Spinner's Wharf

by Spinner's Wharf (retail) (epub)

  ‘Hush, mammy, don’t talk so in front of the children,’ Honey O’Connor said softly.

  Stella shook back her hair defiantly. ‘The saints be praised – will ye listen to the girl? What do you think the little ones got eyes and ears for, then? Aren’t they going to see it all for themselves before long?’

  ‘Well, let’s talk no more of it in our own kitchen.’ Brendan wiped the gravy from his plate with a chunk of bread and Mrs O’Connor sighed.

  ‘There’s no pleasing men. All they think of is war – bite their gums over it all night they would – but let a woman join in and it’s all wrong, so it is.’ She moved from the table. ‘Well, all I can say is that I thank God for my girls – they won’t have to go to the Front and throw their lives away for nothing.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re on about, woman,’ Brendan said angrily. ‘The war has got to be fought whether you like it or not. Can’t let them Huns get away with anything or they’ll be on our shores taking everything from us, making us slaves – is that what you want?’

  ‘And what do you think we are now, Brendan O’Connor?’ Stella sounded angry and Morgan rose to his feet quickly. He was used to the eruptions which flared up in a moment and were as soon forgotten.

  ‘I’ll get my coat, shall I?’ he said. ‘That’s if Honey has finished her supper.’

  ‘Aye, go on, you.’ Mrs O’Connor was distracted from her row with her husband just as Morgan had known she would be. ‘Come on, Honey,’ she added. ‘Get your bag and be quick, you don’t want your new boss to think you unwilling.’

  The air was soft, the clouds drifting like dark lace over the face of the moon. Morgan took a deep breath and glanced covertly towards the girl at his side. Honey O’Connor was beautiful, there was no denying that. Her hair, slipping free from the ribbons that held it back, was spun silver, her eyes were large and heavily fringed with golden lashes.

  ‘Good of you to see me back to Plas Coch, so ’tis.’ Her voice was soft, as though Honey was afraid of shattering the fragile mood that encompassed them both. Morgan longed to reach out and take her hand, but he was wary of offending her.

  ‘Are you happy to be working for the rich folks?’ he asked and she shrugged her slim shoulders.

  ‘Not happy, no. But my mammy needs the money and I’d be wrong not to help out now that I’m grown up.’

  Morgan swallowed hard. Honey was only fifteen, a lovely girl who should never have to scrub floors or stand for hours peeling vegetables in someone else’s kitchen. He wished fiercely that he could protect her from hardships that must surely be ahead of her, but he had no right to think that way, no right at all.

  ‘I suppose being in service is better than working the tinplate.’ Honey was determined to be cheerful. She hugged the cloth bag containing her few possessions close to her, as though for comfort. ‘But ’tis hard to leave home.’ Her voice trembled and Morgan kicked viciously at a stone lying in his path.

  Together but not touching, they passed the tram terminus and began to walk up the hill away from the town. Glancing back over his shoulder, Morgan could see the sweep of the bay and the sea silver-grey in the moonlight. ‘At least you’ll be away from the stink of the copper works,’ he said in a low voice.

  Honey sighed heavily. ‘Green Hill is my home, it’s all I’ve ever known and even though me mammy talks about Ireland and the beauty of it, I wouldn’t leave the house in Emerald Court for anything, not if I had my way.’

  Morgan stopped walking and stared down at her. ‘You’re growing up, Honey and one day you’ll find a follower, a good Catholic who’ll marry you and make a home for you.’ His voice cracked as Honey stood quite still, her hands grasping the bag tightly.

  ‘That’s not what I want, Morgan Lloyd.’ The words were almost a whisper and for a moment he wasn’t sure if he had heard right. What was Honey saying? Hope flickered inside him even as he told himself he was a fool.

  ‘Then what do you want?’ The words came out stilted and harsh and Morgan wondered what had happened to his usual easy manner. His emotions were so near the surface that he couldn’t think straight.

  ‘I can’t tell you what I want.’ Honey’s voice was still low. ‘It wouldn’t be proper.’

  As her eyes met his Morgan felt a lightness swelling his lungs, rising to his head so that it swung like a carousel with music ringing in his ears. He swallowed hard and tentatively held out his hand. Honey smiled shyly, her fingers slipped cool and trembling into his.

  As he moved up the hill with Honey at his side, Morgan felt as if he owned the whole world.

  * * *

  Within the elegant building of Plas Coch Rickie Richardson was again reading his wife’s latest letter. He experienced an immense feeling of satisfaction in knowing that Delmai had become heartily sick of her bid to live on love and wanted to return home. He would let her, of course, but she would never be allowed to forget the humiliation she had heaped upon him by leaving him in order to live on her own in Canal Street and then running away with that gaol bird Billy Gray.

  As for the brat she had borne, he would never consider having it near him. She would have to shake off her sordid past and try to become the respectable Mrs Richardson again. And when she bore him a son, which would be soon if he had his way, Rickie would be a rich man – hadn’t Delmai’s father promised him that? Glynmor wanted a grandson more than anything on earth and was prepared to leave his considerable fortune in Rickie’s charge if he got himself an heir.

  Rickie rose from his chair and moved to the window, staring out into the darkness. He would send Delmai a letter telling her of his decision. To travel to Carreg Fach himself would be a mistake; the last thing he wanted was a confrontation with Billy Gray. The man was a maniac, capable of all sorts of violence.

  Once Delmai was safely beneath his roof, Rickie would make sure she didn’t make a fool of him again. He would fill her with child as often as was possible, give her a real family and then she could forget she had borne the bastard of a criminal. If she was amenable to his wishes he might put her indiscretion out of his mind and treat her as a proper wife, at least outwardly.

  He sighed with relief. Of late he had been troubled lest Glynmor, who had aged over the past years, might make his will in favour of some distant cousin or other. However, perhaps now was the time to see Delmai’s father and acquaint him with the facts, tell the old man that he intended to be magnanimous and take Delmai back into the fold. Glynmor would certainly feel obligated to him and the thought was a pleasant one.

  Rickie poured himself a drink and returned to the window, a feeling of restlessness gripping him. He had taken his fill of women, whores the lot of them, but his life lacked bite. Delmai would provide just that, he thought in surprise. His days – and more importantly his nights – had seemed empty without her. Could he actually be a little in love with his wife?

  But that was absurd, for she was cold, distasteful of anything to do with the marriage bed. At least, she had been so before her escapade with this Billy Gray. Perhaps now she had grown up a little, suffered the hardships that came hand in hand with poverty. She might be chastened and so be more eager to please him. The thought gave him pleasure as he tipped the smooth brandy into his mouth.

  The crunch of footsteps on the gravel of the driveway caught his attention and he leaned closer to the window. As his eyes became accustomed to the moonlight, he took a deep hissing breath. The young girl coming towards the house was slight of build and daintily proportioned, but what caught his attention was the hair uncovered and swinging loose like an aura of light around her head. She disappeared from sight and with a quick movement, Rickie crossed the room and pulled on the satin bell sash. He stood with his back to the fire, glass in hand, as the parlourmaid responded to his summons.

  ‘That girl – the one who just arrived – who is she?’ he asked briskly. As Jinny bobbed a curtsey, the lace on the young maid’s cap fluttered like butterflies around her face. She was almost the twin of
Letty, the maid who had warmed Rickie’s bed years ago in his youth. But although she had a fresh country bloom to her cheeks, so far Jinny had escaped Rickie’s attentions. She was a little too subservient and he liked to see a show of spirit.

  ‘She’s called Honey O’Connor, a Catholic girl from Green Hill, sir.’ Jinny did not look up at Rickie, nor did her facial expression change, but her tone was an indication of the low opinion she had of anyone coming from Green Hill.

  ‘Send her to me,’ he said briefly and with another bob, Jinny left the room. Rickie replenished his drink and swirled the liquid round, watching the patterns of light which glinted in the cut glass. ‘Honey’, that was an unusually poetic name for a girl come from poor Irish stock, he mused.

  When she entered the room with her hair tied back from her face, he took a deep breath. She was even more beautiful than he had thought, with fine high cheekbones, vivid blue eyes and skin like cream.

  ‘I always like to make my staff feel welcome,’ he said easily. ‘Come along in and close the door.’ He waved his hand to Jinny who hovered in the background, and with a quick look she disappeared.

  Honey moved with grace, her absurdly small boots peeping from under her long skirt. She was tiny and so lovely – almost a porcelain doll except for the animation in the clear eyes.

  ‘What are you going to do in my house, Honey?’ Rickie asked as she shook back a stray hair that had fallen across her serene forehead.

  ‘I’m to be kitchen maid, if it please you, sir.’ Her voice was light and breathless with just a trace of her Irish ancestry, enough to make it charming.

  ‘Oh, dear, that means scrubbing floors and peeling potatoes. Let me look at your hands, my dear.’

  She obeyed him without question, turning her palms upward, and Rickie ran his finger lightly over them. ‘Far too nice to be spoiled,’ he smiled. ‘Tell the housekeeper that you’re to be put to work as a chambermaid – that way you’ll only need to make beds and dust and that sort of thing.’

  Honey looked at him in wide-eyed innocence as Rickie lifted a strand of her hair. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, almost to himself. She fidgeted, uneasy for the first time.

  Rickie moved away from her. There was no point in making the girl nervous when there was nothing to stop her running off home to the bosom of her family. Let her become accustomed to the good living she would enjoy at Plas Coch and then she would be more malleable.

  ‘Very well then, Honey, off you go back to the kitchen.’ He smiled in amusement as she curtsied to him awkwardly; it was quite obvious that she had never been near gentry before.

  When the door had closed behind her, Rickie returned to the window and stared out into the garden. The moonlight was brighter now and the trees and bushes seemed silvered as though with snow. Matters were improving for him, he thought in satisfaction; not only was he going to have his errant wife back under his roof, but also a new little amusement to while away any spare time he might have. In any case, it would be good to play Delmai off against a young fresh girl and might make his wife more responsive.

  He sank into his chair and stared into the fire that was falling low into the grate. There was only one irritant left to bother him now, he thought with a taste of displeasure - and that was this blasted war. Rickie had imagined it would be over in a matter of months and there seemed no need to put his patriotism to the test.

  Unfortunately, the battle had not been so easily won. But there was a spark of hope, for he had heard from his mother that Sterling was going to enlist in the Sweyn’s Eye battalion and was thinking of asking Rickie to run the copper works. Trust Sterling to play the hero, Rickie thought bitterly, as he remembered the way his mother had eyed him in her usual disapproving manner.

  ‘You should join up too, Rickie,’ Victoria had said. ‘You know I want to be proud of both of you.’

  Rickie had been tempted to tell her that she had never given him half the devotion she showered upon Sterling, who had always been her favourite son – probably because he was born of her scandalous affair with her lover. It was an old grievance, but it never failed to rouse Rickie’s anger and resentment.

  His brother had inherited the copper empire left by Arthur Richardson while he, Rickie, the true heir, had been forced to take the crumbs. He filled his glass once more and took a deep draught of the amber liquid, pushing the memories away. At least now, he told himself, he had a good chance of inheriting a fortune from Delmai’s father.

  Suddenly he felt a sense of well-being creep over him. It would be pleasant to have Delmai under his control once more and in the meantime, he could find some amusement with little Honey O’Connor.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was raining heavily; the sulphurous smoke from the copper works blended with the mists and the stink of it was the first thing Mansel Jack noticed when he stepped from the train on to Welsh soil.

  He found a cab waiting just outside the station and climbed into it with a sigh of relief, giving the driver the address written at the head of the letter he held in his hands.

  Mrs Sutton had offered him hospitality while he was in Sweyn’s Eye and he had accepted readily, hating the thought of a bleak hotel room even though his stay would be a short one.

  The correspondence with Mary Sutton had been useful and interesting; he had elicited the information that a munitions factory had been proposed and the land and buildings were ready for leasing. Though he had come to the town first and foremost with a view to dealing with Alfred Phillpot, the idea of settling in Sweyn’s Eye at least for the duration of the war was beginning to grow on him.

  He was not seeing the town at its best now, he decided, for the sea was obscured by mist and the houses on the western slope of the hill loomed ghostlike through the gloom. But his welcome into the Sutton household was more than warm – indeed, it appeared there was something of a busy social evening waiting for him.

  Mary Sutton was a fine proud-looking woman with an honest face and clear eyes and he liked her on sight.

  ‘I hope you’ll make yourself at home while you’re here,’ she said in a soft lilting voice and he returned her smile with genuine liking.

  ‘I feel at home already,’ he said quickly.

  He had little time to enjoy the warmth of the fire in the large, elegant bedroom, since from the sound of voices rising up from the drawing room it seemed the soirée was in full swing.

  Mansel Jack found himself introduced to so many people that he had little hope of remembering any names. Though one tall, handsome man who gripped his hand warmly made quite an impression on him.

  ‘I’m Sterling Richardson,’ he said genially. ‘If I can ever be of help, just let me know.’

  After a time, Mrs Sutton came to his side and discreetly drew him away from the noisy, crowded drawing room and towards a book-lined study.

  ‘I thought you would like to talk to Rhian Gray,’ she said, smiling. ‘After all, it was she who drew my attention to the tricks Alfred Phillpot was getting up to.’

  He found his eyes drawn to the slender figure standing near the desk; her eyes met his as though with a challenge and there was a proud lift to her head.

  ‘Rhian, it’s very good to see you,’ he said as he moved forward impulsively and took her hands in his. Her small fingers curled warmly against his skin and washing over him was a sudden sensation that he could not describe.

  She drew away and as she sank gracefully into a chair, he tried to read her thoughts – but as always, she was an enigma to him.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to come all this way,’ she said gently, ‘but that Alfred Phillpot does deserve to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ He seated himself opposite her. ‘Though that’s not the only reason I’m here, as it happens.’

  ‘Oh?’ Clearly she wanted to know what his reasons were, but she was too polite to ask. He found that he wanted to confide in her, she had always been a sensible sharp-witted girl.

  ‘I’m going to look at a factory
on the outskirts of the town,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve had a very good offer for my mill and I feel it’s time I moved on to something new.’

  ‘Oh, but you can’t leave the wool trade – how could you be happy leaving it behind?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘You did,’ he pointed out, but she shook her head.

  ‘No, not completely. I’m working at Spinners’ Wharf, doing my best to keep it going for the owner – Heinz Sinman – to come back to after the war is over.’

  He admired her spirit and her capacity for hard work, running a mill was no easy task especially for a woman.

  ‘And how are your sales?’ he asked, leaning forward genuinely interested.

  She shook her head. ‘Not very good at the moment.’ Then she straightened her back. ‘But I intend to improve the business, however long it takes.’

  Mary Sutton appeared in the doorway, an apologetic smile on her face. ‘I’m sorry but there are so many people who want to meet you, including the agent who is leasing the land occupied by the factory buildings – I think perhaps you should meet him first.’

  Reluctantly Mansel Jack rose to his feet. ‘I’ll doubtless see you again before I leave, Rhian,’ he said quietly and she inclined her head.

  In the event he did not see her again, for the winding-up of the deal for the factory took longer than he had anticipated. And then he felt free to deal with Alfred Phillpot. The following morning he found the man standing behind a counter in the large Cooperative Stores in the middle of the town and for a time, he studied the shifty eyes and restless hands which betrayed Phillpot’s character.

  ‘I’m Mansel Jack,’ he said at last, leaning forward so that instinctively Phillpot drew away.

  ‘You’ve been buying my wool, I hear?’ His tone was deceptively mild and the man chanced a nervous smile.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ his tone was reedy, ingratiating. ‘I buy from so many companies, as I’m sure you are aware.’

  ‘But you’ll remember my goods better than most.’ Mansel Jack paused, folding his arms across his chest, swinging back on his heels with a thoughtful look on his face.