A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  ‘That's the price you must pay for being in the vanguard of change.’ Ellis shrugged. ‘You won't lose in the end, will you?’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Shaking her head, Rebecca sighed. ‘But if only I'd been more circumspect! If I'd thought it through, and realised what could go wrong — ’

  ‘Don't fret about it,’ said Ellis, kindly. ‘Mechanisation had to come some day. Now you can say, I saw the way things were going. I was a pioneer.’

  ‘I can also say, I listened to an old woman who'd had no youth. Who, since her father died, has behaved like an unbroken colt. Who talked me into innovation for innovation's sake.’ Rebecca sighed again. Then, firmly, she changed the subject. ‘Ellis, are you well enough for a jaunt?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you?’ Ellis looked pointedly at Rebecca's belly, hugely distended with her second pregnancy. ‘When is the baby due?’

  ‘Not for months yet.’

  ‘Rebecca!’

  ‘Not for five or six weeks, anyway.’ Caught out, Rebecca laughed. ‘My dear Ellis! There must be midwives in Wales.’

  ‘Yes, there must. Well, perhaps we could go away for a few days. If that's what you want.’ Ellis glanced out of the window. ‘The weather's a little better now.’

  ‘Quite.’ Taking his hand, Rebecca kissed him. ‘Today, it's bright. Next week, I predict the sun will shine!’

  But the fine weather did not last. Spring that year was so dismal and cold that the trip was postponed once, twice, a third time. By the time the warmer weather did eventually arrive, Rebecca's pregnancy was so far advanced that to travel would have been foolish.

  Delivered of a second daughter on the first day of June, by early September Rebecca realised she was pregnant yet again. ‘A son this time,’ she promised Ellis, as they lay in bed that warm, summer night. ‘A boy, to take after you.’

  ‘Just the one?’ Ellis looked at her. ‘It's showing already,’ he observed. ‘I think you'll be brought to bed of twins. Triplets, even. My dear Becky, if you go on at this rate, we'll have a cricket team by the time you're thirty. Plus reserves.’

  ‘Maybe we will.’ Lying on her back, Rebecca stretched luxuriously. Then, taking her husband's hand, she laid it on her belly. ‘Ellis?’

  Obligingly, Ellis massaged her. ‘I love you when you're pregnant,’ he murmured, as he rubbed.

  ‘Only when I'm pregnant?’

  ‘No. I've loved you since the day I met you. You know that.’ Ellis kissed her. ‘But when you're with child, I love you even more.’

  ‘That's nice.’ Complacently, Rebecca smiled. She enjoyed being pregnant. Being soft and fat and milky suited her. Now, lying against Ellis in her wide, warm bed, she sighed. ‘He is growing fast,’ she agreed. ‘Perhaps I'm further on than I thought. Soon, you'll have an heir.’

  ‘I'd quite like another girl, I think.’ Reassuringly, Ellis patted the child. ‘Daughters — your daughters, anyway — are as welcome in this house as any son could be.’

  ‘All the same, this child will be a boy.’ Rebecca kissed him. ‘Your colour's healthier these days,’ she observed. ‘You seem to have more energy, too. Dear Ellis — I think you're actually getting better.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rebecca kissed him again. But now, her arms were around his neck, and her kiss was one of desire.

  * * * *

  Gradually, Easton Hall was restored. Slowly, painstakingly, it was becoming a house again. One day, it would be a home.

  But it was a long–drawn–out, wearisome process. The Darrows lived in the Dower House for one year, two years. These stretched into a third.

  Sometimes, Ellis lost heart. ‘Is it really worth it?’ he asked one winter morning, as he turned over yet another stack of bills. ‘Sometimes, I think we must be mad.’

  ‘Don't be absurd.’ Fiercely, Rebecca glared at him. ‘Of course it's worth it,’ she cried. ‘Absolutely! Every brass farthing is well spent.’

  For it was Rebecca who had insisted the Hall be rebuilt. When Ellis was too ill and sick at heart to care if he lived or died, she had hired labour, set her own craftsmen to work and supervised the jobbing builders. Willingly, she had pledged a large percentage of the profits from the manufactory to pay for the work.

  Ellis wished he had her faith. Her determination. ‘But I'm younger than you are,’ she said, when he remarked on her amazing energy, her boundless optimism, her unbreakable spirit. ‘I haven't been ill, either.’

  ‘It's not just that.’ Ellis took her hand. He felt for the pulse. ‘Ah, now here's the secret,’ he said. ‘Electric current. How could it be tapped, I wonder? We have steam today. Tomorrow, will electricity power the world?’

  ‘You do talk nonsense.’ Rebecca pulled her hand away. ‘Please don't mention steam power to me. Last week, the wretched engine broke down again. Lyddy had three men working on it for five days, and it's still not right. I hate to think what we've lost in production and labour costs.’

  Ellis shrugged. ‘We'll get a new engine,’ he said. ‘A bigger, better one.’

  ‘We can't afford it.’

  ‘We'll raise credit.’ Ellis grinned. ‘I'll speak to Mr Harris tomorrow. We'll ask his advice.’

  Rebecca stared. Here was a change indeed.

  Over the next few months, Ellis grew more positive still. More physically active, too. Formerly indifferent to just about everything, he enquired into the running of the estate. He visited the manufactory. He argued with his wife. He found fault and grumbled, as well.

  Rebecca came down to breakfast one morning to find him tearing open his post with as much dispatch and interest as he ever had in former days. Scanning one particular letter, he scowled. Anger, as opposed to mere irritation, was something she had not seen on his face for months. For years. So now, intrigued, she looked at him. ‘Well, my dear Ellis?’ she began. ‘What's upset you?’

  ‘That!’ He tossed the letter across the table. Taking a bread roll, he reduced it to crumbs. ‘The insolence of the man! He supposes that because I have been ill, he may take what liberties he pleases. May ask any favour. Nay, may demand — ’

  Word failed him. He was reduced to grinding his teeth in rage.

  Rebecca read the letter through. ‘Ah,’ she murmured. ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you?’ Ellis glared. ‘He says I must reduce his rent. Let him off the last few repayments of a loan, which was advanced in good faith, to buy in stock last spring. He says he has lost heavily over the winter. That unless I give him better terms — ’

  Reaching for his cup, Ellis gulped down a mouthful of scalding coffee. ‘I say we evict him. Today!’

  ‘Do you, indeed?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ellis jumped to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘To see Robbins.’ Snatching the letter back, Ellis crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket. Turning on his heel, he stumped out of the room.

  Momentarily, Rebecca considered calling him back. Insisting he drink his coffee, eat some breakfast. But then she reflected it might be salutary for Henry Robbins, the Easton land agent, to see his master in a rage today.

  For the agent, together with the other servants, had grown slack. In spite of Rebecca's efforts to keep them in line, they had fallen into lazy, slovenly ways. Had learned to cut corners. In one way or another, they all shirked their responsibilities, because they weren't afraid of Ellis any more.

  Rebecca poured herself more coffee and buttered herself some toast.

  ‘Simmons!’ Ellis's voice echoed down the passage. ‘Simmons! Damn you, man! Where the hell are you? Where are my God–damned boots?’

  Ruefully, Rebecca smiled. She'd never have thought the day would dawn when she would be delighted to hear her husband swear, or take the name of the Lord in vain.

  * * * *

  Everyone in the village agreed. An enchantment hung over Llangynnydd. The fine English lady whose haughty expression and insolent manner had made all the villagers hate her, had vanished in a
puff of smoke. To fill her place, some genie had created a plain, ordinary dairy farmer's wife.

  Lalage loved her dairy. This in turn endeared her to Bethan, who had confidently expected her master's new wife to disdain such lowly tasks as milking and managing the little creamery next door to the beast–house, which Bethan considered her own.

  ‘That's not for the likes of you,’ she had declared that first morning, as she watched Lalage try, and fail, to skim the cream from a pan of new milk. ‘Out of the way, now. Let me.’

  Offended, but curious, Lalage did as she was told. Standing aside she watched closely while Bethan, skilled and deft–handed, demonstrated the mysteries of skimming, churning and straining through butter–muslin. While she took her new mistress step by step through those very tasks which Ellis had watched Lyddy Searle perform, all those years ago.

  Soon enough, with sleeves rolled to the elbows and her hair tucked beneath a muslin cap, Lalage was making cheese, churning butter, and expertly separating curds from whey. Contented and fulfilled, she toiled in her dairy from dawn to dusk.

  ‘Don't work too hard, girl.’ Coming into the dairy one evening to fetch a jug of cream, Bethan was amazed to find her mistress still busy. ‘Come on, now,’ she scolded. ‘Enough is enough. What are you doing? Brining, is it? Let me finish for you, eh?’

  ‘Very well.’ Pushing a stray lock of hair off her forehead, Lalage stood to one side.

  Bethan took the heavy salting–pan from its shelf. ‘You must remember your little one now,’ she admonished, as she worked. ‘If you was to miscarry, think how upset poor John Rhys would be.’

  ‘I should be miserable, too.’ Weary now, Lalage sat down on a dairy–maid's stool. ‘Bethan, when you've finished that, will you make me some tea? I've such a thirst on me today.’

  ‘I'll make you all the tea you can drink.’ Bethan grinned, revealing perfect countrywoman's teeth. ‘Get off home with you now. Sit by the fire. I'll be along in ten minutes, no more.’

  * * * *

  As Lalage drank her tea, she gazed into the red heart of the kitchen fire. How comfortable she was. How warm, and happy. ‘Bethan,’ she began, ‘have you seen Betty today?’

  ‘Seen her just half an hour ago. Off up the village, she was. After William Parry.’

  ‘William?’ Lalage frowned. ‘What does she want with him?’

  ‘I wouldn't like to say. Not in respectable company like this.’ Smirking, Bethan trimmed the crust on her pie. ‘But I reckon she'll be Mrs Parry pretty soon now. Well before next Whitsuntide, at any rate.’

  ‘She'll never leave me.’ Horrified, Lalage stared. ‘Bethan, you're a wicked liar! Betty would never even dream of marrying, unless I gave her leave.’

  ‘No? Kissing and muttering in the lane last night, they were. Where he had his hands, I don't know. But I'm sure it was somewhere nice and warm.’ Bethan put her pie into the oven. ‘Poor Mrs High and Mighty. Your Betty don't take notice of you no more.’

  But now, seeing Lalage was on the verge of tears, Bethan stopped teasing and went to sit beside her. ‘Don't mind me,’ she said, gently. ‘Don't let an old woman's gossip make you cry.’

  ‘But Bethan, if Betty leaves me, it will break my heart! Does she really like William Parry?’ Lalage sniffed and gulped. Soon, the tears would flow. ‘Oh Bethan!’ she wailed. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Don't be so silly.’ Bethan took Lalage's hand. ‘So Betty marries William. What of it? Why should you care? John Rhys loves you like his own soul. Half the women in Wales would give their eye teeth to be you.’

  ‘Would they, Bethan?’ Lalage sniffed again. She knuckled her eyes. ‘You think he really loves me?’

  ‘I'm certain of it. Listen to me, your ladyship. I've nursed him from a baby, so I should know. He adores you. He'd die for you.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Jesus and Mary, girl! I know it.’ Bethan grew solemn then. ‘Don't cross him, will you?’ she whispered. ‘Don't let him down. He's not a man anyone should choose for their enemy. I'd pity the woman who deceived him, from the bottom of my heart.’

  Chapter 24

  ‘He does very well, doesn't he? Considering everything, that is.’ Busy in her dairy, Lalage was wrapping fat, yellow cheeses in muslin. Turning to Bethan, she smiled. ‘What I mean,’ she went on, ‘is that all the other farmers and shepherds round here scrimp, bodge and starve the whole year long. But John Rhys contrives to make a good profit from his land.’

  ‘What?’ Bethan was admiring the cheeses. ‘Oh — yes,’ she agreed, absently. ‘He doesn't do too bad.’

  ‘He's a good manager, that's why.’

  ‘If you like to say so.’ Bethan grinned. She eyed Lalage. ‘You look like a proper Welshwoman today,’ she said. ‘Time you got your tongue around the language, too. Learn to speak like a farmer's wife. After all, you're not a fine lady now. You don't even look like Mrs High and Mighty no more.’

  ‘No, I suppose I don't.’ Clad in a light cotton shift and striped calico gown, today Lalage was also wearing one of Bethan's enormous, white aprons. She laughed. ‘But as you say, I'm a farmer's wife now. Bethan?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where is John Rhys today? He said he had to go over to Oxwich, but he didn't tell me why. Or for how long.’

  ‘Oh, he'll have gone to see old Mr Atkins.’ Bethan gave the biggest cheese a maternal pat. ‘You know. Jack Atkins, the Englishman. Him as owns that big house on the headland.’

  ‘I know.’ Nevertheless, Lalage was puzzled. ‘Why's John Rhys gone to see him?’

  ‘They're expecting a ship. So, there's things to be done. Arrangements to be made.’ Realising her mistress had no idea what she was talking about, Bethan Davies grinned. ‘You mean to say he hasn't explained about Jack Atkins? You don't know nothing about all that?’

  ‘No.’ Lalage took down another cheese. ‘So now you can tell me. What's going on?’

  ‘Ah, now there's a story! If I had an hour or two to spare, I could — ’

  ‘Bethan, you're an irritating old woman!’ Lalage stamped her foot. ‘Tell me what Jack Atkins has to do with us.’

  ‘Like I say, that would take half the morning.’

  ‘Just make a start, then.’ Lalage fixed Bethan with a gimlet glare. ‘Well?’

  ‘No peace for the wicked, eh?’ Still grinning, Bethan sat down on a three–legged stool. ‘You say John Rhys does well at farming,’ she began. ‘Well, that's true enough. But he doesn't just farm the land. Oh, no. He farms the sea, as well.’

  ‘So that's where he goes.’ Lalage shook her head. Ever since they'd been married, she had noticed that once in a while her husband stole from her bed. While the village slept, he shrugged on his clothes, let himself out of the farmhouse, and walked off down the lane.

  She'd been so afraid he had another woman that she'd never dared ask him where he went. Or what he did. Now, relief made her glow. ‘He's a fisherman!’ she cried.

  ‘He is indeed.’ Bethan laughed. ‘He nets tea, coffee, brandy, wine. These days, there's excellent French brandy to be had. Casks of fine sherry, as well.’

  ‘Sherry wine?’ Lalage's relief was very short– lived. Now, she grew pale. Her hands trembled. ‘You're telling me he's a smuggler?’ she whispered.

  ‘He's a trader!’ Bethan stood up. Impressively, she frowned. ‘Now,’ she rapped, ‘just you listen to me. John Rhys and Jack Atkins do things properly. Do you understand? They know the right people. They know who to trust.

  ‘So, they're not going to commit murder and outrage. They're not going to bring half the redcoats in the country down here, burning, destroying and killing for the fun of it. No, indeed. What John Rhys does is all regular. He and Jack Atkins — ’

  ‘Are middlemen. They bribe the Excise. That's an expensive game, I'll be bound.’ Still shaking, Lalage felt tears well up inside her eyes. ‘You say they're traders. They're nothing of the kind. They're criminals!’

  ‘Don't dare to talk like that!’ Taking Lalage
by the shoulders, Bethan held her. ‘Your man's no criminal!’ she cried. ‘There's no bloodshed. No violence. The excisemen on this coast know their business, it's true. But John Rhys knows his. He knows it well.’

  ‘He's still breaking the law!’ Her eyes wide, Lalage was actually weeping now. ‘If he were taken, he'd hang. Oh, Bethan — ’

  ‘Hush, hush.’ Derisively, Bethan sniffed. ‘Shouldn't have said anything to you,’ she muttered. ‘Might have known you would take a fit. Have you finished wrapping those cheeses?’

  ‘Yes, but — ’

  ‘Don't pick them up. They're too heavy. Betty can pack them later.’ With that, Bethan strode out of the dairy, leaving Lalage alone. To think.

  * * * *

  ‘I was chatting with Bethan today,’ said Lalage, as she and John Rhys walked on the Burrows that evening. ‘She tells me that in addition to being a farmer, you have other interests too.’

  ‘Have I, indeed?’ John Rhys grinned. ‘Well, she's right. I'm a landlord. I own half a dozen cottages, I let some grazing — ’

  ‘You're a smuggler! You deal in contraband and prohibited goods!’

  ‘I do, do I?’ John Rhys Morgan's grin did not falter. ‘Bethan told you all about it, eh?’

  ‘Yes, she did!’ Lalage's dark eyes flashed. But then, sighing, she shook her head. ‘You are careful, aren't you?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, John! If you were taken — ’

  ‘I'd hang. You think I don't know that?’ The farmer pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘My dear Lali, don't fret. There's not a man anywhere on Gower who'd inform on me.’

  ‘Isn't there?’ Unconvinced, Lalage looked at him. ‘Don't be so sure. If there were a reward, they might.’

  ‘There's no price on my head, girl!’ John Rhys Morgan laughed. ‘Oh, my poor Lali, don't worry about me. My men know their master. They also know they'd gain nothing by betraying me, for they'd betray themselves as well.