When Edwin left the alehouse he was smiling. Pitcher had agreed to the marriage, and from the way Violet had responded in his arms, he had made an excellent choice. He was still smiling as he stood at the window looking out at the progress of building work on his house. The day was almost gone and the servant had not yet arrived to light the lamps, and he dreamed of what the future held: a wife to grace his table, bring excitement to his bed and give him what he sorely lacked – company and laughter to liven the old house. With his thoughts drifting pleasurably, he barely reacted when a movement caught his eye. But the way the figure moved brought him back to the present hastily. Someone had passed cautiously across the ground in front of the window and was heading down towards the almost completed piggeries, crouched, obviously not wanting to be seen. Locking the dogs inside, Edwin slipped silently out and followed.
* * *
Kenneth moved with slow caution down the yard, away from the house. Having watched from the shelter of the orchard and seen no sign of life in the unlit house, he considered it unlikely that anyone would see him, but still moved with infinite care – the movement that had roused Edwin’s curiosity and suspicion and had prevented him from calling out. Kenneth had no real thought of anyone following and did not look back even when he reached the brick-built pigsties, climbed over the wall and went inside.
He stamped over the floor, peering around in the fading light, touching the walls and even kneeling down and feeling all over the floors. When the shadow fell in front of him, he had no time to gasp before a blow to the head knocked him sick and senseless to the floor.
When Edwin realized who he had beaten about the head, he was alarmed. He had suspected the prowler of snooping to see what had been added to the piggery that was not intended for porcine comfort. But to find it was Kenneth, the letter-carrier of Gower, was a shock.
He did not know what to do as the small man slumped across his feet. He stared out into the black evening, half inclined to return to his fire, pull his curtains and forget what had happened, then deny any knowledge of the affair when it came to light.
That he could not do. He had no idea how seriously he had hurt the letter-carrier, and he could hardly allow him to lie there to die of cold. He examined the prostrate victim and, reassured by his groans, decided that it was safe to move him far from his door.
Taking some rope, he tied Kenneth’s hands and feet, placed a kerchief across his mouth, and wrapped him in a thick coat. Gathering blankets from the house, he carried him to the stables and bundled him across the back of a horse. Hidden by the deep velvet night, the horse hardly making a sound on the soft hillside grasses, Edwin reached the quarry behind the alehouse without being seen, and set down his victim against the rocks. He stopped to look down at the alehouse building silhouetted against the lighter sea and imagined Violet asleep and dreaming the dreams of the innocent. An innocence he would have the pleasure of ending.
Through the night he visited Kenneth several times, and found him sleeping contentedly. As dawn began to break, he carefully untied the cloth about the man’s face and loosened the ropes. Content that someone would find him before long, he went home to sleep and dream of Violet Palmer.
* * *
Men searched for Kenneth at Ceinwen’s instigation, when late evening came without his return, all along his route.
Spider went with Dan, and joined others gathered for yet another night-search. The news was spread, children as well as adults arrived, and the searchers quickly swelled into a crowd. Some carried lanterns, all held sticks.
Daniels, the Keeper of the Peace, had been called, and he appeared as neatly turned out as if it had been the middle of a calm day. He began to organize the villagers into groups, giving each an area to search. Spider and Dan came back from following yet another false hope just as Daniels was directing the last groups towards Thistleboon and Newton. The pair set off again, but Dan looked back in time to see the door of Betson’s cottage open slowly and the tall figure of the Keeper of the Peace slipping inside.
‘Suppose that’s as good a place to search for Kenneth as any,’ he said, and Spider grinned knowingly. Kenneth would have been surprised at the remark. He believed his visits were known only to himself and Betson-the-Flowers!
No one thought to go as far from Kenneth’s route as the quarry. He woke from a drowsy dream once and thought he heard people calling, but, wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, and with a headache making it difficult to open his eyes, he did not fully wake to his predicament. He felt for Ceinwen’s form behind him, imagining the softness of her limbs in what was a large piece of limestone padded with folds of Edwin’s blankets. His hand, expecting Ceinwen’s warm Welsh flannel nightgown, was satisfied, and he dozed peacefully back into a deep contented sleep.
* * *
Unaware of the events after Edwin had left her, Violet sat looking out into the night, unable to sleep. Her thoughts went from Edwin and that disconcerting first kiss, to the warm lips of Barrass, whose firm young body was a strong temptation. She knew what she felt for Barrass was lust, the most wicked of the body’s weaknesses if the vicar were to be believed. She did not even consider him as a man whose life one day she might share. For her, Edwin was the man to fulfil that role, and she knew that once she and Edwin were married, all thoughts of Barrass and his eager loving would fade.
But knowing Barrass was in the same building, and probably also awake, she was not able to resist slipping on a woollen housecoat and going downstairs.
Her heart was beating high in her throat, and so loud she feared waking the household. But she went on, into the bar-room and on beyond it to where the cellar door was slightly raised. She hesitated for a moment, guilt almost overcoming her need, then called his name. It was hardly more than a whisper. Almost immediately his head appeared, a moment longer and he stood before her, his arms enveloping her.
Desire flooded through her and she wondered how she could ever again live without a man’s lusty affection. And as he guided her through the muddle of the outside yard to their usual place under the archway, his hands already beginning to caress her, she knew that she could not. An awakening to the sharing of such pleasure meant it was impossible to go back to a life of chastity.
Somehow, even if Edwin abandoned her, she would have to have the companionship of Barrass or someone equally skilled in the art of love. Later she felt shame at the admission, likening herself to those unfortunate men and women who, once they had tasted drink, could not stop taking it to excess. But by the time they had traversed the yard and found their place, such thoughts had drifted away into the cold night, and she had no mind for anything but the next few minutes.
The sacks of seaweed and heather were as they had last left them. Barrass had been repeatedly told to throw them away but even when he had thought her gone from his life for ever, he could not. While they were there, he could nurture the hope of Violet returning to him.
They began to whisper of their love and their need of each other and Barrass’s strong hands explored her shivering body. Her hands reached down to touch his hips, to savour his nearness, to slide over his skin, to caress him. Then, as desire reached the point at which neither could resist a moment longer, a light showed in the house and Violet gave a gasp of alarm. Barrass saw it too, and from the position of it, knew that someone was coming down the stairs.
Yet he could not let her go. He forced her down again, soothed her frightened cries and, stroking and murmuring, persuaded her to relax and accept him. It was quicker than any of their many times together. But it was also the most exciting, with the light gradually coming nearer, and both suspecting that Violet’s bed had been found empty. They were both heady with more than the typical after-effects of loving, and clung to each other as, astonishingly, Barrass began to feel desire again filling him.
‘No, Barrass,’ she gasped. ‘I must get back to my room.’
The lamp was now near the back door, and they heard Pitcher complaining about the
door being left open. Arthur was obviously with him.
‘Where’s Barrass?’ they heard Pitcher say. ‘He should come as well.’ Then Arthur tripped over something and shouted. His dog barked hysterically.
‘Hush, boy! We don’t want to wake Emma and the girls!’ Pitcher complained.
‘Quick, it’s all right,’ Barrass whispered, and taking Violet’s arm he led her around the house to where the new doorway was propped up with large stones.
To his alarm, Arthur’s dog had scented them and jumped over the half-hidden obstacles towards them with delight. Barrass hastily kicked it away, but the dog thought it a part of some new game and jumped up to show his pleasure. Barrass opened the door far enough for Violet to slip inside, then, holding her back, with the sound of Pitcher’s feet dangerously close, he held her tight, ran his hands around her responsive body and kissed her.
The kiss was no hurried affair, despite the risks. He moved his soft lips over hers in a way that had both of them torn between fear and rising passion. They were both oblivious to the dog, who scratched at Barrass’s leg, wanting to be included in whatever was going on. It suffered a further kick and sat with its head on one side in comical offence.
As well as wanting her, love and desire like a flame burning him away, there was the added sensation of a laugh tickling his throat as he finally released her. The occasion was unique in its excitement and daring. He waited as she glided away from him and heard her low husky laugh.
Breathlessly, he called out to her father and announced that he had been down on the beach for a walk as he had been unable to sleep, hoping his breathlessness would not be taken as evidence of a different kind of exercise. Pitcher hastily explained about Kenneth being missing, and Barrass reluctantly set off to assist in the search.
Wearily, when all he wanted was his bed, he helped Arthur and Pitcher to scrabble among the undergrowth and bushes, and along the green lanes. The dog, who seemed to share a secret with Barrass, and attached himself to him instead of his master, kept excitedly dragging him away along unseen trails, but each time it was only the nocturnal wanderings of a small mammal that interested him, and there was no sight nor sound of Kenneth.
* * *
Kenneth woke that Friday morning to the sound of bird-song. The ticker-tick-ticking of a robin about to begin searching for his breakfast, the gentle cooing of a wood pigeon from a tree nearby and the kew-kew-kew as a woodpecker dipped across the sky. The sea was a distant murmur.
It was only slowly that he began to wonder why he was in the misty quarry surrounded by damp, moss-dressed stones. He was warm and quite comfortable apart from a drip tickling the end of his nose, and it seemed unimportant to try and work it all out, but gradually he remembered, starting with the blow on his head in the newly built pigsty, and working back.
* * *
It was a Thursday, and he had visited Betson-the-Flowers, taking with him a dozen eggs, each one carefully wrapped in the page of an old book, and placed in his leather pouch, a few leeks and a fowl. She had been welcoming and their few short hours together had been pleasant.
It was only as they dressed in front of the large fire on which sweet cherry-wood burned, that his visit was ruined by mention of another of her callers.
‘Kenneth, my dear, can I beg a favour?’ Betson had smiled.
‘Ask of me what you will. If it is possible then I shall willingly do it,’ he replied, patting her bottom as it slid into her checked flannel underskirt.
‘Will you take this note and leave it for Ieuan-Bricks-and-Mortar?’
‘I’ll have to take it back to be stamped. But I’ll pay the half-penny charge,’ he promised.
‘No, Kenneth, my dear, it’s – private, like. Will you take it now, in the dark? I want you to put it in the new pigsty that Edwin Prince is having built. It’s where he’s working, see.’
Kenneth looked at her darkly. He knew that he was not Betson’s only visitor, but he hated being reminded of the others.
‘What’s it about, tell me that and I’ll take it.’ Making an excuse, he pretended a different reason for his hesitation. ‘I’m the letter-carrier for the whole of Gower and you know I have to be careful to remain blameless of anything underhand.’
‘It’s an arrangement. Ieuan-Bricks-and-Mortar has promised to call and – er fix the walls up a bit. I want to tell him when it’s best for him to come, that’s all.’
‘All right then.’ He held out his hand for the letter, which was sealed down with sealing wax indented with a pattern edged by black soot where she had heated the seal on the fire. He decided that he would deliver it, but he would hide it in some place where the recipient would never see it.
* * *
He went to the house of Edwin, and felt his way down the path to the sties. Then, as he was searching for a place to hide the letter where Ieuan-Bricks-and-Mortar would be unlikely ever to find it, the world went black and he remembered no more – except a vague memory of being thrown across a horse – before waking up, warm, cosy and confused, in the quarry.
It was Henry Harris, secretary to William Ddole, who found him. Henry wore a bag across his shoulders in which he had a number of accounts together with the money to pay them. He was on his way from the printers who had supplied the invitations for Dorothy Ddole’s party when he decided to take a short cut through the quarry to the alehouse.
He heard Kenneth’s cries and, finding him cosy and only slightly harmed, unfastened the ropes that loosely held him, told him to stay where he was, and ran down to fetch Pitcher and Barrass.
Pitcher’s first question was, ‘What happened?’
‘Beaten by robbers after the letters and the money in my bag,’ Kenneth lied. ‘Beat them off I did, mind, and they called for more of their friends and when there were as many as ten, I succumbed and they tied me and carried me here.’
Barrass’s first question was, ‘Kenneth, can I go to Swansea for you and carry back the letters?’
* * *
On Saturday morning, Olwen rose early. The day was cold, with a wind blustering against the windows and rattling the door, threatening to lift the house and blow it and its contents away. She shivered as she washed in the wooden half-cask of icy water and rubbed herself dry before dressing. She put on new socks, a luxury that heralded the start of winter, and put some paper into the thick boots she had inherited from Dan. Two underdresses, of flannel and cotton, 3 thick skirt and woollen jumper, covered with an over-large shawl fastened by a simple brooch, and she was ready.
She had no way of knowing the time; like most houses, theirs depended on the chiming of the church clock to tell the passing of the hours, but up here, high above the village, with the sea dashing on the rocks in a roar of powerful ferocity, the clock could not be heard. The wind, as she opened the door and struggled to close it behind her, took the breath from her and she bent and huddled deeper into the shawl. Cold it might be, but she was not going to miss seeing Barrass off on his first journey to collect the post from Swansea.
The tide was almost full, and the smell of seaweed, disturbed and thrown ashore by the wild waves, was fresh and clean. The light was barely sufficient for her to pick out the path to the village, and gusts of wind threatened to knock her from her feet. She pulled the shawl even tighter, convinced that the edges would act like the wings of a bird and float her over the cliff-edge. She was thankful when the path took her slightly inland to drop down behind the houses leading up from the shore called Fisher Cottages, where Ivor and Winifred Baker lived.
Several houses in the row showed lights as men prepared themselves for a day’s work. From the sound of the sea, angrily slashing at the shore like a furious parent berating a difficult child, she thought few of the boats would leave the bay that day.
The alehouse was in darkness and her heart sank. Surely she had not missed him? She ran to where chairs and benches were stacked up, pushing her way among them to reach the shelter of the porch over which hung the sign of a pitcher, now
creaking in complaint. Shivering, she wondered how long she could wait before giving up hope of seeing Barrass. Then the clock began to rumble preparing to mark the hour, and she crossed her fingers in the sign of the holy cross, offering up a prayer as she counted the chimes. Five. She was not too late, Barrass would set off to the town before six. Then she wondered if Kenneth had refused to hire the horse needed for the twelve-mile journey, forcing Barrass to leave even earlier. Oh dear, why hadn’t she asked him?
* * *
The cold was biting into her thin body and she was unable to stop shivering. She had no idea how long she had been standing there – if the clock had struck she had not been aware of it. Often she missed its chimes, so much a part of her life, even when she listened for it. She was about to give up and return to her bed, the prospect becoming more and more enticing, when the door opened and Barrass stepped out.
‘Olwen!’ he said in surprise, ‘what are you doing here in such weather?’
‘Waiting for you, Barrass. I wanted to wish you luck on the first day of your important new role.’ She patted the red waistcoat he wore, which although too small, seemed to make him larger and older and far far beyond her. ‘Oh, Barrass,’ she sighed, ‘there’s smart and clever and grown up you are. Will I ever catch up with you?’
‘Catch up with me?’ he laughed. ‘Far ahead of me you are, with a family, a home and a good job waiting for you at Ddole House.’
‘I wish I were older, that’s all. Then you’d treat me like you treat those others.’
He was embarrassed, so recently come from Violet Palmer, with the sweet scent of her still surrounding him. He was afraid that she might understand most of what happened between him and ‘those others‘.
Summer’s Last Retreat Page 17