Spinner's Wharf

by Spinner's Wharf (retail) (epub)

  ‘I doubt that.’ Rhian removed her hand from his and sat on the sea wall, tucking her fingers beneath her skirts, sitting on them – he wondered if this was to stop him from taking her hand in his once more.

  ‘What brought you home, Rhian?’ he asked quietly. ‘I doubt if it was my baby blue eyes. In fact, I doubt if you even gave me a thought all the time you were away.’

  ‘There’s nasty you are, Heath Jenkins.’ Rhian smiled enigmatically. ‘I haven’t asked you how many girls you’ve taken up to Ram’s Tor in the past two years, have I?’

  ‘Only because you know I’ll lie through my teeth.’ He rested his arm around her shoulder and could feel her withdrawal even though she scarcely moved. She sighed heavily and her face was grave as she looked up at him.

  ‘I came home to see Auntie. She’s telling me she’s going to die – now what do you do with an old lady like that who has a will of iron?’

  He hardly heard her words, he was totally captured by the beauty of her eyes, the fine cheekbones and full lips. She was a desirable woman and he could not believe that some man hadn’t made advances to her during the past two years.

  ‘Auntie Agnes will live for ever,’ he said abstractedly. ‘Tell me the truth, Rhian – has there been anyone else since you’ve been away?’

  She lifted her chin and her eyes were suddenly cold. ‘You’ve no right to ask anything of me, Heath,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t have to answer to you or to anyone else and I’ll thank you to remember that.’ Her shoulders relaxed a little and she sighed, shaking her head. ‘But don’t worry, no man’s promised me his undying love and devotion. I’m the same Rhian Gray who left Sweyn’s Eye, more’s the pity.’

  ‘You were waiting for me,’ he said gently. ‘We were meant for each other, Rhian. I’ll show you what real love is all about and make you happy to be a woman; it’s time, past time, that you learned about a man’s passion.’

  Rhian rose to her feet and stared down at him with a haunted expression on her face and he cursed himself for his clumsiness.

  ‘Just don’t say any more, not now, Heath. I must be getting home. Carrie will be growing anxious – she can’t leave Auntie alone, you see, and I told her I was going out for a breath of air.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you. Now don’t go making a fuss, let’s just be friends the way we always were, that’s a good enough start for me.’

  The day was sultry, airless and Rhian untied the ribbons of her bonnet, letting it trail; it hung halfway down her back, the calico stiff and unyielding.

  ‘It looks as if you’ve developed a hump!’ Heath couldn’t keep the laughter from his voice and Rhian turned and kicked out at him playfully.

  ‘Making fun of me now, is it? Well, you just watch yourself, Heath Jenkins. You’re not too big to get a clout around the ear, mind!’

  They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence and Heath, trying to match his long stride with Rhian’s dainty footsteps, felt as though he was suddenly ten feet tall.

  * * *

  As the summer days passed slowly, Rhian found that Agnes became steadily weaker. She had called out the doctor, but old Bryn Thomas had told her quietly that there was nothing he could do.

  ‘She’s an old and frail lady,’ his tone had been hushed, ‘and if she wants to depart this world, my dear, then nothing on God’s earth will prevent her. I’ve seen it happen many times before.’

  Rhian had been impatiently angry, but there was no point in venting her feelings on the doctor. If Agnes refused to eat – and she did – there was nothing he could do. Rhian pleaded and coaxed and at last quarrelled with her auntie, telling Agnes that she was selfish and uncaring, but none of it weakened her aunt’s resolve.

  ‘I’ve had my day and now it’s over. I want to go, Rhian – let me die in peace, I beg of you.’ Her voice was gossamer, her breathing ragged. Defeated, Rhian turned away, hiding her tears.

  ‘Oh, Auntie, I can’t bear it when you talk like that,’ she said unevenly.

  She was relieved to hear the familiar knocking on the door and with a quick look at Agnes, who smiled encouragingly, she hurried downstairs thankful to Heath for his constancy. He had come to sit with Rhian most evenings and she found that she was comforted by his presence, fearing to be alone, dreading the moment which must surely come when her aunt finally relinquished her feeble hold on life.

  ‘There’s tears in your eyes,’ Heath said, putting his arm around her shoulders. ‘I wish there was more I could do, cariad.’ He took her hand, touching her fingertips, studying each nail as though it was a precious pearl. Rhian was touched by his devotion even though she couldn’t return it, and she smiled, pushing a curl of hair from his brow.

  He was a handsome man, tall and slim but with good shoulders and the strength that came from working the tinplate. His face was strong, his eyes clear.

  ‘You’re doing just what I want you to do, keeping me company.’

  She moved away from him, her movements brisk. ‘You’re not growing soft now that you’re a manager, are you?’ she asked gently and Heath leaned towards her, his eyes saying the things she had forbidden him to speak.

  ‘Soft where you’re concerned, Rhian. I wish…’ He stopped speaking as Rhian put her hand over his lips.

  A small sound from upstairs alerted her and with a quick, frightened look at Heath, she hurried along the passageway.

  ‘I’m coming, Auntie,’ she called, hearing the breathless panic in her voice. In trepidation she ran upstairs and entered the bedroom, her heart racing. Aunt Agnes was leaning against the pillows, her eyes more clear than they had been for days. There was even a little colour in her cheeks.

  ‘Auntie, I was so frightened.’ Rhian sat at the side of the bed and Heath stood over her protectively. Agnes reached out a thin hand and clung to Rhian’s arm and it was clear she was trying to speak.

  ‘What is it, Auntie?’ Rhian could feel her aunt’s strength draining away and knew suddenly that she had been fooled by appearances and that Agnes was trying to say goodbye. The lips moved, the voice whispery and barely audible, and Rhian leaned closer. ‘It’s the house, girl. It’s no longer mine, I’ve nothing to leave you and there’s sorry I am. Thought you’d stay in England, I did. Oh, Rhian, what have I done?’

  She closed her eyes wearily and it was clear that the effort to speak had taken what little strength she had.

  ‘Please, don’t die, Auntie Agnes,’ Rhian said, closing her eyes in pain, telling herself that it was all a horrible nightmare. She looked down at her aunt’s closed lids; they were shadowed violet, the lashes long and unusually full, curling on the parchment skin.

  There was a sudden silence in the room, an unearthly stillness. Rhian stared at the pallid face of her aunt, unwilling to believe what her mind was telling her.

  ‘Come away, Rhian, cariad, she’s gone.’ Heath drew her to her feet. ‘Let me take you downstairs. I’ll see to everything and get the nurse. Mrs Benson will know what must be done.’

  Rhian had lost her bearings and she obeyed Heath blindly, grateful for his protective arm supporting her. She clung to the strength of him as he led her down the stairs and paused in the passageway, steadying herself, taking deep breaths of the dreamy summer air drifting in from the open door.

  With sudden cruel clarity, she realised that she belonged nowhere; she had no home, no roots in the town where she had grown up. Fear for the future for a moment superseded even her grief. Her mind cried out a name – Mansel Jack – and with a flash of insight she realised that she ached to feel his arms around her, holding her, comforting her with his unfaltering strength.

  The realisation brought fresh anguish and Rhian shuddered with hopelessness. Disengaging herself from Heath’s gentle hands, she turned and walked heavily into the kitchen, the silence of the house pressing around her and feeling inside nothing but a cold emptiness.

  Chapter Two

  The air was soft, the early morning mists like jewels on the grass. The sound o
f Sunday church bells began to peal out over the English countryside, a harmonious reminder that it was time to begin the day for, as yet, the war had not touched the rolling Yorkshire hills.

  Mansel Jack rose from his bed in one swift movement, pushing aside the patchwork quilt and heavy woollen blankets, standing birthday-naked in the chill of the morning. He dressed as he did everything – with smooth, unhurried efficiency, buttoning his waistcoat over the crisp linen shirt. His suit was of good woollen cloth, dark and neat, and as he saw himself in the mirror over the washstand he felt he looked nothing like his thirty-seven years.

  His sister was downstairs before him, as was her custom, organising a hearty cooked breakfast of devilled kidneys and salt lean bacon. She looked up at him fondly as he entered the dining room and a sudden frown creased her brow.

  ‘You’re dressed to go out!’ Her mouth fell open in astonishment. ‘Haven’t suddenly got religion, have you?’

  He smiled without humour and seated himself at the table as Lizzie brought in the tea tray. The young maid’s eyes were downcast; she looked sleepy and heavy-eyed, although she must have been out of her bed for more than an hour.

  Doreen sat at the table and lifted the heavy silver teapot and Mansel Jack smiled inwardly. His sister liked to have fine possessions around her, enjoyed playing the gracious lady. Anyone would think she had been born to it!

  Their origins had been humble by any standards. Mansel Jack senior had been a scholar, making a meagre living at tutoring the children of the gentry. Sometimes, Doreen and Mansel Jack were taken along to the big houses, left to while away the time in elegant but chilly hallways, and it was from these visits that Doreen had found her taste for another way of life.

  Fortuitously and not by luck alone, Doreen had married into money. Young and beautiful and with a gift for absorbing facts and presenting them intelligently, folk took her for a scholar like her father, but in reality Doreen had only a spurious intelligence. It had been a release for her when her elderly husband died and she had wasted no time in returning to her home.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Doreen said softly now. ‘Thinking about the past, by the look in your eyes.’ She smiled warmly. ‘I’m glad we were able to help each other after Mammy and Daddy passed on.’

  Mansel Jack hated euphemisms, but he put down his napkin and refrained from correcting his sister.

  ‘Aye, lass, with your husband’s money and my know-how we’ve made something of ourselves, haven’t we?’

  Doreen looked down at her hands. Mansel Jack was her life, the only living being she cared about. She was more than a little in awe of him, for he had a quality of hardness in him that made her feel no one, not even she, dare stand in his way. But then he had needed to be hard to survive in the world of commerce. She thought of the success of her little plan for him and smiled. She must be very careful and he must never be allowed to feel she had manipulated him, yet Charlotte Bradley was such a catch for him!

  It had been a wonderful day for Doreen when her brother had become engaged to Charlotte, for the girl’s family had a very high position in the county. Not only was she every inch a lady, full of character and verve, but more importantly Doreen felt that a marriage between Charlotte and Mansel Jack would raise their stock considerably.

  Mansel Jack rose to his feet, shaking his head at Doreen; she was daydreaming again and that look meant she was probably trying to make him do something he had no wish to do. He smiled inwardly, for she had very little chance of success. He was quite aware of her machinations where Charlotte was concerned; Doreen fondly imagined she had brought them together, but in reality Mansel Jack had intended to propose to Charlotte anyway. The girl had breeding and strength of character and he admired her greatly; she would make an excellent wife.

  When he left the house, he decided to walk the short distance to the cluster of buildings clinging low on the riverbank where his mill was situated. He paused for a moment on a ridge, looking back at the tall elegant building he now called home and feeling the sweet thrill of achievement.

  The house was not large by some standards, but it was built of solid stone. Its rooms were high-ceilinged, cool in summer and warmed by fires in huge grates in the winter. It was a symbol of what he had worked for all these years since he was nothing but a young lad.

  As he climbed the steep rise, he acknowledged that it was the injection of Doreen’s money which had built the mill into the thriving business it was today, but he would have succeeded anyway – it might just have taken a little longer.

  He began to stride out, his long legs covering the uneven ground quickly. The row of cottages where his workers lived was in sight now, lying flat beneath a ridge and curving along the line of the narrow road. The doors were built low, the windows of the upper storey so near that Mansel Jack could touch them if he so wished.

  On an impulse, he rapped loudly on one of the small doors and it was opened almost immediately.

  ‘Morning, sir. Come on in, though the fire’s not lit yet.’ The woman was flustered as she backed away to allow him entry.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Fisher, I just want to know why Rhian Gray hasn’t been at work these last few days. Is she sick?’

  She pursed her lips, peering up at him with faded blue eyes – as though afraid he might bite, Mansel Jack thought in irritation.

  ‘Rhian Gray, she’s gone,’ Mrs Fisher said slowly. She backed along the narrow passageway and flung open a door. ‘See for yourself, sir, she’s not here no longer.’

  Mansel Jack could hardly conceal his surprise as he stared into the bare, impersonal room that was innocent of any trappings of habitation. He turned to Mrs Fisher, impatient at her slowness.

  ‘Do you know where she’s gone and why?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Surely she didn’t just vanish off the face of the earth – she left an address, I imagine?’

  The woman made no reply; she simply stared at him dully.

  ‘Think, Mrs Fisher! What did she say when she paid you her rent, she must have told you something?’

  ‘Her auntie took sick, Rhian said she must go home to see her.’ Mrs Fisher’s forehead was a patchwork of lines as she struggled with her memory. ‘Sweyn’s Eye, that’s the name of the town, sounds an outlandish place and I don’t know owt else about her.’

  As he stood in the narrow dingy passageway, Mansel Jack thrust his hands into his pockets, wondering at the sense of dismay he was feeling. He could talk to Rhian Gray, he had admired her quickness of wit and the sparkling intelligence that lit up her eyes, animating the delicate features whenever she spoke of the weaving which had become part of her life. He would miss her and the knowledge came as a surprise to him.

  * * *

  Warm soft breezes drifted in from the calm crystalline sea that lapped at the shore with the delicacy of a kitten’s tongue. Fruit began to thrive among the rich foliage of the trees on the hills to the west of Sweyn’s Eye and the summer days were breathless.

  But Rhian saw none of it; she was closeted indoors behind curtained windows, for the sun had no place in a house where the spectre of death stalked the rooms. Her mind was still clouded and her entire being seemed to ache. It pained her so much to think of the nightmare events of the day her aunt had died, yet the memories crowded in at every unguarded moment.

  Rhian still found it difficult to believe that the house that she had looked upon as home ever since her childhood was no longer hers. Aunt Agnes had believed – and with some justification – that she would remain in England. And yet, to let her house go must have cost her a great deal and Rhian punished herself with the thought that had she been closer, in spirit as well as in flesh, her aunt might have confided in her.

  And now she was homeless and, worse, without direction. She could return to England to the mill where Mansel Jack was, but every instinct warned her against such a move. She rubbed her hand across her eyes, weary of thinking futile thoughts while over all like a black bird of prey hovered the loss of Aunt Agnes who had
seemed so indestructible.

  The days had seemed to pass in a cloud of unreality and when Rhian walked trembling up the stairs to pay her last respects before the coffin lid was closed, she could not believe that the strangely set features, coloured with all the undertaker’s skill, were those of her beloved aunt.

  She felt a sense of loss that was more than grief. Part of her life had vanished – the childhood days when she and Billy had played together, secure beneath Agnes’s iron will laced with the gruff kindliness that was the order of their days. And where was her brother now, when she most needed him?

  After the first few hours she shed few tears; they solved nothing – Rhian had learned that lesson a long time ago. Crying merely exhausted, drained the will. Yet the days until the funeral seemed to drag interminably.

  The service was simple as Aunt Agnes would have wished. She was interred beneath the soil of Dan y Graig cemetery, ashes to ashes, dust to dust – the words ringing in Rhian’s mind had no meaning.

  ‘Come on home, merchi.’ Carrie was at Rhian’s side, drawing her from the flower-strewn grave and away down past the gracious Richardson vault where the rich were laid to rest. The sun dipped, clouds slid over the skies and a swift shower sent the mourners hurrying from the graveyard.

  Rhian had not wished for the traditional Welsh funeral which was a hearty celebration of death. She could not bear to have people invading the silent house, eating cold ham, women drinking tea and their menfolk becoming jovial on ale. She realised she offended the proprieties, but that was unimportant; Rhian wanted only the peace and tranquillity of an empty parlour.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to sit around here like a drowned kitten and mope.’ Carrie removed her good black shawl, shaking it free of rain, and the wool exuded the smell of the sheep from which it had come.

  ‘No, I’m not going to mope,’ Rhian said firmly. ‘I mean to find work.’

  ‘Work?’ Carrie’s dismay was almost comical and Rhian smiled. ‘Don’t make it sound as though I’m going out on the streets as a shilling floosie,’ she said. ‘I’ve worked in a Yorkshire mill these past two years and I’m not about to let all that experience go to waste.’ Her own words brought vividly to mind the memory of the long narrow mill with its clatter of looms. And she saw Mansel Jack, strong and massive, his presence shedding a radiance which warmed her… but that was in the past now, something else to be forgotten.