by Alis Hawkins
‘Because it is agreed. All the while Esme Williams cares for Samuel as her own, I will confirm whatever story she and her husband make up about how they come to have him. But, if I hear anything – anything at all – that tells me he’s being unkindly treated, I will let the truth be known.’ He gazed at her intently, as if willing her to trust him. ‘Believe me when I say that neither she nor her husband is willing for that to happen. And – even if it’s ten years from now – if I should hear of his being mistreated or unkindly dealt with, I will say what I know.’
Hannah took a deep breath. In the shadowy light thrown by the lantern, I saw her open the shawl and look down at her son.
‘Come now,’ the minister said, ‘we must give him to his father and then I will take you to your new position.’
‘At this time of night?’ Hannah was momentarily distracted from her grief.
‘It’s all arranged,’ Howell assured her. ‘Now, be ready to come out with Lady Harriet here at my command. Do you understand?’
If Hannah gave any sign of comprehension or acquiescence, I failed to see it but Howell turned away, apparently satisfied.
I moved towards the open door and watched as he addressed the assembled men.
‘First,’ he said, ‘as a sign that we’re doing the Lord’s work, and to ask his blessing on it, we’ll sing a hymn.’
Unfamiliar with the tune they struck up, I turned my attention to the house. The windows were dark but I saw a brief sliver of light in one, as if a curtain had been twitched aside by somebody holding a lamp.
Singing is apt to make men forgetful of their surroundings and this was no exception. As the hymn’s harmony filled the farmyard, it seemed to me that every eye, save those still hidden away inside the carriage, was on Nathaniel Howell. So, when the farmhouse door was flung open, the only people who saw Esme Williams’s look of guarded unsurprise were Hannah Rees and me.
Williams’s wife stood on the threshold fully dressed, a candle lantern in one hand. Either she was an exceptionally speedy dresser or she had been expecting us.
The hymn at an end, Nathaniel Howell turned to face her. ‘Call your husband down, please.’
But, before she could turn around, Williams came out of the house, thrusting forward his lantern in an attempt to identify faces. ‘What—’
Howell held up a hand. Unlike Williams he spoke in Welsh. ‘Please, don’t make yourself look foolish. You know how you have sinned and I don’t doubt that you know, by now, how you will be required to make amends.’
‘How dare you? I’m a gentleman—’
I could not see Howell’s face but I could see anger in the rigidity of his stance. ‘A gentleman.’ It was not a question, it was a flat dismissal. ‘Does a gentleman treat his servants with disrespect? Does he force himself upon a young woman again and again until she carries within her the consequences of his lust? Does he deny his own sin and deprive her of her livelihood?’
I looked over at Williams’s wife, mortified on her behalf. But, eyes on Howell, her face registered no visible reaction.
Williams himself, however, showed all the indignation I would have expected.
‘I won’t stand here and be insulted by a man like you,’ he blustered. ‘I want all of you to leave my property. Now.’
Not an eye shifted from his face. Not a foot stirred. The Rebeccas’ concerted lack of reaction was eerie; but, of course, this was not the first time they had been out on this errand.
Then, at the front of the crowd, Ezra Lloyd took a step forward.
Just one. And every other man followed suit. It was the most menacing thing I had ever seen.
Howell spoke into the silence. ‘Mr Williams. Do not imagine that we will allow you to defy us. If you turn and go into your house we will come after you. If you bar your door to us, we will break it down. If you fetch the gun I know you possess, we will burn your house to the ground.’
I do not suppose a man present doubted that he would be true to his word; I certainly did not.
‘Who are you to say such things to me?’ Williams demanded. ‘You stand in my yard and accuse me without evidence. You set yourself up to be judge and jury—’
‘Not me alone. All of us. We are a jury of your peers—’
Williams waved a dismissive hand. ‘These men are not my peers!’
‘No!’ Howell’s fury sent his voice up half an octave. ‘You’re right – these men are not your peers. They are better than you! They are God-fearing men who know God’s word and live by it!’
Not waiting for any kind of response from Williams, Howell turned towards the carriage. Suddenly, my mouth was like chalk and I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. I could not shake off the fear that I, too, was here to be judged.
‘Bring her out, please.’
I stood and complied. One palm supporting her child, Hannah rose to my hand and I opened the door. Davy, true to his word, did not stir from his seat at the front of the carriage though I could feel his eyes on me, watching, as I lowered the steps and helped Hannah down.
Playing my part to the full, I tucked the young woman’s free arm inside my own and walked her, side-by-side and sisterlike, to the waiting minister who bowed. Remembering myself just in time, I curtsied, clumsily, before standing to one side.
‘It’s time, now, Hannah,’ I heard Howell whisper to the girl. ‘Be brave. You know it’s best for the child.’
Howell passed me his lantern and took the child from Hannah’s arms.
‘William Williams,’ he strode towards the farmer, ‘this is your son.’
Williams held up his lantern and looked down at the infant who, awoken and chilled by the removal from his mother’s breast, began to grizzle. ‘You can’t just come here and father a child onto me!’ he protested. ‘How do I know it’s mine? Any number of men could have had her.’
At this, one of the Rebeccas darted forward, stumbling slightly as his apron wrapped itself around his legs. He seized Williams by the lapels and forced him to his knees.
‘You raping pig! You dare to lay the blame on my sister? She was a maid when she came here, an innocent!’
I nerved myself to look over at Mrs Williams. No matter how unsympathetic she was to her servants, she did not deserve to hear such lewdness on her own doorstep. But her face was without expression in the flickering darkness.
The child still clasped to his own chest, Howell stepped forward. ‘Leave him be, Jac,’ he said, quietly. Then, in a voice loud enough for all the gathered men to hear, he addressed Williams as the farmer pushed himself to his feet.
‘You make your sin against this young woman even more reprehensible by refusing to acknowledge your responsibilities, and insulting her. You would do well to ask her pardon.’
‘I will do no such thing! I am a gentleman – I will not apologise to that hussy!’
I did not see him move, the man who had claimed Hannah as his sister. There was just the sudden violence of a punch, and Williams staggering back, his hands to his face, moaning and swearing. His wife bent to the lamp he had dropped and, again, it seemed to me that she was unnaturally calm in the face of what was happening.
The crowd, meanwhile, broke into ragged encouragement and, if Howell had not held up a forestalling hand, I do not doubt that others would have surged forward to inflict a severe beating on Williams.
‘Enough!’ Howell’s voice was raised to the point of shrillness; the situation was in danger of breaking out of his control and I saw him look towards Ezra Lloyd who came to stand at his side.
‘Yes. Enough.’ Mrs Williams pushed her husband to one side and came forward to address Howell. ‘That’s the first sense you’ve spoken since you’ve been here. What does Hannah Rees care for an apology? All she cares about is her child and whether he’ll be looked after.’
I glanced at Hannah, who was still standing next to me. All eyes suddenly upon her, she gave a sob and rushed towards Howell, wresting the infant from the minister’s grasp and clasping hi
m to her.
Without her at my side, I felt exposed, at the mob’s mercy.
Mrs Williams turned and spoke to Hannah, as if all the assembled men were of no account. ‘Of course we’ll look after him. You know we have only daughters in our house – we need a son.’
If Mrs Williams had held out her arms for the boy, I believe Hannah would have fled back to the carriage. But she did not. She simply stood and waited.
What choice did Hannah Rees have? If she kept the child, she would be in the workhouse till he was weaned, then she would be found work and he would stay there as an orphan.
As she had done before, Hannah kissed her son’s forehead. For a long moment her lips seemed unable to part from his skin and I thought she would fail but, at last, she raised her head and looked into her erstwhile mistress’s eyes. ‘His name is Samuel.’
As Mrs Williams took the baby from his mother, her eyes darted to me and I felt a jolt of cold fear at the thought of being recognised. Then I realised; even if she knew me, she could not tell my father that Howell had paraded me. If she did, she would have to explain what I had been doing at Waungilfach.
A week or so later, my father asked me whether I had heard the news about Williams and his wife. They had, apparently, been so charitable as to take in the motherless child of one of her distant cousins.
I nodded, though my mind was filled not with the image of the child Samuel in his new mother’s arms but with Howell’s parting words to me.
‘Do not give us cause to visit you, Harry Gwyn. For your father’s position will not protect you.’
John
You should know, shouldn’t you?
What had Matthew Tregorlais meant by that?
There was only one explanation I could see. Harry must’ve been on the receiving end of Howell’s attentions. Was that why he was so keen to investigate? To get his own back on Beca?
The further we got from Tregorlais, the more I expected Harry to say something. Either to justify himself or distract me. But he said nothing. Not a word. In the end, it was me that broke the silence.
‘Why would Matt leave the chapel and start going to church?’ It was an oddity. Generally, if people were going to swap, they gave up church for chapel.
Harry answered without turning his head. ‘The chapel at Treforgan – Nathaniel Howell’s chapel – was very involved with Rebecca. Too involved perhaps. Howell left in a bit of a hurry and some people might’ve wanted to forget what they’d been mixed up in. Leaving the chapel would be one way to do that, I suppose.’
‘But why church? Why didn’t Matt just go to another chapel?’
‘Perhaps he was worried about the family’s tenancy, wanted the added respectability of going to church, getting the vicar on his side.’
That made sense. Added to that, Brongwyn was a small parish with few men to choose the plwyfwas from. If Matt had decided he needed more respectability, turning church was a good idea.
We reached a crossroads. Harry pulled up and looked round at me. ‘I think we need to go and see Mrs Williams.’
I was taken by surprise. ‘Esme Williams – Waungilfach?
Harry sighed as if he’d made a decision. ‘Yes. It was she who asked me to investigate. She wants her husband’s name cleared.’
‘Ah, I see,’ I said as if that explained everything. But it didn’t, did it? Not everything. Not by a long shot.
The last time I’d been to Waungilfach farm, seven years before, I’d come by the footpath through the Alltddu, not along the road. The footpath led up to the farm’s back yard, by the dairy. The front entrance was grander – a short, gated drive. We rode past an orchard on one side and a range of buildings on the other, down to Williams’s tidy, two-storey farmhouse.
I was glad to be coming in the front way. I was already nervous enough about going to Waungilfach without having to go through the wood where Margaret Jones had died.
Esme Williams let her maid answer our knock, and the girl took us into the parlour. It was trying hard to be something else but it was still just the one decent room of a Cardiganshire farmhouse. Like my mother always said, you can put a pig in a dress but it’s still a pig. It was also freezing cold and Esme had to call the girl back to light the fire.
‘When you’ve done that, you can make us some tea.’ Esme spoke to the girl in Welsh. The Williams’s servants weren’t in the same class as the Pridhams’.
Harry fidgeted while the maid brought embers from the kitchen fire and threw a shovelful of small-coal on top. His eyes were shifting about. Trying to get an impression of the room, most likely. What was it like, I wondered, being able to see that things were there but not being able to look at them properly?
Mind you, it was no loss in Esme Williams’s parlour. The only thing to see apart from the fashionable furniture were those little china figures some women of a certain age love so much. On every flat surface, they were. Like pixies, watching you with their tiny, frozen faces. If I’d been William Williams, I’d’ve taken a stick to the lot of them.
Esme watched the maid get up off her knees and scuttle out in the direction of the kitchen before she spoke to us. The poor girl’d be cursing us for putting her behind on all her work. Esme Williams was the kind of woman who’d want everything done just so, visitors or not.
‘Well then, Mr Probert-Lloyd,’ she said, ‘have you got some news for me?’ Now that the maid was out of the way, we were back to English.
Harry shifted on the edge of the shiny sofa. I knew chintz was all the rage with houseproud women but it wasn’t comfortable to sit on – felt as if it’d been lacquered. ‘Actually, Mrs Williams, I have some questions.’
‘Oh?’ Esme shot a glance at me but I pretended not to notice. Didn’t want her to know I was as much in the dark as she was.
‘I need to ask you about the night little Samuel was brought here.’
‘From my cousin’s?’
Harry sighed. ‘Mrs Williams, John Davies is my confidential assistant. He must know everything I know.’ I was watching Esme carefully but she was keeping a tight hold of herself. ‘It’s necessary that he understands how Samuel came to be here,’ Harry said. ‘That he’s your husband’s natural son. His and Hannah Rees’s.’
I waited for her to deny it but she kept quiet. Perhaps she realised I already knew. Me and the rest of Newcastle Emlyn. That cousin story had always been a fig leaf that drew attention to more than it covered up.
‘And,’ Harry was still using the same flat, don’t-think-of-arguing-with-me tone, ‘that Nathaniel Howell and his Rebecca band brought the boy to you.’
Now that was news to me. Then I remembered what Harry’d said about some of the Rebeccas rescuing young women who’d got into trouble. So… Nathaniel Howell the minister had been their leader, had he? Well, well…
Had Harry been caught up in that too? Had he had a visit telling him that when Margaret Jones’s baby was born, he’d have to provide for it?
I watched him stand and warm his hands by the fire. I could see his reflection in the huge gilt-framed mirror above the mantel piece. It was far too big for the room, that mirror, but you could’ve said the same about all the furniture. Every stick of it was built for a drawing room rather than a parlour.
I turned and caught Esme’s eyes on Harry’s back.
‘And is it necessary,’ she burst out, suddenly, ‘that he knows you were—’
‘Mrs Williams!’ The speed of Harry’s turn was shocking, never mind the tone he used on her. ‘If I am to conduct this investigation on your behalf, it is essential that you answer my questions, not that I answer yours.’
Esme Williams stared at him, red to the roots of her hair. Humiliation or rage? Either way, Harry’d made himself quite clear. He wasn’t going to tolerate any tit for tat from her. Her secrets were fair game. His weren’t.
He went back to the sofa and sat down. ‘I need to know two things,’ he said. ‘Firstly, did you know they were coming that night – Nathaniel Howell and
his Rebeccas?’
I watched her staring at him. I could see she was willing him to meet her eye. When he didn’t, she turned her glare on me and I quickly looked away.
‘Mrs Williams,’ Harry wasn’t giving up. ‘Did you know that Nathaniel Howell was planning to bring Samuel to your husband that night?’
She looked away. ‘Yes. I’d asked the Reverend Howell to bring him here.’
‘You asked him to?’
Harry’s tone was level – just making sure he understood – but the question itself was shocking. You asked for your husband’s bastard to be brought to you?
Esme’s chin came up. ‘Yes. Waungilfach needed a son. I’d been with child three times and had three daughters. Childbirth is a dangerous business, Mr Probert-Lloyd, I might’ve gone through it another three times and had three more girls.’
Was she trying to embarrass Harry with the plainness of her speech? If she was, I couldn’t speak for him but it was working on me. I didn’t know where to look. A china clown was making a sad face on a little table at the end of the sofa and I knew exactly how he felt.
‘How did you come to know Nathaniel Howell?’ Harry asked.
‘I didn’t know him. I knew of him. Everybody in the parish was chattering about him.’
‘And how did you go about contacting him?’
‘He came here—’ Esme broke off, clasped her hands and unclasped them again as if she couldn’t find a comfortable place for them. Or as if she’d like to wring a neck. ‘He came to tell me what had happened to Hannah Rees – after she left our employment.’