She slid from beneath the sheets and crept silently from the room, feeling like an intruder in her own home as she crossed the landing. On bare feet she padded down the wide staircase and with a cautious look over her shoulder opened the door to the study. She stood in the darkness for a long time, listening to the night sounds of the house, the creaking timbers, the soft tapping of a branch against a window, pausing before lighting the gas lamp.
The letter lay open on the desk – evidence of Brandon’s trust in her – and for a moment her resolution wavered. She had no right to be prying into her husband’s affairs, she told herself sternly; if he had wanted her to see the letter, he would have shown it to her. Yet the spidery, feminine handwriting drew her gaze and she sat down at the desk and without touching the letter began to read it.
After a moment, she sank back in the seat, her hands covering her eyes. Yet the words were imprinted on her mind. The signature, ‘Mary Anne Bloomfield’, was etched on the darkness behind her lids. Brandon’s old sweetheart was in town and wanted to see him!
‘Snooping, Mary! I thought you were above that!’ Brandon was standing in the doorway and Mary turned to face him, trembling and ashamed and yet angry at the same time.
‘I didn’t mean to spy on you, but why didn’t you tell me that Mary Anne had arrived in Sweyn’s Eye?’
‘Why should I speak of someone from my past?’ Brandon challenged. ‘I’ve never delved into your past, have I?’
‘That’s unjust of you,’ Mary said quickly. ‘There’s nothing you don’t know about me. Anyway, why does she want to see you again? Have you met this daughter of hers, is there something I should know?’
Brandon stared at her coldly. ‘Don’t be foolish, Mary.’ He folded the letter and locked it away in the desk, an action that angered her afresh.
‘It’s too late for that now, I’ve read the contents.’ Mary clenched her hands to her sides, jealousy eating at her so that she wanted to lash out and hurt.
They had become strangers, she thought as she made her way back upstairs to the bedroom. How had their bright wonderful love become tarnished?
The fault must be hers, she decided, and when the bed creaked beneath Brandon’s weight she turned to him, took him in her arms and put her head in the hollow of his neck the way she used to do.
‘There’s daft I am and me loving you so much that it pains me.’ She kissed his mouth. ‘I don’t give a fig for any other woman, I’m your wife after all.’
He smoothed the silk of her shoulder, his hands gentle and after a moment, his breathing deepened.
‘We’ve something very precious, Mary,’ he whispered. ‘We must never spoil it.’
Mary closed her eyes against the tears that threatened to spill along her cheeks. He was hers, her very own husband, and no one would ever take him from her.
* * *
Mary Anne Bloomfield’s arrival caused something of a stir in the large houses on the western slopes of Sweyn’s Eye. The war had become a long and wearisome matter and ceased to be the highlight of conversation. Any new event was quickly seized upon, for gossip served to lighten the sadness that washed over the houses of the bereaved. There were now so many that it was indelicate to even touch on the matter and so Mary Anne’s arrival was given more than its fair share of attention.
Mary was tired of hearing about the subject. She had been looking forward to visiting Mali, had imagined they would talk cosily together and laugh about Mary’s work on the trams, discuss their personal troubles in mutual sympathy. But it was not to be, for as Mary entered the elegant drawing room tastefully decorated in the latest pastel shade of duck-egg blue, Marion Thomas unwound her great length from the depths of a chair and held out her glass to be refilled.
‘I hear there’s a rival in town for your husband’s affections,’ Marion smiled knowingly. ‘And her daughter too, my dear. What a little beauty… and so precocious, as these Americans always are!’
Mary moved towards the fireplace where Sterling, handsome in his officer’s uniform, smiled at her in greeting.
‘Sterling, you’re on leave!’ Mary said in genuine pleasure and surprise. ‘And looking so well too – how did they let you come home from the Front?’
Sterling laughed. ‘We are allowed some time off, you know, even though there’s a war on.’
Marion Thomas was not easily diverted and, ignoring Sterling, she continued to speak to Mary. ‘Goodness, isn’t the American girl like your husband, Mary? When I saw them together I just couldn’t believe it: the same high forehead and the thick curly hair – there’s no mistaking the girl is a Sutton, but which brother is her father?’ Mary resisted the temptation to spin round on Marion and tell her to shut her mouth – not a very ladylike response, she thought ruefully. It was only the risk of spoiling Mali’s afternoon tea party that made her remain silent.
She moved to the window seat where she sat turned away from the chatter of the room, wondering when it was that Marion had seen Brandon with Mary Anne and her daughter. Anger surged through her as she thought of them together and she looking the fool knowing nothing about it.
‘There’s a scowl likely to bring on the thunder.’ Mali sat beside her and patted her hand. ‘Come on now, you know better than to listen to that cat Marion, don’t you?’
Mary forced a smile. ‘You’re right, you always did talk a lot of sense, Mali.’ Yet her spirits were low and even though she joined the little group of admiring women at Sterling’s side and laughed with them at his jokes, she felt cold and lost and there was an ache deep inside her that she could not dispel.
It was on the following day that she saw Mary Anne Bloomfield with her own eyes. The woman was plumpish but dressed in great style, with frills and furbelows decorating her fine velvet coat and skirt. She sat opposite Mary in the emporium tea rooms, consciously aware that she was the centre of attraction. Her daughter, who looked about sixteen years of age, was slight and pale with an indistinctive cast to her mouth and chin, but the fine eyes and unruly dark hair marked her as a Sutton as surely as if the name was emblazoned across the high forehead.
Covertly, Mary watched the woman she thought of as her adversary, and slowly began to realise that Mary Anne was a voluptuous woman. In spite of her full figure, her skin was fine and her hair silky – falling across her forehead in a most unfashionable but strangely becoming style. Her mouth was full and glossily coloured and her teeth were white and even.
Mary told herself she was being ridiculous, sitting behind an aspidistra plant in her own tea room spying on this other woman, yet something held her fast. She was fascinated by the woman’s extravagant gestures and by the high-pitched American voice. Did Mary Anne know that she was sitting in the store owned by the wife of her former lover, Mary wondered? In her heart she knew that Mary Anne was not the type to do anything without calculating every move first.
‘There’s soft you are, sitting here like a thief in the night,’ she murmured in self-disgust and she twitched the hem of her gown into place and rose from her chair, intending to return to her office.
Her heart missed a beat as she heard the timbre of her husband’s voice and cautiously she peered between the large glossy leaves of the plant. Brandon was kissing Mary Anne’s fingers and bowing his head to the young girl at her side and even as Mary watched, he took a seat and leaned across the teacups engrossed in an earnest conversation.
The blood raced into Mary’s face and she put up her hands as though to cool her cheeks, controlling the impulse to rush forward and confront her husband. She must not make a scene, she told herself fiercely, that would only help feed the gossiping tongues. She moved forward with a measured tread, her head high and a smile on her lips.
‘Brandon, home from work so early?’ She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, her hand resting on his shoulder. ‘Don’t get up, I’ll join you. We’ll have a fresh pot of tea, please, Greenie,’ she said as the older woman hovered anxiously nearby.
‘And this must
be the Mary Anne I’ve heard so much about.’ Mary’s tone implied that there had been a lot of fuss about nothing and Mary Anne’s eyes searched her face knowingly.
‘And you are Brandon’s little wife – and what a sweet, funny way you have of talking, honey.’ The tone was friendly but the eyes held nothing but hostility. ‘This is Virginia, our daughter.’
The phrasing was calculated to raise the hackles of any woman, but Mary smiled sweetly.
‘I can see she’s your daughter all right,’ she said softly, ‘But then I wouldn’t know your husband, would I?’
Her words found their mark and Mary Anne could not conceal her dislike. She glared at Mary, her silence acknowledging the fact that there was no husband. The full mouth became a pout as she rose sweepingly to her feet.
‘You must excuse us, honey, we have business elsewhere – but don’t forget our little arrangement, will you?’ Her words were for Brandon, who rose politely to his feet as Mary Anne swept away followed by her silent daughter.
Brandon leaned across the table. ‘That was not worthy of you, Mary.’ He spoke softly and she looked into his eyes, unable to conceal the pain she was feeling.
‘And I suppose it was worthy of you to sit in my own tea rooms with a woman who once was your mistress?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘She wanted it that way, Brandon, she arranged it so that I would look the fool before all my friends, can’t you see that?’
He shook his head. ‘All I see is a woman who is jealous over something that happened years ago. I repeat, it’s not worthy of you.’
She rose to her feet. ‘Worthy or not, if you meet her again and make a laughing stock of me in the town, you’ll be sorry.’
His eyes darkened. ‘Don’t threaten me, Mary.’ His voice, though low, carried such force of feeling that Mary was fearful of what he would do next. She turned and walked unseeingly away, and in that moment she almost hated her husband.
Chapter Eighteen
Lightning forked across the hills, cracking the gloomy skies asunder. Thunder rumbled low over the sleepy, early morning face of Sweyn’s Eye like the sound of gunfire, reminding the dozing inhabitants that the country was at war.
Rhian had been awake early, unable to sleep, tossing from side to side in her small bed, feeling alone in her candlelit room and yet aware of Gina Sinman sleeping in the next room with a child on each side of her. How grateful she was for Gina’s company and good sense, for since Heath had been sent to France guilt had ridden Rhian’s mind like a nightmare for allowing him to think that she was in love with him.
She went to the mill so early that she needed to light the lamps; in the ghostly glow, the machines normally so familiar seemed dark monsters about to spring and rend. She was being silly and fanciful, she knew, but it was just as well she was up and about early because there was a lot of work to do.
As she brushed back her hair and tied it with a piece of ribbon, she allowed herself a smile. She had every reason to be pleased with herself: at last sales of wool were bringing in a profit. Still, she must not crow too soon, for there was a great deal more to do to put the mill on a solid footing once more.
‘And nothing will get done if you stand by here daydreaming, girl,’ she told herself sternly.
She set the mule into motion and watched the slubbings twisting and interlocking the woollen fibres so that they would be suitable for weaving into brightly coloured blankets. She would spend the morning in the mill, she decided, and do her rounds of the houses in the afternoon.
As she worked she frowned in concentration – unaware of the fine lines of her cheekbones, the slimness of her body and the dark shadows that dusted blue beneath her eyes. She needed to work for when she stopped, her mind would begin to race. When that happened she would be tormented by memories of Heath’s love for her, would remember how she had lain in his arms giving herself so readily to his embrace. He had gone bravely off to war, comforted by the thought of Rhian waiting for his return; he was true and honest and did not deserve her treachery. Then, as though to scourge her soul, she would see in her mind’s eye Mansel Jack’s dark strong face and unhappiness would rise like a blight to encompass her mind.
It was Gina’s voice which shattered her concentration. Rhian looked up and smiled as she saw the two children sitting one on each plump hip and Gina smiling as though she had everything in the world that she wanted.
‘Shut off that clattering machine, there’s a lovely girl, it’s time to have a bit of grub before you fall down into a faint.’
The sudden silence in the room seemed to echo Gina’s voice and Rhian rubbed at her eyes wearily.
‘I am hungry,’ she said, smiling. ‘I hope there’s plenty of food, for I might just start eating the babbas as well.’
Cerianne screamed in excitement as Rhian tickled her plump cheek and clung to Gina as though she had never known any other mother.
Rhian prised her loose and carried the little girl along the coldness of the yard, following Gina back to the house.
‘I’ve got us a nice piece of ham and some cockles and laver bread – you’d better eat it all up, my girl, or I’ll be taking offence, mind,’ Gina said breathlessly.
Rhian hid a smile; sometimes Gina treated her as though she was a child. ‘I’ll eat it all up, don’t you bother your head about that.’
The kitchen gleamed with cleanliness and warmth and gratefully, Rhian sank down into a chair.
‘Look,’ Gina said, ‘why don’t we take Cerianne and little Dewi down to the park for a bit this afternoon.’
‘The park? But it’s thundering and there’s lightning.’ Rhian looked through the window, amazed to see that the day had blossomed out into one of sunshine and the birds were singing to usher in the spring.
‘You going off your head or something?’ Gina said with a smile. ‘It stopped raining hours ago.’
Rhian sat at the table with Cerianne on her lap and began to eat hungrily. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she mumbled through a forkful of bacon, ‘why don’t we go round the houses selling?’
Gina frowned. ‘I don’t know, cariad, there’s still a lot of folks don’t trust me, you know. No, you go, good girl. I’ll take the babbas down the park on my own.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Rhian said quickly. ‘I know it’s hard at the moment, hard on both of us, but we’re just beginning to win, Gina. If we carry on like this, I’m thinking of getting a woman in to look after the children so that you can help me in the mill.’
Gina gave her a quick look. ‘What woman?’ She hugged her son as though unwilling to hand him over to anyone and Rhian smiled reassuringly.
‘You know Carrie, who used to come in and “do” for my Aunt Agnes? Well, I thought she’d be ideal. She’s a good worker and reliable enough, we can trust her. In any case, we’ll only be a stone’s throw away should anything go wrong.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Gina began to smile. ‘It might be nice to work at the loom again.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ Rhian smiled and Gina shook her head at her.
‘How sly of you, Rhian Gray, I thought we were talking about “maybe”.’
Rhian chuckled out loud. ‘All right, maybe we’ll definitely get Carrie in to help. I’ll see her when I go round with the wool this afternoon.’
Selling on doorsteps was not the easiest way of making money, Rhian found. She had filled two large baskets with hanks of wool in just the right greyish-khaki colour for knitting socks for soldiers, for she had quickly learned that the wealthier women of Sweyn’s Eye were delighted to be doing their own little bit to help the war on its way. They paid a good price for the wool too, and Rhian prided herself that it was of the best quality. Some she had double-spun so as to make the wool thicker and the hanks were being bought up more quickly than she could produce them; she could certainly do with Gina’s expert help in the mill, she thought ruefully.
The hill was rising steeply; the panorama of the sea, the town and the docks was spread out below
and it was a breathtaking sight. Rhian paused, feeling her hair drift free of the ribbon which had been holding it and not caring. She was behaving like a gypsy, she thought wryly, so she might as well look like one.
The baskets were quickly emptied and hung on her arms, the handles marking fine patterns against her bare flesh. Rhian sat down to rest, for her feet ached in the heavy boots she was wearing. She really must buy herself more comfortable footwear, for she would be tramping the streets a great deal. Undoing the laces, she eased the boots from her feet, stretching out in a hollow that sheltered her from the gusty sea breezes, a trap for the spring sunshine. She was out of sight of the windows of the fine big houses now. So tired that she found herself becoming soothed and relaxed, she closed her eyes and the sun dazzled orange behind her lids; it was so comfortable that she must rest.
* * *
The Richardson house was airy and spacious and Mansel Jack stood before the window staring appreciatively into the garden. It was rich with spring blossoms; daffodils strident and yellow grew at random in the lawn and trees fringed the borders of the grounds.
After Yorkshire, Wales was the most beautiful country he had ever seen. But it had another face and one with which he was becoming familiar. He had spent a great deal of time in the heart of the industrial area of Sweyn’s Eye; the stink of the copper smoke and the abrasive quality of the dust-laden air had attacked his throat, stinging his eyes, until he became used to it.
Since coming to Wales, he had congratulated himself more than once on having the insight to put his brass into munitions. He had known instinctively that shells and armaments were what the country needed and had been proved right.
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