‘But what will you do?’ Carrie’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
‘Anything I can lay my hands on. I’ve heard that Mr Sinman from Spinners’ Wharf needs a worker.’ She didn’t add that what he wanted was someone to clean the house and help his wife, who was expecting her first child. But at least she would be near a mill and perhaps, sometimes, she might be allowed to work on the looms.
Rhian suppressed a sigh. ‘I’m going to change out of my good clothes and then I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea.’ At the doorway leading to the stairs, she paused. ‘We both know the grief of losing Aunt Agnes,’ she said softly, ‘but there’s no point in dwelling on it, she wouldn’t have wanted that.’
Carrie paused a moment and then nodded, but there was a troubled look in her eyes which puzzled Rhian. She stared down at the apron she had just wrapped around her waist, tying and untying the strings, then sighed softly. ‘I’spects you won’t be needing me any longer.’ Her voice was low and empty and in a swift movement, Rhian crossed the room and hugged her tightly.
‘Of course I’ll need you; how can I go out to work and come home to a cold empty house?’ She smiled and tweaked Carrie’s cheek. ‘I’ll depend on you more than ever now, can’t you see that? With Billy away, you are the only family I have left.’
Carrie turned and rubbed at her eyes. ‘Go and get out of those damp clothes before you catch a chill, there’s a good girl.’ She sniffed derisively. ‘And don’t forget you have to visit that Mr Irons as soon as you can.’
Once in her room, Rhian’s cheerful pose disappeared and her shoulders slumped as she leaned on the sill staring out of the window. The clouds had dispersed, the sun was shining once more and the pavements outside were drying a bluey-grey. Rhian took a deep breath, knowing that she must make yet another new beginning. She sank on to the bed and closed her eyes and though there were no tears, there was a silent weeping deep inside her.
* * *
‘Spinners’ Wharf.’ The sign was faded, the painted wood scored and scratched. The round windows like so many eyes were grimed with dirt and the entire building had an unused look about it.
Rhian knocked on the door, her heart beating rapidly in apprehension mingled with excitement. She could almost hear the clatter of the willowing machine and the hum of the mule and she could taste the raw wool. Somehow the particulars of spinning and weaving had got into her blood, she had known it from the moment she first took up a piece of soft thread and witnessed how strong and firm it became when twisted between her fingers.
The man who opened the door was tall and barrel-chested, his round face seeming to dip into a point in a prickly, greying beard.
‘Vot can I do for you, missie?’ he asked and Rhian smiled, noting the trails of fluff in his hair.
‘I’m Rhian Gray,’ she said warmly, for she liked the big man on sight. ‘Are you Mr Sinman?’
‘Yes, I Mr Sinman. You haf business with me?’
‘I hope so. May I come inside?’
‘You come to the house with me.’ He led her up the sloping yard and through a long passageway into a stone-floored kitchen. The room was warm and cheerful and at the fireside a woman, heavy with child, was stirring a pot.
‘This is Gina.’ Mr Sinman’s voice was full of pride. ‘She good Welsh girl, makes me a fine wife.’
Rhian took the chair that was offered and smiled warmly at the woman.
‘I want to work for you,’ she rushed the words, her tongue tripping over them in her nervousness. ‘I’m not very experienced at housework or with children, but I can learn.’ She smiled. ‘And I could help out in the mill sometimes, if you like.’
Heinz Sinman looked at her doubtfully. ‘It is hard work in the kitchen, but even worse in the mill.’ He paused for a moment, rubbing at his plump cheek. ‘Handling the wool is something that grows with you, not easily learned, you understand.’
‘I’ve worked for almost two years in a Yorkshire mill,’ Rhian said quickly. ‘I know how to make up patterns, how to handle the machines – and I will be reliable, really I will!’
Heinz Sinman looked at his wife and she sat down on a stool, her bulk overflowing the seat.
‘Well, Heinz,’ she said slowly. ‘There’s nothing to lose if you ask me. I’ll only need a little bit of work done by here, just until I’ve had the baby – and it would be good for you to have help in the mill, wouldn’t it?’
He nodded his large head. ‘Well, we can give it a try, I suppose.’
Rhian felt a dart of triumph; the first hurdle was over. ‘I would like to try to find new customers,’ she spoke eagerly. ‘I’d have to be cautious at first, but I think I could be quite good at the selling side of the business.’
‘Maybe, but my darned machines break down all the time. What we do about that?’
‘Heinz, language!’ Gina Sinman admonished sharply and Rhian hid a smile as she rose to her feet. ‘I’ll find someone to repair them, don’t you worry.’ She held out her hand. ‘Do we have an agreement Mr Sinman?’ she asked and he nodded, shaking her hand vigorously. ‘You moving so fast, you take me over if I not careful.’
Gina smiled at Rhian warmly. ‘Been working too hard lately, he has, mind.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘And all this talk of war doesn’t help, what with people suspicious of my man because he’s a foreigner. We’ll be glad to have someone on our side to tell the truth.’
Outside, Rhian took a deep breath of the soft summer air, but it was not the rich bush of wild roses that held her entranced, it was the scent of raw wool in her nostrils evoking memories of Mansel Jack so crystal clear that she felt she could reach out and touch him. ‘Forget Mansel Jack!’ she told herself harshly.
She took a tram to the centre of Sweyn’s Eye, and sat in the hard wooden seat gazing unwittingly at a woman opposite her; she wore an ancient battered velvet hat and continually tugged at her unfashionably long gloves. The woman sniffed and turned away and Rhian realised that she had been staring.
When she alighted from the swaying tram, Rhian walked purposefully along the streets down towards the heart of the town. A baker’s cart jogged along in the gutter, the horse’s head dipping as the animal strained between the shafts, glinting shoes slipping on the dusty, dry cobbles. A cockle-seller jostled Rhian out of the way, her basket of seafood resting on her flat basket hat. Her thick Welsh shawl was pulled tight around ample breasts in spite of the pleasantness of the day and Rhian’s spirits rose – there would always be a market for wool.
She paused outside the offices of Gregory Irons. The lawyer had sent for her and she had decided to get the interview over as quickly as possible; she had a feeling it was not going to be pleasant.
‘Good morning, Miss Gray.’ Gregory Irons was seated behind a large polished desk; his soft hands moved an ink tray an inch further to his right before his eyes met hers for an instant. ‘I should have dealt with this matter sooner, but you’re here now.’ His tone suggested that she had inconvenienced him.
Rhian forced herself to relax, though it was difficult in the circumstances for she was seated in a stiff high-backed chair. It seemed that Mr Irons did not intend his clients to be too comfortable.
‘Perhaps you would explain what it is you want to see me about?’ she said abruptly.
Mr Irons put his fingertips together and stared at her over his spectacles. She didn’t remember him wearing spectacles, Rhian thought fleetingly.
‘It’s about the cottage,’ he said flatly. ‘We must come to some arrangement about it.’ He paused and shuffled a handful of papers in front of him.
‘The cottage?’ Rhian was aware of a sudden panic rising within her and she clenched her hands together, trying to control the impulse to get to her feet and rush out of the office, like a penny chicken tucking its head beneath its wing.
‘The deeds of the cottage were sold some time ago. I warned your aunt that she was being foolhardy.’ He pressed his thin lips together. ‘She wanted money, you see, and apparently she
gave it all to your brother.’ His clipped tone told Rhian exactly what he felt about that. ‘The building now belongs to the Richardson estate, part of the property purchased to house the copper workers. These last two years your aunt has been simply a tenant.’ He paused. ‘It was only through the goodwill of Mr Sterling Richardson that she was allowed to stay on there.’
Rhian sat in the still, hot room listening to the drone of a bee engaged in a futile attempt to penetrate the glass of the windows.
‘There are a few bits and pieces of furniture and some jewellery,’ Gregory Irons continued remorselessly. ‘You are at liberty to take these things away with you of course, when you move out.’
Rhian stared at him in speechless despair, swallowing the tears that constricted her throat.
He regarded her coolly, his eyes fathomless. ‘Let’s be reasonable about this. We will say that you are free to live at the cottage for two months, but then Miss Gray, I’m afraid you must vacate the premises.’
Rhian was trembling. ‘Thank you for your time Mr Irons.’ She left the office with her head high but her mouth was dry and she had an ache in the pit of her stomach.
She made for the long stretch of golden beach, hardly aware of her surroundings. The water was a clear blue and the edges, pearly with foam, laved the shore but Rhian was staring out to where the horizon met the sea in a hazy mist. She had realised she would have to leave the cottage, of course, but not yet – surely not yet.
‘Aunt Agnes, what am I going to do?’ she whispered. She sank on to the warm stone wall and untied the ribbons of her bonnet, allowing the cool breeze to run through her hair. She felt alone in the world, isolated in a small oasis of time with only the wash of the sea and the calling of the gulls to disturb the silence.
Her hands lay still in her lap but her mind was racing. Perhaps she could sell Agnes’s furniture, but she didn’t have the heart for it and anyway, who could afford to buy it in these difficult times? She would need to find lodgings – perhaps Carrie would take her in.
Rhian kicked off her shoes and felt the softness of the sand beneath her stockinged feet, experiencing the old childlike wonder at the largeness of the sea, the glory of the arching bowl of the sky above her. It was as if she was a young, carefree girl again. It had all been so simple then, she was in love with Heath Jenkins and knew what her future would hold: marriage and children and happiness ever after. But much had happened to change her.
She breathed deeply. If she were to be honest with herself, she would remember that the physical side of love was always a mystery, something to avoid thinking about too deeply. She had seen the apple blossoms and the gold of the ring, but had never thought beyond the walk down the aisle of a church.
‘Rhian, my lovely girl, why are you sitting here alone?’ The deep masculine voice was close, startling her and she looked up quickly, colour rising to her cheeks.
‘Heath.’ Had some thread of thought brought him to her side, she wondered, and she shivered as he reached out to her. Glancing up at him and seeing the tenderness in his eyes, she looked away again. ‘There’s a fright you gave me.’ He settled himself beside her and as she breathed in his familiar scent she felt a kind of love for him – something she couldn’t explain even to herself.
‘Oh, Heath,’ she said as he took her hand in his strong fingers. He drew her slowly forward and for a moment he was poised above her, the crispness of his hair like an aura in the sunlight. She trembled as he moved nearer, then his lips touched hers and her heart fluttered frantically as though trying to escape from the feelings that were racing through her.
Deliberately he held her closer, his mouth seemingly on fire. Rhian wanted to drown in the sensations he was rousing, yet at the same time something within her was telling her that this was all wrong.
She shook back her hair, her thoughts so confused she could not answer him. He must have wondered about the time she had spent in England, but he had asked her few questions and she was grateful; she could not begin to explain the sensations that gripped her whenever she thought of Mansel Jack.
Heath rested his hand lightly on her shoulder then, like a friend. ‘Come with me, let me show you my new house,’ he said. ‘I told you I’ve gone up in the world since you went away.’ He paused, waiting for her to turn to look at him. ‘I won’t harm you, I would never do anything to hurt or frighten you.’
Rhian nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, her voice sounding insubstantial against the wash of the waves and the calling of the gulls.
Together they left the beach and Heath led her across the road and towards the western slopes of Sweyn’s Eye.
‘You have become posh,’ Rhian forced a smile, ‘living among the toffs up on the hill, indeed.’
‘I have to keep up appearances now that I’m a boss instead of a worker.’ Although there was humour in his voice he could not conceal his pride. ‘Good at the job I am, too.’
‘I’m sure you are, Heath,’ Rhian said quickly, sensing a chink in his armour. ‘You always did put everything into your work; even when your chest was bad, you went to the mill and handled the pieces of eight like they were paper.’
‘Oh, so you haven’t forgotten your origins, then?’ Heath tweaked her hair playfully. ‘And yet subtly you are altered, Rhian. What has your life been since you’ve been away?’
Rhian’s heart missed a beat. ‘I’ve been learning the wool trade,’ she said evasively. ‘I’m very good at making up patterns for weaving.’
Heath turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders. ‘I didn’t mean that and you know it,’ he said gently. ‘You told me you weren’t promised to anyone, but I’ll ask you again – have you had a lover, Rhian? I think I’ve a right to know?’
‘Why is everyone nosey-parkering into my life?’ Her voice shook. ‘I’ve had no lover, I told you I’m still the same as when I left here, the Rhian you always knew.’
‘I doubt that,’ Heath said soberly. ‘All right, don’t talk about your past now, perhaps later on you’ll want to tell me.’ He smiled at her. ‘Something I do know is that you’ve grown into a very lovely woman.’
Rhian pushed him playfully, wanting to break his serious mood, but she caught him off balance and he fell into the softness of the grass.
‘Well, you’re wrong, then,’ Rhian said. ‘I’m still a child at heart!’ She ran from him as he lurched to his feet and with his hands hanging apelike down to his sides, began to follow her with mock menace.
He grasped her around the waist and lifted her off her feet, swinging her around until the sky and sea and land merged into a dizzy pattern, then he set her down carefully and held her close as the laughter disappeared from his eyes.
‘I love you, Rhian,’ he said urgently. ‘I think I’ve always known it. Even when I was with other women, it was you I was waiting for.’
Her face was against the linen of his shirt and she breathed in the masculinity of him, knowing only that she liked being held close in his arms.
‘But Heath, how can you ever forget the dreadful thing that happened to me, for I can’t!’
Heath caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. ‘Listen to me, Rhian. You are a lovely, a very beautiful woman. What happened all that time ago was not your fault. Price hurt and humiliated you, but he’s dead and gone and so should the memories be. Come on, cariad, you can’t punish yourself for the rest of your life.’
She looked up at him pleadingly. ‘Can you help but think of me as second-hand, spoiled like shop-soiled goods?’
He kissed her eyelids gently. ‘No, Rhian. I’m thinking that I’m the luckiest man in the world to be holding you like this.’
His words warmed her so that she felt light-headed. Heath would accept her, flawed as she was, but then he was a man who had lain with many women old and young, so perhaps he was not so discriminating as some might be. A man like Mansel Jack, an inner voice said. But she hugged Heath and kissed his cheek, feeling the bristles of his moustache tickle her
face.
‘Let’s see this lovely house of yours,’ she said with forced cheerfulness. ‘I haven’t got all day, mind.’
Pen y Bryn was a tall narrow structure built on the lower slopes of the hill and Rhian loved it on sight. The odd-shaped house was haphazardly constructed, the front appearing Grecian in design with elegant mock pillars. The rest of the building sprawled backwards into the curve of the hill as though added as an afterthought. Within, it was comfortable and warm with a cheerful fire in the grate and Rhian could see that a woman’s hand had been at work.
‘I know what you’re thinking and you are wrong,’ Heath said, slipping his arm around her waist. ‘Mrs Greenaway, who used to work with Mary in Sutton’s Drapery – well, she keeps house for me and keeps me in order too.’
‘I’ve no right to ask you any questions, Heath,’ Rhian said softly and he smiled down at her.
‘You’re a funny, proud little thing and I love you.’ He kissed the tip of her nose just as the door from the kitchen opened.
‘Hello there, Greenie, how about some tea for my visitor? You remember Rhian Gray, don’t you?’
The older woman’s eyes were shrewd. Like everyone else in Sweyn’s Eye she knew the sister of Billy Gray, the man who was thought to have murdered and got clean away with it. Then to cap it all he had run away with a married woman, one of the gentry at that. Rhian could almost read her thoughts, but then Mrs Greenaway smiled with genuine warmth.
‘I’ve made some lovely Welsh cakes for your tea, Mr Jenkins – and there’s more than enough to go round don’t you worry.’
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