Mary hurried out into the street, throbbing with pain and anger. Billy was being ill-treated, his pride torn to shreds and Griffiths was not fit to be in charge of animals, let alone human beings. Yet what could she do? She stood, trembling in the roadway with the gaunt building hovering over her like a bird of prey. Then she moved across the cobbled street towards the beach and stared at the rolling sea shimmering in the patchy sunlight, breathing the air in deep gulps and striving for calmness. Perhaps she would have been better advised to grease the palm of the warder instead of trying to fight him with her puny strength.
She walked along the sand listening to the waves sucking at the shore as a greedy babe sucks at its mother’s breast. She felt helpless and friendless, bitterly blaming herself for her outburst of temper.
Brushing the raindrops from a fallen tree trunk she seated herself, arranging her skirts around her ankles with trembling hands. She smiled ruefully – who would believe she was the same Mary Jenkins who rules the laundry with a rod of iron? She found herself relaxing a little, the salt breeze taking the heat from her cheeks and the calling of seagulls in the empty sky bringing her a sense of calmness.
‘Big Mary’, that’s what she was called behind her back, but there was no spite intended by the name. She was a hard taskmaster but fair and she had always been so sure of herself until now. She sighed softly and thought of Billy’s eyes staring at her in mute appeal; she would not, could not allow him to waste away behind prison bars.
As she looked towards the hazy horizon, she thought angrily about Brandon Sutton. She would go to see him, convince him of Billy’s innocence and ask him to withdraw his accusations.
Before she knew it, she was on her feet as overhead a flurry of seagulls called plaintively. The clouds that had earlier obscured the sun had completely rolled away and a blue bowl arched above her head as she made her way back to the road.
She did not look at the prison or at the creaking gallows standing stark and vaguely threatening near the wall, but walked swiftly towards the tramway terminus before she could lose her courage.
She had only a very hazy idea of where Brandon Sutton lived, but she was sure it was somewhere on the western slope of the town where the grass was sweet and verdant and where, in summertime, gracious displays of flowers were bedded in carefully landscaped gardens. Certainly the elder of the Sutton brothers owned the Big House, named in Welsh Ty Mawr, which stood almost at the top of the hillside. Mary had heard gossip about the family, for the Suttons were Americans and outsiders, their ways not those of the inhabitants of the Welsh valleys. There was talk of a family quarrel and of old Mr Grenville Sutton’s wish that the brothers should be reconciled, but how much truth was in the rumours Mary did not know.
The tram rattled into sight, the late sunlight glancing off the advertisement for Cherry Blossom Boot Polish. Mary climbed on board and as the tram jerked into motion, slid into the nearest seat. At her side was a dainty woman dressed in green serge, wearing a large hat which cast a shadow over one side of her face but Mary would know that wide generous mouth anywhere.
‘Mali! I was only thinking of you a short while ago, there’s strange to see you now.’
‘Not strange at all when I live up on the hill, but what are you doing venturing so far outside town? Lost your way, have you?’
Mary shook her head slowly. ‘I’m sorry to put a damper on our first meeting for ages, Mali, but the truth is I’m trying to get some help in freeing Billy from prison.’
Mali frowned and laid her gloved hand on Mary’s arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard about Billy, of course, but in my joy at seeing you I suppose I forgot all about it.’
The two women were silent for a moment, staring through the window of the tram, watching the landscape change before their eyes. The hill where the rich of the town had built their homes was free of the effects of copper smoke. Grass grew green and fresh and wild flowers were much in evidence.
‘Do you know Brandon Sutton?’ Mary asked at last. ‘I’m trying to find out where he lives.’ She became aware that Mali’s eyebrows were raised in surprise.
‘But I understood that Billy was jailed largely on Brandon’s evidence,’ Mali said gently. ‘What good will it do to speak to him?’
Mary nodded. ‘I know it must seem hopeless to you, but I must try to change Mr Sutton’s mind. Billy isn’t capable of all the things he’s been convicted of and I’m going to tell Brandon Sutton so to his face.’
‘Oh, Mary, you make me feel so ashamed,’ Mali said remorsefully. ‘I should at least have come to see you before this – how you must have been suffering.’
‘Don’t fret.’ Mary shook her head. ‘With a small child to look after, you’ve doubtless got your hands full.’
‘Nevertheless, the laundry is still my responsibility,’ Mali persisted. ‘I’ve let you carry the burden for the running of the place for too long. I should be taking more interest in what’s happening there, I suppose. Anyway, to come back to your question – yes, I do know where Brandon lives. I have to pass the gate as it happens.
As the two women alighted from the tram, stepping out on to the broad sweeping roadway, the air was like wine bringing with it the clean salt smell of the sea and Mary breathed deeply. Below, spread out into the distance was the town of Sweyn’s Eye, the long curving road thrown down between the folding hills like a question mark, the sea incredibly blue as it washed onto the golden beach, the foam that edged the waves white and frothy in the sunlight. It was a different world, Mary thought. The stink of the copper works, the sound of the sparks shooting into the sky when the blast furnaces were tapped – it all seemed remote from her now. Even the grey of the prison seemed like a painful but distant memory.
‘Here we are!’ Mali spoke brightly. ‘This is Ty Melyn; Brandon lives here with his father. Grenville hardly ever leaves home and he’s a likeable old man, though a bit gruff on times.’ Mali pressed Mary’s arm. ‘If not, promise you’ll come up to Plas Rhianfa and have tea with Sterling and me.’
Mary nodded without replying. She had no intention of intruding upon Mali’s privacy. She waved as Mali moved away and then turned to walk through the wide iron gates and along the pathway overhung by budding trees.
Her heart was hammering inside her as she stood before the great door. Should she go to the back of the house, she wondered, but then anger swept over her. She was not here as a servant, so why should she behave like one? She lifted the knocker and, as it slammed downwards, the noise reverberated through the house.
The maid who opened the huge door stared disdainfully at Mary’s shawled figure. ‘Yes?’ she asked haughtily as Mary moved nearer.
‘Tell Mr Sutton that Mary Jenkins wants to see him, and don’t look down at me, my girl, or I just might fetch you a clip across the ear.’
The young maid stepped back quickly. ‘Wait by here and I’ll see if the master will speak to you.’ She moved away huffily, the ribbons from her cap fluttering behind her.
Mary stood on the step, her hands icy cold in spite of the sunshine, and wondered what exactly she could say to Brandon Sutton. He was a man who seemed an enigma with his strange turquoise eyes and tall strong figure.
The maid returned with a smile of satisfaction on her young face. ‘Mr Sutton can’t see anyone at the moment, I’m sorry.’ She was closing the door even as she spoke and Mary felt a swift sense of disappointment.
‘Tell him I’ll wait,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’ll wait all night if need be, he must see me.’
‘Please yourself.’ The maid closed the door with a bang and Mary was left staring at the dark carved panelling, her heart beating rapidly and anger running like a tide through her veins. Who did this Brandon Sutton think he was? Well, he would not turn her away so easily. She moved to the garden seat at the entrance of the drive and sat down, her hands folded resolutely in her lap. He would see her even if she had to keep vigil outside his home all night. And yet, as her anger ebbed away, she felt s
uddenly as though she had been betrayed.
Chapter Two
Dirk Brandon Sutton was newly come to Sweyn’s Eye, but already the old town with its hills and sudden valleys was in his blood. He stood now on the quay breathing in the scent of tar and salt, listening to the sound of fussy tugs leaving the harbour and feeling some of the tensions ease from his shoulders. His visit to the prison had not been an unqualified success – Billy Gray had shown a dumb hostility, refusing to answer any of his questions and Brandon had grown impatient.
‘I expect my brother put you up to stealing the manuscript, didn’t he?’ His voice had been fierce and Gray had shaken his head in apparent bewilderment. He was either too stupid or too loyal to Dean to give anything away.
Griffiths, the weathered old warder who had spent half a lifetime on the prison’s ‘death cell’, had not helped matters. He was by nature a bully and his harsh treatment of the new prisoner resulted only in an obdurate silence. If Billy had been merely a pawn in some devious game played by Dean, he was never going to admit it. Brandon frowned; his brother was not above trying to spike his guns and there had been an abiding hatred between them for many a year.
He sat on the low sea wall, his long legs stretched before him as he watched a Chinese walking surefootedly across a narrow plank that reached from the ship’s side to the quay. The man’s face was yellow, his eyes sloping, almost almond-shaped. Under his arm he carried a box from which came the distinctive sound of a cockerel crowing. Brandon smiled; the sailor would doubtless arrange a quick sale down at the Cape Horner, making enough money to keep him in ale for the rest of the day.
Brandon loved the sea and the colourful hustle of the dock, yet today the matter of Billy Gray worried the fringes of his mind. He remembered the night some weeks ago when he and his young works manager had disturbed an intruder at the office.
It was by mere chance that Brandon had decided to return to the works. He and Mark had spent the evening in the Mackworth Arms drinking ale and outside the weather had become cold with a hint of rain in the air. When Brandon entered the office with Mark close behind him they had found it in a shambles. Drawers of the desk and cabinet had been thrown to the floor and Brandon had known at once what the intruder had been after. But he had been out of luck.
Brandon smiled to himself, for the manuscript of his handbook for tinplate men was locked away in a safe at the bank. When it was published – and, by damn, Brandon intended it to be – it would revolutionise the scale of payment made to the workers. It would become the bible of the trade – a guide to tinplate sizes, so ensuring an equality in wages.
By going ahead with the project Brandon had made himself unpopular with the other owners in the area, not least his brother, Dean, who had a stake in most of the works in the vicinity of Sweyn’s Eye. But Brandon had spent several years working on the book. Philadelphia had been rich in steel and he had made good use of the time spent there. He had no intention now of wasting his research, which he had expanded considerably since coming to Britain. Brandon’s thoughts were bitter. His brother would never change, he would for ever harbour a grudge, blaming Brandon for his exile from America.
He moved from the quayside and strolled along at the water’s edge, wrinkling his nose at the stink of the copper works higher up the valley. Then he paused and, irritated by his thoughts, thrust his hands in his pockets. He now fully recognised that he had made an error of judgement on the night of the burglary, but when he and Mark had picked up the trail of the intruder, following the tracks up to Ty Mawr, he had been coldly angry.
He had entered his brother’s house without ceremony and accused Dean of treachery. Billy Gray had been standing in the hallway, his hair wild and his eyes haunted. When Mark had held him, searching his pockets, he had found a roll of banknotes. It had been enough for Brandon to send for the constable, but Dean of course had come out of it all as clean as a whistle.
Now Brandon left the seafront and made his way back onto the road. He ought to look in at the works before he returned home. Grenville Sutton would be eagerly waiting for him, drinking in anything Brandon had to say, for the old man did not have enough to occupy his time.
As Brandon strode through the gates of the Beaufort Steel and Tinplate Company, he reflected that as yet he was something of an unknown quantity to the men, a new broom who would presumably sweep clean and a foreigner to boot. Brandon sighed; it had been his father’s idea to come over from the States in his declining years, for Grenville Sutton had evinced a sudden longing to return to the birthplace of his ancestors.
Yet even in those few months Brandon felt that he had proved himself to the hard-working men of the Welsh valleys. Indeed, it amused him to know that already he was referred to as the Iron Prince.
‘Afternoon, Mark,’ Brandon nodded to the young manager. ‘Everything under control?’
‘Aye, there’s nothing for you to worry about sir; been keeping my eye on things as usual.’ Mark half rose from the polished wooden chair but Brandon waved him back and sat on the edge of the table.
‘I’ve been to the prison,’ Brandon said abruptly. ‘Tried to talk to Billy Gray.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sure my brother is behind all this; Billy was working as his groom for some time, wasn’t he?’ He continued to speak without waiting for a reply: ‘He wouldn’t tell me a thing, he’s a stubborn cuss.’
Mark nodded in agreement. ‘Aye, he’s the type to keep his trap shut all right. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the truth of what happened that night, why old Twm Price was killed and that halfwit son of his frightened to death.’
Brandon ran his fingers through his thick unruly hair. ‘I suppose you’re right, but I feel it in my bones that Dean is mixed up in it all somehow.’ He rose to his feet and his tone was brisk. ‘Is everything under control here?’
‘Oh, there was one nasty incident, sir.’ Mark’s eyes avoided Brandon’s gaze. ‘One of the openers cut her hand – not too bad, but I thought it best to send her home.’
Brandon looked up sharply. ‘I’m willing to bet it wasn’t one of the older women; they’re all far too skilled to fumble the separating of the sheets.’
‘No it was one of the new girls.’ Mark’s face had turned a dull red and Brandon hid a smile. It was quite clear that the lovely young girl had been distracted and it was not too difficult to find the culprit.
‘Wish you’d learn to curb your urges, at least in working hours,’ he said dryly and Mark’s sheepish grin told Brandon he had come to the right conclusion.
‘Been giving her a bit of incentive on the side,’ Mark grinned widely. ‘Sweet little thing, she is, good to take out on the mountaintop for a couple of hours, just to instruct her in her job, you understand.’ He sighed. ‘But it’s Katie Murphy I’ve really got a fancy for; she’s got beautiful red hair and skin like the cream off the milk.’
Brandon sat in the polished wooden chair before his desk and leaned back staring up at the younger man.
‘Before you know it, your Katie’ll have a ring on her finger and you’ll have one through your nose,’ he said slowly. ‘I know what women can be like.’
Mark’s expression changed. ‘Anyone would think you didn’t like the ladies. Had a bad experience with one of them, have you?’ Then he grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry, it’s none of my business, forget I spoke.’
‘I’ve forgotten already.’ Brandon spoke evenly, but a host of bitter memories were rising inside him. He was back once again in the heat and dust of his father’s large estate in America: a young man eager for life, full of ideals and rarefied opinions. When he had become engaged to the local beauty, his life had seemed to stretch ahead in one long sunlit pattern.
Mary Anne Bloomfield had been soft and lovely, the belle of the small Southern state where she had been born. She was so sweetly innocent that Brandon had been enchanted with her. He had courted her slowly, curbing his hot blood, reluctant to lay so much as a finger on her and risk frightening her away. That had been hi
s mistake, as he soon learned when she had run away with his brother, leaving a note to the effect that she wanted a man and not a young idealistic boy. The scandal had rocked the neighbourhood and Brandon had become obsessed with a longing for revenge.
But retribution had come swiftly upon Mary Anne, for Dean had very soon tired of her. He had deserted her, uncaring that she was full with his child, and when she had returned home in disgrace it was only to find herself packed off to an aunt in a distant country town. The ensuing scene in the Sutton household had been bitter. At least Dean had been forced to leave for Britain and it was clear that Grenville Sutton considered him a son no longer.
That was all a long time ago now. Brandon sighed, for memories of the past still had the power to burn in his gut. He could never forgive Dean and his brother knew it, but they had agreed to keep up appearances for their father’s sake. In his declining years, Grenville Sutton wished for peace and harmony, not understanding that some wounds went too deep ever to be healed.
Brandon rose to his feet in one swift movement – power in the rippling muscles of his body, yet with a grace unexpected in such a tall man. ‘I’m going to look over the new furnaces,’ he said abruptly and then he was outdoors standing with the sunshine warm on his bare head.
He stared around in satisfaction, reflecting that he had made a good move in buying the Beaufort Steel and Tinplate Works. The twin stacks of the blast furnaces that reduced the rough ore to molten metal rose almost a hundred feet high, dwarfing the buildings of the steelworks which sprawled over two hundred acres of land separated by the curving line of the river Swan. The site was small by most standards, but was unusual in that it was equipped to process the metal from the first melting of the rough ore to the final stages of tinning. Adjacent to the works was the Great Western Railway line, which already had proved to be an asset in providing ready transportation as well as orders for the renewal of rails.
Proud Mary Page 2