But Mrs Delmai Richardson was a woman who liked her rent to be paid in advance and not a day late. Mary would find it hard put to meet her demands on the money a boiler stoker earned.
She washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen and then moved into the front parlour where the air was cooler. As she sat in a soft armchair she saw the elegance of the room with new appreciation heightened by fear of losing it all. It would be unbearable if she had to give it up now, for this was her home. The piano against the wall, polished lovingly and often, which she had saved so hard to buy and the bright carpet which though second-hand was clean and rich, glowing with discreetly blended colours.
The curtains she had sewn herself, spending the long winter evenings sitting under the gas lamp labouring over her task. She was not skilled at needlework for her fingers were too large and clumsy, and she had been proud when she had hung the finished curtains against the long window.
She made up her mind that she would he humble tomorrow, and if Mr Sutton spoke to her she would bridle her tongue and be submissive. Yet her entire being rebelled at the thought, for she had never grovelled in her life and it would be difficult to start now. Yet perhaps he had some grounds for his hostility, for she had gone into his son’s house unasked and caused a scene. And it had all been so unnecessary. She had accused Brandon Sutton and in doing so had set the Sutton brothers against each other; perhaps this was what their father could not forgive.
A sound in the kitchen startled her, and she rose to her feet and hurried along the cool corridor. Then she stopped in her tracks, poised in the doorway with her hands on her hips.
‘Gerwin Price, what on earth do you think you’re doing skulking around my house?’ She was surprised as well as angry, for Gerwin had never been a friend of hers even though they were about the same age. He was handsome in a rough sort of way, his thick hair springing up from his head in untidy tufts and his slanting eyes dark and unreadable. He had tormented her as a child, calling her names because of the way she and her family had lived. She hated him then and that hate exploded now within her.
‘Out with you, boyo! You’re not welcome here. Mixed up in something shady, you are and yet my Billy is the one in prison.’ She picked up a broom and brandished it at him but he simply stood his ground.
‘There’s a way to treat a man who’s been bereaved, Mary Jenkins!’ he said reprovingly. ‘Is there no charity in you, woman?’
She paused in mid-stride, suddenly ashamed of her behaviour, then lowered the broom and shook back her hair from her face.
‘Well, what are you doing here, tell me that? There’s no good comes out of sneaking into other folks’ kitchens.’
‘Look Mary,’ he held out his hand palm outwards. ‘I haven’t touched nothing, I came to ask a favour of you, that’s all.’
She studied him carefully for a moment, unable to make up her mind. She could not trust him and yet he had been affected by his father’s death, the narrowness of his long face told her that.
‘All right, sit down by there and I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ she said, although it was against her better judgement. She saw him glance towards the meat on the large plate with a hungry look in his eyes.
‘You might as well have a bite to eat I suppose,’ she added grudgingly.
‘I’m starved and I’ll not deny it,’ Gerwin said bleakly.
Mary busied herself cutting bread. She was distinctly uneasy and yet at the same time a little sorry for Gerwin.
He ate heartily and Mary busied herself with the kettle, not wanting to sit down with him; but at last, there was nothing left to be done.
‘Things been bad lately, Mary,’ he said, wiping the back of his hand across his face. Mary was repulsed by him but she kept her thoughts hidden behind a bland smile.
‘Times haven’t been exactly easy for Billy or me either,’ she said. ‘Find yourself a job – you didn’t expect your father to keep you for the rest of your life on his nightwatchman’s pay, did you?’
‘There’s the young ones to think of,’ Gerwin had a ready reply. ‘You know as well as I do, Mary, that I can’t leave them to fend for themselves.’ He shrugged. ‘If my woman hadn’t run off and left us things would be different.’
Mary bit her lip. She knew Gerwin was making excuses and yet in a way he was right – who would take the responsibility of caring for his brood of children if he wasn’t there?
‘The babbas are hungry, Mary,’ he said. ‘I need food for them and clothes. They’ve got no shoes to put on their feet, it’s as bad as that.’
It pained Mary to think of any children growing up in the kind of grinding poverty she herself had known, but the Price family were not her worry she told herself firmly.
‘I’ll give you some food,’ she said briskly, ‘and whatever clothes might be of any use but to be honest with you, Gerwin Price, it’s not any of my business, is it? Why don’t you go up to the toffs on the hill, perhaps Dean Sutton will help you?’
He brushed that aside. ‘It is your business in a way,’ he said and his dark eyes were narrowed into slits. Mary longed to move away from him but she would not allow him to see that she was uneasy in his company.
‘How do you make that out?’ Her voice was surprisingly strong and confidant and Gerwin looked away. He was like a wild dog, Mary thought; show him fear and he would pounce.
‘If it wasn’t for your Billy, my dad would still be alive and we’d have a regular wage coming in through the door, not like now.’ He shrugged. ‘In time, I might have been able to find a job for myself and let my father look after the little ones, but what am I to do now, Mary?’
She did not like Gerwin Price and indeed could scarcely bear to be in the same room as the man, but she was touched by the plight of his children. She rose to her feet. ‘I’ll give you what I can,’ she said sighing in resignation.
Mary put a parcel together and tied it with string, then from a tin box at the back of the wardrobe took out some coins. She felt instinctively that she was behaving foolishly and yet she didn’t have any choice, for she could hardly ignore the fact that the Price children were hungry.
‘Here,’ she put the money on the table alongside the parcel of clothes. ‘I’ll give you some food as well, but don’t think this is going to be a regular thing. I’m not a soft touch, mind.’
Gerwin nodded. ‘All right, Mary, I won’t bother you again.’ He snatched up the money and thrust it into his pocket before tucking the parcels underneath his arm.
‘Right charitable girl you are, Mary. I don’t know why we’ve never got together before this, you and me.’
‘We haven’t got together, as you put it. I’m just giving you the same bit of help I’d give anyone in your place. It’s for the children, mind, not for you – do you understand that, Gerwin? No going down to the Mexico tipping the shillings down your throat in mugs of ale, right?’
He looked offended. ‘Now would I do any such thing? You don’t understand me at all, Mary, so I don’t know why you mark me down as a bad ’un.’
She opened the back door. ‘Out you, the same way you came in and don’t pester me again, mind, or you’ll get the sharp end of my tongue. Now you sort out your worries, I’ve got enough of my own.’
Mary watched as Gerwin loped off down the path and into the back lane where he turned and raised his hand for a moment before disappearing out of sight. She closed the door with a sigh of relief and slipped the bolt into place; she would make very sure that Gerwin Price would have no way of getting into her house again. In Canal Street, no one ever thought of locking doors but from now on that was one habit she must acquire, Mary thought anxiously.
It was cool in the parlour with a soft breeze blowing in through the window. Mary stood looking out at the clouds billowing across the dying sun, not fluffy white like summer clouds should be, but grey mingling with the dark green fumes from the plethora of works’ chimneys dominating the banks of the river Swan.
Mary took a deep breath know
ing that in the morning she would have to face old Mr Sutton and that she would need all her courage if she was to humble herself as she had planned.
‘Daro!’ she said aloud. ‘What’s a bit of humble pie compared to keeping my job?’
She sank into a chair and closed her eyes and, all at once, she was reliving the moments spent in the green glade of trees just above the docks. She felt again the same tingling sensation of lightness and freedom she had experienced that morning in Brandon Sutton’s company, and she shivered as she remembered the magnetism of the man. In her mind’s eye she saw his tall frame and strong build and the teasing, turquoise eyes looking down into hers.
‘There’s soft you are, merchi,’ she whispered, but a smile curved the corners of her mouth and her eyes were suddenly bright.
Chapter Six
The long windows of Plas Coch looked out over the softly rolling waters of the Channel, gleaming like eyes in the mellow brickwork of the gracious building. It was the most stately villa on the hillside with the exception of Plas Rhianfa, which stood proud above all others.
To the rear of the house was a long garden equipped with brightly painted wooden toys. A rocking horse, eyes staring, moved softly in the breeze as though imbued with life. And a glossy red see-saw pointed arrow-like towards the cloudless skies. But the garden was empty, for there were no children at Plas Coch.
Delmai Richardson sat in the drawing room, her sewing idle in her lap, her small fingers plucking restlessly at a knotted flower, twisting and worrying the silk bloom destructively.
She was a beautiful woman with gold hair that shimmered like a new sovereign. Her large, dark eyes were fringed by silky fair lashes and her skin was flawless, her mouth soft and young pouted in discontent.
Her fingers tensed as she heard footsteps in the hall and she eased herself back in her chair and mentally prepared herself for the appearance of her husband.
‘Well, isn’t this a charming domestic scene?’ Rickie came across the carpet slowly, his eyes upon her face and Delmai felt the usual shrinking inside her which she experienced whenever she was in her husband’s company.
He kissed her brow and she tried to smile up at him, hoping he did not notice the quivering of her lips. It wasn’t that he was ugly or deformed; indeed, Rickie Richardson was a catch – hadn’t everyone said so, especially Delmai’s mother who remembered the days when the Richardsons virtually owned Sweyn’s Eye.
‘How are you feeling today, my dear?’ Rickie sounded solicitous but there was derision in his eyes. ‘Recovered from your vapour of last night, I expect!’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her voice was small and apologetic as she looked up and met his eyes defensively. ‘I can’t help it, truly Rickie, I do try to be a good wife to you.’
He laughed shortly and walked away from her. ‘Yet you always seem to develop some mysterious sickness when we are about to go to our bed. Don’t you think you should consult Dr Thomas? After all, there is no hope of us having children if we don’t consummate the marriage.’
‘Oh, no, please don’t make me do that,’ Delmai said breathlessly. She could just see Marian Thomas the doctor’s wife divulging the wonderful titbit of gossip to the ladies who took tea with her. She could imagine the ribald laughter in Marian’s voice only too well: ‘My dear, they haven’t actually done anything yet, if you know what I mean.’
Rickie came to her and laid a hand on her arm. ‘Do you really mean it, that you’ll try?’ His face was anxious now. ‘I want a family so badly, Delmai, and only you can give me that. The other I can get from whores.’
Delmai flinched. ‘Do you have to be so coarse?’ she said sharply and Rickie shook his head at her in despair.
‘I’m only trying to save you the embarrassment of thinking up further excuses to reject me,’ he retorted. ‘I want children and I will have them, but as for pleasure, then I shall find it elsewhere – that’s all I’m trying to say.’
He stood near the window, lifting the curtain and Delmai knew he was staring into the garden, looking longingly at the swings.
‘Two sons and perhaps a daughter, that’s not too much to ask, surely?’ He spoke as though thinking aloud. ‘There’s my brother Sterling with a son by that slut and if what I hear is correct, another child on the way.’ He turned and looked so challengingly at Delmai that she shrank back against her silk cushions.
‘Is there any justice in this world, Delmai? I took you for my wife because you were from a fine family. The Glynmors are good stock through and through.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘I just can’t understand why you are so reluctant to sleep with me.’
‘Give me more time,’ Delmai pleaded softly. ‘You know how nervous I am and I don’t know why. These things can’t be explained.’
‘You come from farming stock, for God’s sake!’ Rickie’s voice was harsh. ‘You must have seen animals breeding more times than you can remember. You’ve even assisted your father when he wanted one of his stallions to cover a mare, so you can’t be that squeamish.’
Delmai bit back an angry retort, for how could she tell her husband of only two months that his very touch repelled her? Perhaps the cold way in which the marriage had been arranged was to blame; in any event, she didn’t understand herself, so how could she explain her feelings to anyone else? That her father had handed her over to Rickie along with a big fat dowry and bid him to ‘breed some fine young ’uns’ didn’t help matters. She was being treated just like a mare herself and she hated it.
She had not even been consulted about the marriage – perhaps no one thought she had enough intelligence to decide anything for herself. Her father, a florid-faced hearty man, had always believed that the Glynmors were a race apart. He had been bitterly disappointed when his wife had produced only one child, and a girl at that, though it was rumoured that more than one male Glynmor bastard had been spawned in Sweyn’s Eye.
When Rickie Richardson had shown an interest in Delmai, the marriage had been arranged so quickly that she had had no time to accustom herself to the idea. And she had never been instructed in matters of the flesh; her mother avoided the subject like a plague and so Delmai had grown up to believe that there were no feelings attached to the act of procreation.
She had seen the mares hobbled and tied so that the stallion would not be harmed. Conversely, the mare needed her neck protected so that the stallion did not bite her during the mating. It had seemed a painful and joyless experience to Delmai, with the stallion thrashing and thrusting and the mare standing with great frightened rolling eyes as though waiting for the ordeal to be over.
Delmai decided that it was not real marriage she had desired at all. She had wanted a ring on her finger and a pretty white dress and orange blossoms and a fine handsome man at her side. Perhaps she had even wanted children, but not wrenched from her own unwilling flesh.
In a moment of panic she had considered refusing to go through with the wedding at all, not that she had anything personal against Rickie – not then. He was presentable enough and came from one of Sweyn’s Eye’s leading families, but some deeply hidden instinct warned her that the step she was about to take was wrong.
She was well able to support herself, for her grandmother had left her a clutch of properties which brought in a fair income over the years. Yet it was the thought of being an outcast in society which had forced her to sublimate her own wishes in the end. She knew that otherwise she would become an oddity, a vinegary old maid. Her one consolation now was that she was being invited to social gatherings; she had standing in Sweyn’s Eye now that she was Mrs Richardson.
‘Are you listening to me, Delmai?’ Rickie’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘I want you to be ready for me when I come home tonight, I’m not prepared to put up with any more excuses.’
‘Oh but…’ Her voice faltered in the light of her husband’s cold stare.
‘Oh but nothing! It’s tonight, or I’ll pack you up bag and baggage and return you to your father’s house. Don’t you rea
lise that he’s asking me already about an heir? He wants a grandson as much as I want a son. Can you be selfish enough to deny us both?’
Dumbly, Delmai shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, but the word carried little conviction.
As Rickie came to her and put both his hands on her shoulders, she could feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin material of her dress and with difficulty suppressed a shiver.
‘Look, I’m not completely insensitive,’ he said and though he spoke softly there was an element of laughter in his voice. ‘This sort of thing is probably difficult for any nicely brought-up young lady to cope with.’ He paused. ‘Not that my mother suffered any lack of the physical urge.’ He looked down at her almost curiously. ‘What if I promise I won’t do anything to hurt you, will that help?’
When she refused to answer, he gripped her more tightly. ‘I want you ready for me when I return this evening, no headaches, no vapours, no sickness, do you understand?’
Delmai looked up at him, her hands were clammy as she clasped them together. ‘I understand, Rickie,’ she said woodenly.
After he had gone, she tossed the scrap of linen she had been embroidering to the far corner of the room. She felt sick already at the thought of submitting to Rickie, yet the alternative was to face the humiliation of being packed off to the farm where she would never hear the end of her father’s wrath.
She looked around her desperately. Was there no one to whom she could talk, confide her fears? Not her mother, certainly, Bronwen Glynmor would simply close her ears and frown in horror if her daughter should be indelicate enough to mention anything pertaining to the marriage bed.
Delmai rang for tea. Her throat was parched and her hands were trembling as her mind twisted and turned, exploring endless possibilities for escape. She wondered if she should just pack her trunk and run away, but then she would be leaving herself open to ridicule: the woman who would not consummate her marriage! She put her hands over her face just as the maid entered the room with the tray.
Proud Mary Page 8