He found himself mingling well with the townspeople – the gentry, Doreen would have called them. It was ironic really that she was not here to enjoy the fine company he was keeping.
As for Charlotte, she wrote to him diligently, her love flowing from the neat handwriting. He had soon realised that the only feeling he had for her was one of guilt. He pushed aside the thought as Sterling Richardson entered the room with his hands thrust into his pockets, looking handsome and dashing in his uniform.
‘Good to see you,’ Sterling held out his hand. ‘I’m rejoining my regiment today, glad you could call before I leave.’
‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ Mansel Jack said at once. ‘It’s about the house I’m renting from you – I want to buy it.’
Sterling nodded his head. ‘Yes, I think we can come to some arrangement about the property. Let’s walk in the garden, shall we?’
For a time the two men strolled through the spring-fresh air in companionable silence. They moved into the arbour where the leaves of the trees grew dewy and green.
‘You know, I’ve been buying up houses rather than selling them,’ Sterling said after a time, ‘but you’re welcome to the house in Meadow Street if it isn’t too modest for your requirements.’
‘It will do me for now,’ Mansel Jack said decisively.
‘Good, then consider it settled. I shall make sure you have a bargain, you can depend on it,’ Sterling smiled. He was a handsome man with fine features and honest eyes and Mansel Jack had liked him ever since their first meeting at the home of Mary Sutton.
‘You know, being at the Front gives a man a different kind of perspective,’ Sterling said thoughtfully. ‘It seemed to me that to build up my empire and my fortune was of prime importance, yet somehow the will to make more and more money has vanished.’ He turned on his heel. ‘I’d better be getting back into the house, I’m becoming maudlin. I’ll say goodbye to you now, Mansel Jack. I need to spend as much time with my family as possible.’
‘I understand,’ the other responded, smiling warmly. ‘I’m just going to walk over the hills – see you on your next leave.’
The two men shook hands, both knowing that there might not be a next time.
Mansel Jack stepped out smartly, feeling the cool of the spring breeze on his cheeks. And yet the sun was shining bravely, a pale sun but warming the land in the sheltered areas between the hilltops.
He paused for a moment to take deep breaths of the clear air, free here from the abrasive dust which covered the valley. He had a new plan now, one which had been germinating in his head for some time. Wool was in his blood and even though the munitions were a good source of revenue he needed something else in his life. That was why he had made it his business to try to find Heinz Sinman, the owner of Spinners’ Wharf, and the news was bad.
Deep in his thoughts, he came upon the little hollow so suddenly that he almost stumbled over the small figure lying in its warmth. He crouched down on his heels, a strange sensation filling him.
Rhian Gray was beautiful to see and a tight feeling filled his lungs as if all the air had been expelled. He saw the way her hair drifted down her shoulders and touched its softness carefully. She was thinner than when he had seen her last and there were shadows beneath her eyes. The lass was working too hard, it was plain enough for anyone to see. Once he owned the mill, he would be sure to take care of her.
As she stirred slightly her thick skirts fell away from her ankles and he saw her feet were completely bare, her toes small and well formed. He smiled, though there was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
She was a fine young woman, he told himself, who had returned to her native Wales and set herself up to do a job of work with a determination that he had to admire. He would not confide his plans to her, for first he had the unpleasant task of informing Gina Sinman that she was a widow.
He looked down at Rhian’s sleeping face, feeling something more than the usual raw urge to have a woman’s sweet warmth beneath him. He shook his head, telling himself he was getting soft in his old age; he simply desired her because the day was fine and it was a long time since he had lain with a woman. Yet he could not deny that she had the quality of appearing untouched and untouchable and this appealed to him greatly.
Suddenly Rhian opened her eyes and was looking at him and they stared at each other for a long time in silence. Gradually she became aware of her appearance and sat up, pulling on her boots, trying to brush back the unruly hair that was festooned with small spikes of grass.
‘You look very beautiful,’ he said softly, ‘but you shouldn’t go falling asleep on mountaintops. It rained last night and the grass is probably damp.’
She stood up and even at full height she came only to his shoulder. ‘Why were you sitting there, staring at me like that? You’ll give me goosebumps,’ she said breathlessly.
He ignored her question, amazed at the urge to draw her into his arms and cradle her against him. ‘How are you getting along, lass?’ He stared pointedly at the baskets and she picked them up quickly, brushing back her long hair.
‘I’m doing all right,’ she said proudly. Her smile was brilliant. ‘I’m so determined that I make folk buy from me!’
‘Putting to good use all the things you learned at my mill, eh?’ he said pleasantly, but she appeared very young and vulnerable.
‘Can’t I be of some help, lass?’ he asked and she glanced up at him, her eyes warm.
‘Seems to me you’ve enough to do with the munitions factory,’ she replied, pushing back her hair again.
‘Worried about me?’ he said, making a move towards her. She swung round the baskets to make an effective barrier between them – not that the look in her eyes wasn’t barrier enough.
‘All right,’ he held up his hands. ‘I’m not going to touch you.’
‘I know you’re not,’ she replied shakily, ‘for I cannot let you.’ She attempted to tidy her hair, but the breeze took the dark red strands and lifted them so that the curls drifted across her face.
‘Do you dislike me then, Rhian?’ he asked.
‘No, of course I don’t.’ Her eyes were hidden from him now, but her voice trembled.
‘Why hold me at bay then, lass? We used to be able to talk.’
She paused for a moment, avoiding his eyes. ‘You must know that I’m Heath Jenkins’ girl now,’ she said at last. ‘Going to be his wife I am, when he returns from the war.’
As she began to walk away from him a mixture of emotions raced through him and he was suddenly angry, though he could not have said why.
‘Hey, lass!’ he called after her. ‘For a bride-to-be, you’ve got a very long face!’
He watched as she stumbled away over the uneven ground, but she did not turn and he stared after her until the small figure was out of sight, wondering at the empty feeling that lay heavy in his gut.
* * *
Carrie, it seemed, was more than pleased to come to the mill and look after the children. She confided in Rhian how empty her life had seemed, now that she had no one to look after.
‘Born to care for folk, I was, and I’m that grateful to you for giving me the chance to be of use again. I’ll mind the babbas with the greatest of pleasure,’ she said warmly.
‘There’s good of you, Carrie,’ Rhian had been delighted. ‘The babies are little monsters on times, what with Cerianne bossing little Dewi, but you’ll love them both and they’ll love you, I just know it.’
Gina had been reluctant at first to leave her precious son up at the house while she worked the mill, but soon she was transformed, her eyes brighter and her step full of her old verve. And it was with a feeling of happiness that Rhian saw her friend become more confident and assured.
‘You’re a clever girl, Rhian Gray, you know that?’ Gina swung the belt from the fast wheel to the loose and the clatter of the loom died away into silence.
‘Now why do you have to throw me compliments that are not deserved?’ Rhian was
holding up a blanket, struggling under its weight, trying to see if the pattern had worked out as she had planned.
Gina sighed. ‘You just get everyone to do what you want – you have a gift for managing people.’
‘Hmm, I don’t know about that,’ Rhian smiled. ‘What do you think of this, Gina? Isn’t the pattern colourful and won’t it sell shawls and blankets like freshly caught fish?’
Gina stood back and stared at the mingling of red, white and blue fringing, eyes wide. ‘There’s a good idea for you, now,’ she said in admiration. ‘Very patriotic of you, my girl. But I can’t see the fashionable ladies wearing thick woollen shawls, can you?’
Rhian shook her head. ‘No, but they’ll buy these warm blankets to send to the Front – and as for the turnovers, I’ll sell them to all the working women in Sweyn’s Eye. We’ll wear them ourselves too; nothing like showing off the product, is there?’
‘Duw, there’s a marvel you are, Rhian. Got some good ideas you have – can see you as rich as a queen in no time.’
‘Well, for now I’ll settle for making a fair living. Come on, my girl, it’s back to work for us. Flood the market with these, we will, so that no one else gets a look-in on our ideas.’
Gina frowned. ‘Aye, I never thought about that.’ She set the loom into motion once more. ‘I’ll get this turnover off quick and then start on the red, white and blue. We’ll show Sweyn’s Eye what we’re made of!’
Rhian could scarcely hear Gina’s voice over the clatter of the machine, but she nodded and smiled, pleased by the eager look on the other’s face. That she still grieved over Heinz was clear, for Rhian heard her cry sometimes in the quiet of the night, but Gina’s zest for living had returned and Rhian was thankful for it.
The ‘patriotic shawls’ caught the imagination of the town and soon they began to be seen on the shoulders of the working women from one end of Sweyn’s Eye to the other.
But as Rhian had feared, it was not long before Alfred Phillpot was copying the red, white and blue pattern – as she soon learned when she knocked on a door in Canal Street and found Sally Benson’s round face sneering at her.
‘Got a shawl like that one only better.’ She spoke in a sing-song voice, just like a child poking out its tongue and shouting ‘sucks to you’.
Rhian stared at her, trying to conceal her dislike. ‘Not cheaper, though, I bet a gold sovereign.’
‘Yes, cheaper, see. Alfred Phillpot is quicker than you and I’ve got one of the first shawls he’s made, but soon they’ll be in all the shops and then your nose will be out of joint.’ She closed the door with a snap of finality and after a fruitless tour of the rest of the street, Rhian turned for home.
‘The cheatin’ little toad!’ Carrie said harshly. ‘I could kill the po-faced pipsqueak myself!’
‘Aye, I know how you feel, but how can we stop him?’ Rhian sat numbly in her chair and stared into the rosiness of the fire. ‘He’s got the might of the Co-op Movement behind him and I’ve got nothing.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Carrie said softly. ‘What about that man Mansel Jack – the one you used to work for? Go and ask him for help.’
Rhian hid her face beneath the heavy fall of her hair, ashamed of the rich colour that came to her cheeks.
‘Oh, I couldn’t go to him with my problems,’ she said softly.
Carrie sighed. ‘Perhaps you’re right, merchi,’ she replied, but there was a small smile on her lips. If Rhian would not approach the man there was nothing stopping her from asking his advice, Carrie thought; she would see to it this very evening!
Rhian was determined to be at the mill early the next morning, but as she walked along the greyness of the yard she left the warmth of the coal fire behind with reluctance. Gina would join her later when little Dewi had sucked his fill from her round breasts. Somehow it pained Rhian to witness the breakfast routine; she felt excluded and alone, for usually Carrie was busy feeding Cerianne and everyone except her seemed occupied and involved.
She stared ahead of her now, her footsteps faltering to a stop, unable to believe her eyes. Mansel Jack was leaning against the door of the mill, his hands in his pockets and a smile on his handsome face. From the freshness of his manner, he had been abroad for hours.
‘Good morning. Won’t you let me inside the mill before this late frost does its worst to my extremities?’ He laughed as she blushed, looking down at the key in her hand but unable to set it into the lock. At last he took it from her, his fingers brushing hers and adding to her confusion.
‘I understand you need a little support?’ he said easily as he moved into the dimness of the mill.
Rhian lit the lamps and tried to gather her thoughts; Carrie must have gone to Mansel Jack and asked for his help.
She took a deep breath and turned to look at him. ‘Aye, I suppose I do need some advice,’ she said reluctantly.
‘There, it didn’t hurt to admit it, you see?’ He smiled, speaking easily, and her colour rose.
‘Don’t make fun.’
His dark eyes met hers for a brief instant. ‘Oh, I’m not making fun of you, Rhian, lass – indeed, I’ve taken a few hours off from my factory to help you. Now, tell me about the problem you have with this man Phillpot.’ He settled himself easily on the long bench seat that ran down the middle of the room and nervously Rhian clasped her hands together. His presence filled the place and he seemed to glow and shimmer, illuminating the dimness.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing much to say except that he’s stealing my idea of the red, white and blue pattern. He’s taking my trade from me and what can I do?’
It was the first time she had asked him for anything and Rhian glanced at Mansel Jack uncertainly, looking away when he would have caught her eye.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said at last. ‘It’s a simple enough matter and I’ll deal with it – you’ll get no more trouble from this Alfred Phillpot.’
She believed him, for Mansel Jack would intimidate anyone. It was not so much his appearance – though he was a big man and strong, with great determination in his face – as his manner, which was enough to freeze over an ocean. But he was smiling now. ‘Phillpot’s not important, so put him out of your mind. Now how about coming up to my house this evening for a bite of supper, lass?’ She tensed, drawing herself up to her full height. He rose and stood beside her, not touching her, but it was as though shocks were passing between them. Rhian held her head high and looked into his eyes.
‘You know I’m spoken for,’ her voice shook. ‘And anyway, what would folk think of me, being in your house alone? No, it wouldn’t do at all.’
‘Damnation, I suppose I’m not thinking straight. You’re right, of course.’ He rubbed his hand through his fine curly hair and stared down at her with warmth glowing in his eyes. ‘But there would be nothing improper about a walk in Brynmill Park, would there?’ He smiled then, the charm of his features and the light in his eyes making her feel suddenly breathless.
She backed away from him, on her dignity, her voice more controlled when she spoke.
‘Please, just go away and leave me alone. I’m not free, I’ve explained that to you.’
‘All right,’ he sounded exasperated. ‘I’ll leave you alone, there’s no talking to a woman who has no spark of humour in her.’ He shrugged his big shoulders. ‘I thought we had a lot in common, you and me, Rhian Gray – but perhaps I was wrong.’
Rhian wanted to cling to him, to tell him she felt more than simple friendship for him. She would have given anything to walk in the park with him, but how could she when she was promised to Heath?
He left without another word and Rhian stood for a long moment, her thoughts racing, her pulse throbbing. Then she sighed heavily. She must be calm she told herself. ‘Forget Mansel Jack!’ And yet the image of him and the power of his presence continued to haunt the mill.
Whatever it was that he said or did to Alfred Phillpot, the man stopped producing the three-coloured shawls as quickly as he had begun. R
hian waited for Mansel Jack to call and tell her of his triumph, but she waited in vain for he did not come.
* * *
Mansel Jack had been pleased to come to Rhian’s aid and it had given him great personal pleasure to put the little man from the Cooperative Movement in his place yet again. It had not involved very much effort, just a reminder that he could be exposed as a fraud and then his career would be at an end. Alfred Phillpot had given in at once, smiling ingratiatingly, his narrowed eyes wary and watchful.
‘I’ll do anything you say, of course.’ His reply had been what Mansel Jack expected, but then the man was a windbag who would only try his antics on helpless women.
Calling at the mill house early one morning and hearing the clatter of the loom, he knew that Rhian was at work.
Gina was alone in the kitchen preparing breakfast, and he felt a sense of relief, for what he must say needed privacy. He broached the subject of Heinz’ death with care, fearing that she would swoon away in a vapour or become hysterical. He need not have worried, for though gentle she was made of sterner stuff than that.
‘You’re sure?’ she asked, her eyes appealing and he nodded, taking her hands in his.
‘I’m sorry.’
Gina drew her son to her and kissed his cheek. ‘Then what’s to become of us? Rhian can’t carry the burden of the mill alone.’
‘I have a solution if you want to hear it,’ he said, ‘but perhaps the time’s not right?’
She nodded her head. ‘Please speak.’
‘I’d like to buy Spinners’ Wharf.’ He held up his hand when she would have spoken. ‘No, hear me out. I’d like everything to continue just as it is, but I could inject much-needed money into the business.’ He smiled. ‘I’m really being very selfish, for the woollen industry is in my blood and I’d like to see the mill built up to the successful business I know it could be.’ He paused. ‘By all means take time to think things over, but I would ask that you keep our discussion private for the time being.’
He left the mill and made his way back, pausing to stare at the solid old house that was now his home. He should be concerning himself with his future marriage; Charlotte’s last letter had been full of her loneliness for him, and yet there was so much else to occupy his time. He spent his days at the munitions factory, working both in the office and on the shop floor, but it gave him little satisfaction. He simply wasn’t needed there; put any good man in at the top and the place would run itself and give him his freedom. But freedom to do what?
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