It was pleasant to sit in the window seat and stare down at the sea below. Rhian felt more at peace than she had done for some time. Since Agnes had died, there seemed no one left she could think of as her own kin and it was a strange, rootless feeling.
Mrs Greenaway brought in the tea tray and the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked cakes filled the room.
‘Looks after me well, doesn’t she, Rhian?’ Heath said, helping himself to a cake from the plate. ‘And I’m very good to her too, though she doesn’t deserve it the way she treats me like a little boy.’
Mrs. Greenaway tapped his hand playfully. ‘I’ve got to admit that he is good to me, mind. Took me in when I didn’t have a job. Folks said I was too old to work, but I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life chewing my gums, did I? And anyway, you got the best of the bargain, didn’t you Heath Jenkins?’
‘All right, I’ll give in and agree I got the best of the deal.’ Heath held up his hands in mock resignation.
When the door closed behind the old housekeeper, there was silence in the room except for the shifting of coals in the grate and the ticking of the clock. Rhian sipped her tea, feeling the warmth of the sun through the window and closing her eyes as she imagined herself living here as Heath’s wife. Then the mists of dreaming vanished as behind closed lids she saw the image of Mansel Jack, his dark features and deep eyes.
‘What’s the matter, Rhian?’ Heath’s voice intruded on her thoughts and she looked at him quickly.
‘Nothing, just enjoying the peace of your lovely house,’ she replied carefully.
‘You’re a liar,’ Heath’s voice was soft, ‘but then you are entitled to your own thoughts, though I’d give anything to share them.’
He sat beside her on the window seat and took her hand in his. ‘Rhian, I’d be patient with you, I promise I’d teach you what happiness can be found from loving. I would take my time, not rush you – please let me try.’
She leaned against his shoulder, closing her eyes, and as his fingers brushed her breasts she forced herself to remain still. He slowly undid the buttons of her bodice and gently caressed the warm flesh beneath the linen camisole. And after a time she relaxed, enjoying the feel of his fingers teasing her nipple. But when he would have leaned over her, she pushed at him in panic.
‘You said you would not rush me, Heath remember?’
‘All right, perhaps it’s time I took you home,’ he said easily.
She felt suddenly disappointed as he moved away. Frightened as she was, she had half wanted him to continue arousing strange and wonderful sensations within her.
It was cooler as they strolled hand in hand down the hill towards the roadway and Rhian felt grateful to Heath for caring about her.
‘You needn’t come all the way – just take me as far as the tram terminus,’ she suggested, but Heath shook his head.
‘I said I’d take you home and so I will. I’m not risking anyone else snapping you up on the way!’
He laughed, but Rhian sensed a seriousness behind his words that disturbed her. Heath was already looking upon her as his property, but was that what she wanted?
‘Look, there is something I must do,’ she said quickly. ‘Carrie suggested I go to visit Mr Richardson, see if he knows where his wife is. If I can find her, I can find our Billy and he must be told about Aunt Agnes’s death.’
She paused. ‘And please don’t come with me. I am capable of doing things on my own, you know.’
‘Hey!’ Heath laughed. ‘All right, I shan’t come with you – don’t be so defensive, I’m on your side, remember?’
As Heath left her, giving her a light kiss on the cheek before striding away, Rhian watched him go with mixed feelings.
The sun was warm as she made her way up the hill. Roses blossomed, gentle among sharp-tipped thorns, and low in the grass daisies opened white petals to the sky.
Standing on the imposing doorstep of Rickie Richardson’s house, she felt nervous and uncertain but knocked loudly, determined not to go away without at least trying to see him.
‘Yes, what is it you want?’ A maid with wide blue eyes was staring at her curiously and Rhian returned her look defiantly.
‘I want to see Mr Richardson and it’s important, so I suggest you fetch him at once.’
Greatly daring, Rhian stepped into the hallway and waited expectantly. The maid bit her lip and glanced around worriedly. ‘Best wait here, I’ll see if the Master will talk to you.’
Rhian couldn’t help but be impressed with the graciousness of the hallway and she wondered that Delmai Richardson – a woman who had all this – would give it up to run away with a gaol bird – for that was how the townspeople thought of Billy.
She became aware that Mr Richardson was standing in the doorway, staring at her, his eyes cold. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked pompously.
Rhian shook her head. ‘No, I used to work for Mrs Richardson and I’d like her address so that I can ask her for a reference,’ she improvised quickly.
‘The devil you would!’ He looked as though he was about to tell her to leave, then he paused! ‘Well, I think I do have her address somewhere; I’ll get it.’ He disappeared into a book-lined study and Rhian felt excitement grow; she was about to find out where Billy was!
‘Here!’ Rickie Richardson handed her a torn piece of paper. ‘When you contact Mrs Richardson, perhaps you could tell her that I’ll take her back but not her bastard?’
Rhian’s face burned as she hurried away from the house and her mind was racing. It was obvious that Delmai Richardson had asked her husband if she might return to him. And what’s more, she had borne Billy a child – what a tragic mess it all was. But at least now Rhian could see Billy, talk to him and be with him.
She felt warmed as she tucked the scrap of paper into her bag and quickly made her way to the tram terminus. But as soon as the swaying car took her towards the eastern part of the town, and the rows of cottages came into sight, Rhian was suddenly dispirited. The house would be empty without Aunt Agnes’s forceful presence to cheer it and soon Rhian would have to leave the only real home she had ever known.
It was dark and cool in the long passageway, but Rhian could hear the kettle singing on the hob and knew with a sense of gratitude that Carrie had been at work. She entered the kitchen and sank into a chair, brushing her hair away from her face with a hand that trembled.
‘What’s wrong with you, girl?’ Carrie asked as she poured water into the teapot. ‘You look as if you’d lost a sovereign and found a farthing!’
Rhian attempted to smile. ‘I’ve just found out where our Billy lives and it sounds as if that woman is thinking of leaving him and coming home to her husband.’
Carrie looked at her shrewdly. ‘You’ve seen Mr Richardson, then?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, but went on, ‘Well, I think that’s the best thing that could happen – gentry and workers don’t mix.’
‘You’re right, I suppose,’ Rhian said softly, but why did she feel like putting her head down on the table and crying as though her heart would break?
Chapter Three
A haze of fog hung over the small mining valley of Carreg Fach and a spiteful drizzle was falling, drenching the solitary main street that lay like a grey ribbon between the hills.
Delmai Richardson lifted the heavy bag higher on her arm and adjusted the position of the small child on her hip. The baby was asleep, unaware of anything but the comfort and security of being in her mother’s arms.
Delmai pushed open the door of the dingy, coal-dust-covered cottage with her shoulder and, sighing with relief, allowed the bag to sink to the table. She sat before the fire and hugged her child close, tears slipping down her cheeks as she looked into the small dimpled face.
Not for the first time, she wished she was out of this hell and back home in the elegance of her house in Sweyn’s Eye, or even in the small house on Canal Street where she had gone when first she left her husband, while Billy Gray was still in prison and before her affair with
him began. She had run away so willingly with Billy, heedless and falsely optimistic, greedy for the passion he gave her so readily.
And he could offer her little else, for Billy was not only a convicted felon, he was far beneath her in station. At first everything had been wonderful for, furnished with the small amount of money his aunt had provided, they had managed to live quite well. And Billy still appeared to be happy with the situation – but then he was used to small houses and few amenities. She on the other hand had been brought up to a different way of life and she was finding the harshness of her surroundings too much to bear.
It had been all right before little Cerianne had come along. Delmai and Billy had been like children; he had taught her the joys of the flesh, which to a woman who had believed herself cold and passionless had been a wonderful awakening. But he had taught her the meaning of poverty too and now black dust ruled her life, for Billy worked the coalface as a miner.
Delmai, who had never needed to wash her own clothes, found the task of keeping the family supplied with clean linen almost beyond her. She could not achieve the lines of clean washing which were so ordinary a sight in her neighbours’ gardens, however hard she tried.
Suddenly the hooter from the pit tore at the silence, penetrating the cottage and filling the kitchen overwhelmingly. Startled, Delmai sat up straight in her chair, a sense of fear running through her veins. She felt chilled as she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, tucking the baby in its folds; then she flung open the door and hurried out into the street, her heart pounding.
‘Duw, there’s been an accident at the pit.’ Mrs Jones was white-faced, her hands trembling as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet. ‘I’d get along down to the gates if I were you, merchi – see if your man is all right.’
Delmai heard the woman speak, yet the words seemed not to have any meaning. ‘Yes, I’m going now, Mrs Jones,’ she mumbled through lips that seemed frozen.
The woman’s face softened. ‘Poor dab, not used to any of this, are you? I’ll come with you for company if you like.’
Delmai was only partly aware of Mrs Jones beside her as she hurried along the cobbled streets, but her neighbour was talking incessantly.
‘My Sam’s in bed, he came off shift an hour ago, thank the good Lord. But you mustn’t take fright, mind, there’s most likely nothing much wrong – a bit of gas or some water perhaps.’
Delmai didn’t hear her, her mind was racing with fears and unimaginable horrors. What if Billy was maimed, how would she care for him and the baby too? She recognised that she was inadequate, that she had not the strength of will or body that was needed to live as the woman of a working man. She was not even Billy’s wife, so there would be no compensation for her as there was for pit widows.
Most of the women of the village were gathered at the pit gates. They stood silent, heads covered with shawls against the rain, faces long, enduring familiar fears with stoicism. A baby cried miserably and then was hushed into suckling contentment. Delmai lifted Cerianne higher in her arms, easing her aching back and trying to see over the heads of the women in front of her.
Mrs Jones was more forceful. ‘What is it?’ she asked loudly. ‘What’s happened here, anybody killed?’
There was a murmur of voices speaking in Welsh and Delmai bit her lip in frustration, unable to understand. She found herself praying that Billy was safe.
‘It’s only a little bit of a roof fall.’ Mrs Jones intended her words to be reassuring, but Delmai shivered. ‘A few miners are trapped, but it’s nothing to get all fretful about… yet.’
Delmai hugged the baby closer to her breast and as Cerianne stirred and whimpered, she smoothed back the baby-fine hair absently.
The rain had stopped and a pale sun shone through the clouds, but nothing seemed to be happening at the pithead. Delmai stared at the winding gear rearing up into the sky, and fell to brooding about the letter she had sent to her husband. A feeling of guilt washed through her as she remembered that she had begged Rickie to take her back. This life here in the valleys was no way for her to spend the rest of her days. Not even for the wonderful nights spent in Billy’s arms could she endure the dirt and the never-ending work that turned her hands red and her skin coarse.
Rickie had not so far made any reply and Delmai didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. She knew that she would never love her husband – indeed in some ways she despised him – yet he could give her comfort and silk clothing and in his gracious elegant house she would never need to clean or scrub again.
There was a movement at the pithead and the wheel turned against the sky as the men were lifted from the bowels of the earth. Delmai held her breath – she loved Billy and even though she wanted to leave him, she did not wish him dead.
The men were pouring from the pithead now, most walking but some being supported by friends. All were black with coal dust and it took Delmai a few agonising minutes to recognise Billy’s tall frame as he pushed his way through the throng of women.
As she moved instinctively towards him she wondered what she was doing to them both. She was condemning Billy to the life of blackness and foetid air and cold water that threatened to extinguish him. And herself… well, drudgery had become her middle name, she thought helplessly.
‘Oh, Billy!’ She was in his arms, uncaring of the dust that clung to him like a second, abrasive skin. ‘I’ve been so worried.’
‘Come on, girl, let’s get home,’ he said. ‘My mouth feels as dry as an old bone.’
In the privacy of the small cottage, Delmai wept in Billy’s arms. ‘I can’t take much more of this,’ she said brokenly. ‘It’s not fair to any of us to live this way.’
‘Get the bath from the back door, Delmai, and let me wash the dirt and stink off me – then I’ll show you what life is all about.’ He forced a smile and pulled playfully at her apron strings, though his eyes white against the black of his face were filled with anxiety.
She obeyed him, wondering afresh at the lackey she had allowed herself to become. Anyone looking at her now would not take her for a lady at all, but a serving wench or a kitchen maid.
The baby slept as Delmai washed Billy’s fine young body. But already he was marked with telltale blue lines where the coal dust had entered wounds and refused to be washed away. There was a scar across his nose and another along his neck, and as Delmai scrubbed at them she felt like dissolving into tears of hopelessness.
Billy took her in his arms and unbuttoned her bodice, kissing her breasts, his mouth warm with tenderness and passion.
‘Come to bed with me, girl,’ he said softly, ‘now while the babba’s asleep.’
She went upstairs undoing her clothes, as eager as he was to lose herself in passion. Billy was naked and his arousal was plain to see. He was a magnificent man, Delmai thought with pride – strong as a stallion and gifted with sensitivity so that he knew just what pleased her.
They lay together in the bed beneath the brightly coloured quilt and Delmai shuddered delicately as Billy’s hands roved over her body… touching, seeking, pleasing.
‘Oh, my love, come to me.’ She moaned the words softly and Billy kissed her neck.
‘Not yet, I want to tease you into such passion that you’ll never want to leave me.’
While she was like this, spellbound, entranced with the sensations he aroused within her, Delmai could not believe she would ever bring herself to part from him. He worked his old magic, bringing her to a crescendo of love that was almost painful in its intensity. They moved together in an age-old rhythm and she heard her sighs like the wash of the ocean. She was lifted high on a crest of delight and her own voice was far away and unrecognisable as she cried out in pleasure.
They lay for a long while in each other’s arms and Delmai clung to the moment, for such times were becoming rarer. Perhaps even now it had only been the fear of losing Billy which made the ecstasy so great. The hardness of her life was grinding her down, wearing her spirit so that she no longer laug
hed. Deep creases were forming on her forehead and she believed there was a tinge of grey in her hair.
Billy fell into an exhausted sleep at her side and with a pang of impatience, she heard the baby begin to whimper. She loved the child, of course she did, Cerianne was part of herself and of Billy. But Delmai was not equipped for motherhood. Cerianne should have a nanny and be reared in a nursery, just as Delmai herself had been.
She slipped from Billy’s side, hating herself for resenting his ability to sleep. He was always the same; if the baby cried during the night, it was invariably she who was disturbed.
Cerianne was wet through and with disgust, Delmai changed the child’s clothes. The baby gurgled and smiled winningly and for a moment Delmai responded, laughing and cooing with Cerianne. Then she sighed; the dinner must be started, for when Billy woke he would be hungry.
She had made soup, cawl as the local people called it. She had bought a piece of bacon, for it was cheap and the joint could be taken out of the liquid and served cold for another meal. Delmai was not a good cook, but necessity had taught her to be stringent.
At first when she had left Sweyn’s Eye in the full flush of her love, she had considered such matters unimportant, but now she realised that simply to exist she needed to be thrifty to the point of meanness.
There was a loud rapping on the door and before Delmai could open her mouth to speak, Mrs Jones was in the kitchen. This was another habit of the lower orders which Delmai did not like and could not understand; it seemed there was no such thing as privacy.
‘Mrs Jones, what can I do for you?’ she said evenly, concealing her irritation.
‘A bag of flour, merchi, can you lend me one just ’till tomorrow. Got visitors coming, I have, all the way from Sweyn’s Eye, and me not prepared.’
Delmai’s heart began to beat rapidly, though as she went into the cool pantry and picked up a bag of flour she was keeping her feelings tightly under control.
‘From Sweyn’s Eye you say, that’s interesting.’ She spoke casually. ‘A relative, is it?’
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