so hard and had so many other claims on his time that he never sat down to dinner until well past five. Not that Maria minded. It was so unfashionable to dine early, and late hours gave her all afternoon to dress.
But, because of this, it was not until early evening that Owen heard some news which almost unmanned him. Indeed, if he had not been seated, it would have felled him to the ground.
No warning was given, no ground prepared, no allowance made. Instead, ‘I must tell you, dear Owen,’ chirped Maria brightly, as she nodded to the butler to take the desserts away, ‘indeed, I should have mentioned it earlier. But no matter. The fact is, my sister is engaged!’
‘Engaged? To be married?’ Owen stared at her. ‘Your sister is engaged?’
‘My poor fellow, you've turned into a parrot.’ Charles Harding grinned. ‘Yes, indeed. The old ewe is to be put to the ram at last.’
‘Charles! Don't be so coarse.’ Sighing, Maria shook her head. ‘Pray, my dear Owen, take no notice of him. Owen? What is it? Owen!’
‘My God!’ Charles Harding stared in astonishment as Owen's glass keeled over. As it dripped its scarlet contents down Maria's yellow muslin gown. As the white damask cloth was dyed a deep ruby red. ‘Good grief, what ails the man?’
Owen did not reply. Could not reply. His face a grey mask, he sat frozen, unseeing, unhearing, his mouth dry and his limbs useless. But then, painfully, he collected his shattered wits. ‘Who is the creature?’ he managed to croak, as Charles Harding poured more wine, as the footman mopped at the stain. ‘Maria? Who — ’
‘Dear Owen, do bear up. Be a man!’ Embarrassed for him, Maria motioned the footman away. ‘She writes that the gentleman is quite charming. He — ’
‘Who is the creature?’
‘He is a manufacturer, in business in South Wales. He's somewhat older than my sister, but she insists he is hale and hearty, that he — ’
‘Has lead in his pencil yet.’ Maria's husband grinned again. ‘He'll take her by the ear without delay.’
‘Charles, please!’ Maria covered Owen's hand with hers. ‘The gentleman's name is Mr Atkins,’ she explained. ‘He is a man of property, having a house
near Pontypool, and another near Cardiff — which he uses only rarely, since his favourite home is a country estate on Gower. At present, my sister and Rayner are guests there.
‘The house itself is in Oxwich. It stands in some charming — ’
‘I know him.’ Owen was still deathly pale. ‘I know the man, we are business associates, I supply his factories with castings, and bar iron. My God! How dare he do this? How dare he worm his way into her affections, how dare he — ’
‘Owen, I doubt if the poor gentleman is even aware of the connection!’ Maria shook her head. ‘So he is a customer of yours. What of it? You and your fellow ironmasters supply half of South Wales, do you not?’
‘Where — when did he meet her?’
‘While she and Rayner were staying in Pontypool as guests of a Mr Lloyd, who is an old friend of Mama.’
‘So he sneaked into the house, trifled with your sister's affections, then stole her away.’
‘He has not stolen her! She is a free woman, is she not? She may do as she chooses! This week, she has chosen to marry a respectable gentleman.’
‘Exactly.’ Charles Harding grimaced. ‘Owen, my dear fellow, do be rational about this. Recollect that you are in no position to state whom Jane may or may not marry! As a whoremaster of the first — ’
‘Charles!’ Maria gave her husband one of her fiercest, sharpest looks. ‘How can you be so vile?’
‘My dear, I speak the simple truth. I know — I am drunk, I am a brute, I pollute the very air you breathe — but I slander no one. If this creature had kept his breeches buttoned and his hand out of the fair Isabel's placket, he would now be happily married to your sister, enjoying all the — ’
‘Charles, I will not hear you talk like this!’ Maria rose from the table. Throwing down her napkin, she stalked from the room, calling imperiously for her maid, and leaving Owen and Charles Harding to an increasingly uncomfortable tête à tête.
* * * *
Isabel's father had always loved his only child. True, her behaviour had mortified him. Her disgrace had been a blow from which he had thought he might never recover. But two or three days after the prodigal had returned, old Mr Graham was dandling his grand–daughter on his knee and even being tolerably civil to the infant's mother.
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