A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  ‘No.’ Alex hung his head. ‘I haven't, I agree.’

  ‘It's such a shame.’ Rebecca sighed. ‘Such a pity that neither you nor Lalage could forgive me for a mere accident of birth.’

  ‘I don't care about that!’ Alex crushed Rebecca's fingers. ‘Rebecca, don't think I'm so small–minded that I hold your illegitimacy against you.’

  ‘Don't you?’

  ‘No! Of course not.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rebecca sniffed. ‘When Ellis announced he was going to marry me, how did you feel about it?’

  ‘I didn't object.’ Alex looked at her, blue eyes wide. ‘When I saw you together, I could see he loved you. Since I love him, I could hardly begrudge him a wife so likely to make him happy. Who would love him in return.’ Alex looked into Rebecca's eyes. ‘Because you do love him, don't you? As much as I love Lally.’

  ‘You still love her? After all she's done?’

  ‘I can't help loving her.’ Alex sighed. ‘She's not Ellis,’ he conceded. ‘She's not the person I love more than my life. But she's almost as dear. She's his living image, you see.’

  ‘But she's nothing like him!’ Rebecca was angry now. ‘How dare you even begin to compare those two? Oh, they may have the same features. The same mannerisms, the same accents — physically, I'll admit, they're complementary faces of the same coin. But inside, they're completely different. No two people could be less alike.’

  ‘Couldn't they?’ Alex sighed. ‘Rebecca, they're both ambitious. Both determined. Both headstrong, both passionate. Both repay being loved.’

  ‘But only one is worth loving!’

  ‘No.’ Alex shook his head. ‘Lally's worth loving, too. As for Ellis — well, he'll be back soon. He won't want to find me here. Rebecca? ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don't hate me. Don't remember me with disgust. After all, you can afford to be generous. You have everything now.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Of course. You have Ellis. One day, your child will be in possession of my old home. The Searles will have their revenge on the Lowells.’ Alex smothered a yawn. ‘I'll have Simmons find me some of Ellis's clothes. Then I'll be off.’

  * * * *

  After a rest which took up the remainder of the morning, Rebecca rang for her maid, put on a servant's red woollen cloak, and went to look at the damage to Easton Hall.

  Coming out from among the trees, she gazed at her home. It didn't look so bad by daylight. The shell was still whole, for the basic structure of the place had proved solid enough to withstand even the fiercest flames.

  It might, she thought, be rebuilt. The inside was badly damaged, certainly — ceilings had caved in, all the elaborate and painstaking plaster–work had crumbled to black dust, and most of the panelling was destroyed — but the interior walls still stood. Solid brick, in places these were two feet thick. As for the stout oak beams, these were merely charred on the outside.

  But, she thought now, Ellis might want the whole thing levelled. Totally obliterated, so a new house might rise phoenix–like, from the ashes of the old.

  Rebecca did not care either way. Her husband was unhurt. That was worth a hundred houses. A thousand. Everything in the world.

  Amidst the general salvage, her maid discovered some trunks full of her mistress's clothes. These had been hauled out practically undamaged. Rebecca had them conveyed to her new lodging. There, she put on a clean cambric shift and a loose calico gown. She had a servant dress and powder her hair. She washed her face and hands. Properly dressed, she felt better. Much more in control.

  By mid–day, the main rooms of the Dower House had been scoured and polished and were ready for the squire's and his lady's occupation. The servants who had previously used these quarters were found lodgings in the village.

  Miraculously, no one had been injured in the blaze. Now, on a bright, sunny afternoon, there was almost an air of holiday about the place. The scavengers picking over the ruins of the Hall went about their work with good– humoured interest and enthusiasm. The combination of novelty without danger lifted everyone's spirits. Some parts of the Hall had escaped damage completely, and into these unaffected rooms whatever could be salvaged was piled high.

  * * * *

  It was mid–afternoon when Ellis finally walked into the Dower House. Dismissing his valet, who had been anxiously awaiting his master's return and had clean clothes all ready, the squire went to find his wife.

  Rebecca had heard him walk in, and now she came running, to lead him to the improvised drawing room. Ellis let her take him where she pleased. Sitting down heavily, he buried his face in his hands.

  Rebecca went to sit on the sofa beside him. ‘Did you see your sister?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she responsible?’

  ‘She planned it all.’ Ellis rubbed his dirty face. ‘Lalage meant to kill you.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I think she's mad.’ Taking his wife's hand, Ellis held it. ‘She's demented. Insane. From now on, I shall oblige Alex to keep her closely confined. If he refuses, I shall have her placed in a private asylum.’

  ‘I talked to Alex.’ Gently, Rebecca stroked Ellis's untidy hair, pushing it back from his forehead. ‘He'll look after her. He said so. He also said I'd have my revenge on the Lowells.’ Rebecca sighed. ‘I don't want revenge!’ she cried. ‘Why should I want revenge?’

  ‘You don't need to take it.’ Turning to his wife, Ellis took her face between his hands. ‘Becky, are you hurt? You and the child — ’

  ‘We're both perfectly well.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Ellis shook his head. ‘I shouldn't have rushed off so hastily,’ he muttered. ‘I know that. But I had to see her! I had to ask — ’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘She thinks she's won.’ Bitterly, Ellis sighed. ‘As far as she's concerned, this is a victory. She's destroyed my home. She's hurt me past understanding. She's spoiled everything for you.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Taking Ellis by the shoulders, Rebecca shook him. ‘Ellis, that's not true. She's won only if we let her win. My dear love, a house can easily be rebuilt. I shall have my baby, and others to keep him company. We can't let this — this setback ruin our own lives.’

  ‘She meant to hurt me. To cut me to the heart. She has.’

  ‘My dear, you're very upset. The shock's made you ill. You can't see things in proportion yet.’ Letting him go, Rebecca took one of Ellis's hands. She held it between her own. But, as she stroked his fingers, she noticed her own were wet. She realised she had opened a cut. ‘That's nasty,’ she observed.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rebecca examined the wound. Used to dealing with cuts, gashes and lacerations, for at the factory hardly a day went by without at least one of the workmen hurting himself, she understood that this gaping slash across Ellis's palm needed prompt attention. ‘Let me wash this,’ she said. ‘Then I'll bind it up.’

  ‘Don't fuss, Becky.’ With dirty fingers, Ellis dabbed at the wound. He grimaced. ‘It'll heal,’ he muttered. ‘Leave it for now.’

  ‘Ellis, left to itself it will fester. Look, it's dirty. It's full of grit and mess. You must let me wash it.’

  ‘Later.’ Ellis pushed the offending hand deep into his breeches pocket. ‘Why?’ he asked, his eyes dark with distress. ‘Why should she want to hurt you?’

  ‘I don't know.’ Helplessly, Rebecca shook her head. ‘But if you grieve for her, if you torment yourself about her, then she will have won. Ellis, dear — do you love me?’

  ‘Of course I love you! If you'd been hurt last night, if you'd been killed, I would have died, too.’

  ‘So there it is. We're both safe. Surely that's enough?’ Rebecca rose to her feet. ‘Aren't you hungry?’ she asked. ‘It must be twenty four hours since you ate.’

  Ellis had forgotten all about food. But now he realised he was ravenous. Starving, in fact. ‘I could eat something,’ he replied. ‘What is there?’

  ‘Roast mutton.
A couple of fowls. A pudding.’ Rebecca smiled. ‘Simmons has worked wonders. Shall we go and eat?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ellis managed a faint smile. ‘Let's.’

  As he broke bread, Ellis glanced at his wife. ‘I've thought what to do,’ he said. ‘I shall instruct my banker to release a quarterly allowance. It will be payable to Alex. With the few thousand he'll get back from the East India Company, they'll be able to live. Becky?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don't speak of them to me. I never want to see or hear of them, ever again.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Where?’ Lalage stared. ‘Where did you say we're going?’

  ‘To South Wales.’ Alex shrugged. ‘It's as good a place as any,’ he went on. ‘Rather cheaper than most. I shall tell Ellis we're going to London. But you and I will go down to Swansea. I shall rent a house there, and — ’

  ‘Keep me locked up for the rest of my life.’ Lalage flashed him a look of utter scorn. ‘Alex, I'd rather die now. Tell Ellis to have a gallows set up in the garden. He can hang me himself.’

  ‘Don't talk like that!’ Alex wanted to weep. ‘Lally, you did a terrible thing. But I still love you. I couldn't live without you. I'll always look after you, I — ’

  ‘Ha!’ Lalage's harsh, barking laugh brought him up short. ‘You'll forgive me too, I expect. I've spoiled everything for you. Yet still you love me. You insist you'll look after me.’

  ‘I'm your husband,’ said Alex, simply. ‘For better or worse — and so on.’

  ‘Alex, you're a saint. Now you're going to be a madwoman's gaoler, too.’ Crazily, Lalage grinned. ‘I am mad, you know. No doubt about it.’

  ‘Oh, darling — ’

  ‘Darling!’ Lalage laughed again. But then she began to cry. ‘Oh, Alex!’ she sobbed. ‘Poor Alex! Don't you deserve a better fate?’

  Alex went to her. Taking her in his arms, he kissed her wet cheeks. ‘You're not mad, darling,’ he whispered. ‘You're troubled in spirit, certainly. You're very upset. But you're not raving. You're still my sweet wife. My Lalage, whom I love best in all the world.’

  ‘After Ellis, of course.’

  ‘Ellis never wants to see either of us again. From now on, you'll be all in all to me.’

  ‘Ah.’ Resigned, Lalage relaxed in his embrace. She said nothing more, but let her mind wander. Softly, Alex talked on, soothing her as if she were a child cheated of a promised treat.

  * * * *

  Swansea, a mean little manufacturing town with nothing whatsoever to offer a woman of Lalage's cultured tastes and high sophistication, appalled even Alex. Generally willing to take an enlightened interest in whatever he found, wherever he found it, he had the insatiable curiosity of the born traveller.

  But even Alex Lowell found nothing to admire amid the acres of squalid tenements. The local metal industries did not interest him. The men who worked in them babbled a language he did not understand.

  Unlike most of the foreign visitors to the town, the Lowells had not come as investors or speculators. Consequently, they were bored. A few days in a disagreeable hotel made Alex determined to find a house of his own, and find it very soon. He must make a pleasant home for himself and Lalage. She must be settled, she must be comfortable, she must be content. Then her recuperation could begin.

  He could not bear Swansea itself, so he resolved to explore the countryside round about.

  The Gower peninsula, a parcel of land to the west of the town, proved to be a pretty place. Driving through green valleys, bowling across broad stretches of common land and skirting wooded hillsides, the Lowells deplored the bad roads but admired the undeniable beauty of the landscape. Arriving at the village of Llangynnydd, they found lodgings for the night. Over supper, Alex asked their landlady if she knew of any houses available for long lets.

  ‘John Rhys Morgan is looking for a tenant. Or so I hear.’ The landlady had set a plain but well–cooked and substantial meal before her guests, and been pleased to see them enjoy it. Now, she smiled. ‘I don't know if his house would suit.’

  ‘It might.’ Alex returned the woman's smile. ‘What kind of house does Mr Morgan have to offer?’

  ‘Oh, a very good one. Excuse me just one moment.’ The landlady went to the door. In rapid Welsh, she rattled off instructions to an unseen servant. Then she returned to her guests. ‘Margiad is making your tea now,’ she said. ‘So. About the house. Well, as I said, it's a good one. A farmhouse. Not a cottage, no indeed! It's a fine, stone–built Gower farmhouse. You'd find nothing better if you walked for a week.’

  ‘Then why does Mr Morgan not live in it himself?’ Breaking a silence which had lasted all through supper, Lalage fixed the Welshwoman with a sharp, suspicious stare. ‘Well, Mrs Gethyn? If it's such a splendid place?’

  ‘It's far too big for him, that's why.’ The landlady was finding this conversation rather a strain. English was such a strange, such a difficult language. Although she had learned it during her days in service and spoken it with some fluency then, she'd never felt really at ease with the Saxon tongue.

  But now she made a big effort. She sat down between her guests. ‘He's a single man, see,’ she said. ‘As a boy, he was a bit wild. Never settled to anything. But then, a year or two ago, his father passed away. He inherited some land. His mother? Oh, she died when he was a child.’

  Mrs Gethyn sighed, as if pitying John Rhys Morgan's orphaned state. ‘Old Huw Morgan lived in style,’ she continued. ‘Kept servants. Entertained, he did. But John Rhys — well, he doesn't go in for any of that. Doesn't want the expense of keeping up a large house.

  ‘He's quite happy in a little cottage. Out in the fields all day, so he is. Why'd he want to come home to a great empty place like that farmhouse there?’

  ‘Might he not marry?’ asked Alex. ‘If he had a wife and children, he'd need a substantial home.’

  ‘I really don't know about that.’ Rising to her feet, Mrs Gethyn began to clear away the dishes. ‘It's a fine house,’ she repeated, with emphasis. ‘You'd be wise to look it over.’

  * * * *

  Lalage thumped her feather pillows, then buried her face in the hollow she'd made there. ‘So you're going to shut me up in a filthy little slum of a farmhouse,’ she muttered. ‘I'm to be locked away in a fine, stone–built prison.’

  She lifted her head and glared. ‘It sounds just the place to keep a lunatic confined.’

  ‘I'm merely going to see what Mr Morgan has to offer.’ Climbing into the high, elaborately carved tester bed, Alex lay down beside her. ‘I'm becoming rather tired of all this talk about locking you up,’ he added, mildly. ‘We'll go and see Mr Morgan. We'll look at his house. If it pleases us, we'll come to some arrangement.’

  ‘If it pleases us?’

  ‘Of course, Lally.’ Alex sighed. ‘I wouldn't want you to live in a place you disliked.’

  ‘No?’ Lalage scowled at him. ‘As if I have any choice in the matter.’

  * * * *

  As Mrs Gethyn had promised, the house was indeed fine. A perfect example of the best sort of Gower farmhouse, it was solidly built of dark grey stone. With walls which were, in places, three feet thick, it looked capable of withstanding all the punishment Atlantic gales could ever throw at it. Small windows, the biggest no more than three feet by three, together with a substantial thatched roof, increased the aura of general impregnability.

  ‘Well, Mr Lowell?’ A dark–haired, well–built young Welshman of twenty five or so, John Rhys Morgan had the direct, searching gaze of the experienced stockman. He met Alex's eyes. ‘What do you think?’ he asked now. ‘Will you wish to see inside?’

  ‘I'm not sure.’ Largely unimpressed, but not keen to stand around for much longer in the penetrating Welsh rain, Alex thought about it. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Morgan,’ he replied firmly. ‘I think we would.’

  Shut up for the past twelve months at least, the house smelled airless and musty. Unused. But there was also a faint fragrance of herbs and lavender and, mo
re to the point, no suspicion whatever of damp or rot.

  Downstairs, there was an abundance of dark–stained, solid furniture. In the great, square kitchen, a table, chairs and settles were placed confidently on thick, rush matting. Cupboard beds lined the walls, and upon these little cots lay intricately–worked quilts — the handiwork, Alex guessed, of whole generations of Morgan women, whose nimble fingers had beguiled the tedious winter evenings by stitching these domestic works of art.

  ‘Furnished, you see.’ Opening a shutter, the farmer let clear daylight flood the room. It illuminated a wide hearth, stone–flagged floor, and plenty of old–fashioned kitchen–ware. It lit up the great carved blanket–press which lurked in the chimney corner, and revealed the huge dresser in an alcove probably built specially to accomodate it.

  Tapping the oak table in the centre of the room, the Welshman nodded complacently. ‘Old stuff,’ he admitted. ‘But good.’ This was the extent of his recommendation. Here was another native Welsh speaker obviously ill at ease with the language of the Saxon overlords.

  Politely agreeing that the furniture was splendid — for although he deplored its old–fashioned lines, he could appreciate its quality — Alex glanced round once more. Then, satisfied, he smiled. ‘May we see upstairs?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’ The farmer opened the door to the staircase. ‘You go on up. Have a good look round. Take your time.’

  Upstairs, the rooms were large and high–ceilinged — or rather, they were without ceilings as such, for the great wooden beams supporting the roof were exposed, and there was no loft. But the underthatch was completely weatherproof, security against the worst of storms. On this rainy day, the decoratively–woven rope mats which lay behind the rafters were as dry as dust.

  Accustomed to rooms which had elaborate plastered ceilings, Lalage looked up at the thatching. She scowled in disgust. Turning on her heel, she made her way down the stairs. Observing her grimace, the farmer opened another door. ‘Will you look at the parlour?’ he asked.