by Alis Hawkins
I glanced at Harry; he was sitting very still. ‘What did she say?’ I asked. ‘What did they do to her to make her so afraid?’
‘They told her that she must stop accusing different men of being the father of her child. Or else they’d come and see to it that she wasn’t capable of making trouble anymore.’
‘They threatened to kill her?’ Harry interrupted. ‘In so many words?’
‘No. In just the words I’ve told you.’
‘And what did she want you to do?’ he asked.
‘To begin with, she wanted to tell me it wasn’t true. She said she’d never accused any man of being the father of her child apart from the man whose child she knew it to be. She hadn’t attended chapel for weeks,’ Lydia explained. ‘She didn’t know that rumours had been growing like mushrooms at Treforgan.’
‘She denied having been intimate with more than one man?’ Harry asked. Lydia didn’t answer. ‘Miss Howell?’
Her eyes moved over to me. ‘Mr Davies, perhaps it would be better if I spoke to Mr Probert-Lloyd alone?’
I was halfway to my feet when Harry spoke. ‘No.’
Just one word. Like a stone dropped onto a pile of sacks to keep them in place. I sat down. This was Gus Gelyot all over again.
Lydia wasn’t going to give up. ‘I really think it would be more suitable—’
‘No. John will stay and hear whatever it is you’ve got to tell us. I insist.’
I was curious about what she had to tell him – of course I was – but, at the same time, I wished he’d let me go. There was something between him and Lydia Howell. Secrets. Resentment. I wondered again whether he’d had a visit from her Rebeccas.
‘Very well,’ Lydia said. ‘I’ll tell you what Margaret Jones told me.’
I tried to imagine the state Margaret had found Lydia in. Still in breeches and coat. Still Nathaniel. But nervous, agitated. Had she already started packing up to leave? Had there been piles of books tied with string, bundles of papers?
‘As I said,’ Lydia began, ‘the first thing she wanted was to convince me that she had not been free with her favours—’
Harry held up a finger. Stop. ‘You mentioned that the servant Rachel Ellis – Rachel Evans as she was then – told Margaret that she’d overheard two young men talking about her, about how she’d try and get Rebecca to father her child onto one of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who were they – the two men?’
‘One was Matthew Evans – I believe his father was a tenant of yours – and the other was your groom, the one who came with you on the night we visited William Williams. David Thomas.’
When Harry was prepared, he could keep his face from showing any emotion. But sometimes – like now – his face was an open book.
A very simple book. And mine must’ve looked the same. The one who came with you on the night we visited William Williams. Harry’d been one of them. A Rebecca. I stared at him. At the shock on his face.
‘Matthew Evans from Tregorlais farm?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And Rachel said she’d heard him warning David Thomas that Margaret would try and father her child onto him?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘No. The other way around. David Thomas was warning Matthew Evans.’
‘No. That can’t be right.’
‘I assure you, that’s what she said.’
Harry looked as if he wanted to argue but he got a grip on himself. ‘Very well then. What was Matthew’s response? According to Rachel.’
‘I don’t know. I was getting this from Margaret herself, don’t forget. I wanted her to tell me only what she felt she had to.’ Lydia stopped for a moment and I wondered what she was remembering. ‘I could see that Margaret was hurt that David Thomas was saying such things. Refusing to marry her was bad enough but blackening her name in that way seemed unnecessarily cruel.’
‘Refusing to marry her?’ Harry made it sound like an outlandish suggestion. ‘Why should David Thomas marry Margaret?’
‘Because he was the father of her child.’
His whole face changed then, as if somebody’d pulled a string and tightened every sinew. ‘No, he wasn’t! Did Margaret tell you that? It’s a lie.’
Lydia glanced at me. If she was asking for help, she was out of luck. I didn’t know what was going on in Harry’s head. Or who David Thomas was. Not yet, at any rate.
‘I can only tell you what Margaret told me,’ she said, ‘and I have every reason to believe that she was telling me the absolute truth.’
‘And I have every reason to believe that David Thomas told me the truth!’ Harry almost shouted. ‘I asked him outright. He swore to me that he had no carnal knowledge of Margaret.’
Again, Lydia’s eyes met mine. I shook my head at her this time.
Honestly, I know nothing more than you do. Less, if anything.
‘Mr Probert-Lloyd, I’m afraid I don’t find it difficult to believe that David Thomas lied to you. He lied to everybody. If he thought there was something to gain by it, he lied.’ Lydia bent her head, as if she was at prayer, or collecting scattered thoughts. ‘Soon after he started attending Treforgan,’ she said, ‘he began courting a young woman. Elias Jenkins’s only daughter. His only child.’
She gave those last two words more than their due weight. Making sure Harry understood. The man who married Jenkins’s daughter would become his heir. Inherit his tenancy.
‘Yes. I know. He told me.’
‘But do you know that he told Elizabeth he would be steward of Glanteifi when you were squire?’
Harry nodded. ‘Of course he’d tell her. That was the understanding between us.’
A sudden shaft of sunlight came through the window and shone straight into his face. He put up a hand to shade his eyes, dazzled.
‘You and a groom had an understanding that he would become steward?’ Lydia asked, careful now, as if she thought Harry might be unbalanced.
‘Miss Howell. David Thomas was an educated man. He was only a groom because my father believed he should prove himself.’
I expected Lydia Howell to object. To say that Glanteifi’s tenants would never take a man who’d been a groom seriously. That they’d make a mockery of David Thomas and a bankrupt of Harry. But she didn’t.
‘I see.’
Her tone made Harry defensive. ‘David Thomas wasn’t lying to Elizabeth Jenkins, Miss Howell. He was telling her what had been agreed between us.’ I waited for him to demand evidence of other lies, but he didn’t. Just asked a question I didn’t understand.
‘Did you send a letter – an anonymous letter – to Elias Jenkins warning him not to let his daughter form an attachment to David Thomas?’
Lydia stared at him.
‘Well?’ Harry demanded, ‘Did you?’
Her chin came up. ‘Yes. When Margaret came to see me I told her there was nothing I could do, that I had no influence any more, that I was leaving because of it. But, on the journey here, I realised that the facts could speak for themselves, as long as they were not seen to come from me. So I wrote to Elias Jenkins.’
I watched Harry trying to see her, trying to bring her into view in the corner of his eye. What was that anonymous letter to him?
‘You said you had every reason to believe that Margaret was telling the absolute truth,’ his voice was cold, distant. ‘What were those reasons?’
Lydia was wary of him now. You could see her listening to every word before it left her mouth. ‘She told me things about herself that she would not have divulged unless she had to. Facts which rang true, in the circumstances, in a way which her supposed promiscuity didn’t.’ She picked up her teacup.
‘What facts?’ Harry was scornful. ‘What did she tell you?’
Lydia put her cup back in the saucer, glanced at me, and took a breath. ‘That she was your dead brother’s daughter.’
Harry blinked, as if what she’d said had clouded his sight. ‘George? Margaret told you she was George’s
daughter?’ He couldn’t’ve looked more shocked if she’d pulled out a knife and stabbed him in the guts.
‘Yes. She said that was why your father sent you away when Williams told him what was going on between the two of you—’
‘What Williams believed was going on! The man’s a lecherous—’
Harry stopped, caught hold of himself. ‘I’m sorry. Please. Carry on.’ Lydia looked at me again but I had nothing to say. ‘William Williams knew that Margaret was your father’s illegitimate grand-daughter,’ she said.
‘No. My father would never have taken William Williams into his confidence over a matter like that!’ Harry sprang to his feet. ‘Never!’
‘I don’t think he necessarily did take him into his confidence. My understanding of the situation was that your father asked Mr Williams to find a place for her in his household and, seeing an obvious resemblance to your brother, William Williams guessed at her identity.’
That seemed to calm Harry down. He still didn’t like Williams knowing, but at least he’d only guessed.
‘Margaret told me that she’d had no idea who her father was until Williams spoke to her. With you home again, he felt she had to know. So that she could prevent anything – untoward from occurring. He was anxious that your father’s prohibition might not be sufficient to stop you seeking her out.’
Harry moved towards the window, his back to us, head down.
I turned to Lydia Howell. Silently, she held up an index finger. Say nothing for now. She’d become Nathaniel again, dishing out instructions.
A minute is a short time if you’re laughing and joking with friends, but a very long time if a man is standing in front of you, silent with shock. My mouth was dry. I picked up my tea cup and drained it to the leaves.
‘So,’ Harry’s voice was tight, ‘David Thomas was the father of Margaret’s child and my late brother George was her father. David Thomas was putting out vile rumours about Margaret which people seem to have found it all too easy to believe and you took it upon yourself to write to Elias Jenkins accusing David of abandoning Margaret. She subsequently disappeared because, as we now know, she had been murdered. Is there anything else?’
I could see that Lydia Howell disliked his tone. I would’ve, too. ‘From what Margaret told me, you found her promiscuity all too easy to believe yourself!’
Harry turned away from the window. ‘The evidence was there in front of me!’
‘No, Mr Probert-Lloyd. The evidence was there that she had succumbed to one man. And that one man was David Thomas!’
‘She claimed it was David. Why should I believe her word over his?’
Before Lydia could answer him, I forced myself to speak. We needed to get away from all this hearsay and back to actual facts. ‘Miss Howell – what did Margaret Jones say when you explained that you couldn’t help her? What was she going to do?’
Lydia Howell stared at me. I could see she wanted to slap me for interrupting. She wanted an argument with Harry. Wanted to shout at him, lose her temper, tell him exactly what she thought of his hypocrisy in investigating Margaret Jones’s death when he’d done nothing to help her while she was still alive. He probably deserved it, but none of that would help me.
‘Miss Howell?’ I wasn’t taking silence for an answer. ‘What did Margaret say?’
Lydia Howell gathered herself together. When she spoke, her voice was flat. ‘That she was ruined. That she’d be in the workhouse once the child was born. That her life was over. Everybody would believe the rumours and she could not defend herself for fear of what the men from Rebecca would do to her.’
‘And what advice did the Reverend Howell give her?’ I asked.
Lydia Howell stared at her lap as if the word of God was written there. ‘I said that the best thing she could do’ – her voice shook slightly – ‘was to go to Mr Probert-Lloyd, here, and confess everything.’ Harry didn’t move, didn’t speak.
I tried to find some moisture in my dry mouth. ‘And what did Margaret Jones say?’
Lydia Howell looked up directly into my eyes. ‘She said she would rather die.’
Harry
The countryside between Colchester and London was sufficiently novel and fascinating to keep John’s head turned perpetually towards the window of our carriage; either that or – and I acknowledged that this was infinitely more likely – he did not know what to say to me after the previous day’s revelations. We had scarcely spoken after leaving Lydia Howell, so wrapped up had I been in the past and its self-recriminations and I had spent a sleepless night alternately reliving my last conversation with Margaret, miserably wishing that she could have told me the truth, and dreading an onslaught of questions from John, wakeful at my side.
Trying for the umpteenth time to quell my tormented conscience, I directed my peripheral vision towards the landscape but could make out little beyond the colours of winter, an impression of trees and fields, scattered buildings of indeterminate purpose. Unlike the majority of my travels which were undertaken over long-familiar routes, here in these eastern flatlands I could not rely on memory to fill in the blurred and barely distinguishable world outside the train. Denied distraction, I was at the mercy of remorse and self-reproach.
Finally, I could keep silent no longer.
‘Perhaps I was right all along. Perhaps Margaret did kill herself.’
John gave a perceptible start at my side. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked. There was caution in his voice; he was unsure of me, now.
‘She had nobody to turn to! Everybody thought she was a slut and, in a few weeks, she’d have been in the workhouse. She had nobody and nothing.’ A coldness seized me at my own words. ‘What did she have to live for?’
I could hear John drawing in a long breath, giving himself time to think before he answered. ‘If she killed herself,’ he said, carefully, ‘how did she come to be buried like that?’
I had been giving consideration to this. ‘I think Williams must have gone looking for her and found her, hanging from a tree. If what Lydia Howell told us about her being George’s daughter was true, he’d’ve been desperate when she went missing. What would he have told my father? So I think he just cut her down and buried her there. Pulled the tree down on top of her. Avoided any awkward questions.’
‘That doesn’t sound very likely to me,’ John said. ‘I mean, if you were William Williams and you’d buried her there – would you ask your labourers to chop the tree up?’
‘He did tell them not to dig up the roots.’
‘But still…’
I was glad of his doubts. I did not want it to be true, did not want Margaret to have despaired.
‘What about this David Thomas?’ he said, abruptly.
My stomach contracted. ‘What about him?’
‘If he was the father of Margaret’s child but had his eyes on a bigger prize…’ he let the implication hang.
I shook my head ‘No. David Thomas wasn’t the father of her child.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘If we believe Lydia Howell when she says that Margaret wasn’t promiscuous, that she only knew one man, then it wasn’t David Thomas. He couldn’t have been the child’s father.’
‘Couldn’t?’
I knew I had to explain myself to him if we were going to waste no more time on a consideration of Davy as Margaret’s killer.
‘As you must be aware by now, I had a romantic attachment to Margaret Jones.’ I swallowed. ‘But I didn’t father her child. However, David Thomas believed that I had. And, when I told him that I couldn’t be the child’s father, he was obviously surprised.’ I paused, hoping that John would see what I was implying and spare me the need to be more explicit. But he said nothing.
‘What I mean to say is,’ I could feel the heat rising beneath my beard, ‘if David Thomas had seduced Margaret, he would have known that she was a virgin. He could not possibly have believed that I was the child’s father.’
‘Perhaps he was faki
ng surprise.’ John’s voice was subdued, presumably by embarrassment.
My mind flitted back to the moment; to Davy’s black face, to the itch of my own skin from my mother’s green worsted riding habit. He had been surprised; I had no doubt of that. Even in the dark, the silence with which he had greeted my pronouncement had been one of re-assessment. It is hard to dissemble with silence.
‘No. Until I told him otherwise, he’d genuinely believed that I was the child’s father.’
‘Well somebody’s lying! Either it’s David Thomas or it’s Margaret Jones. Or Lydia Howell, I suppose. Who’s your money on?’
When I did not answer, he gave a frustrated sigh. ‘You know, I think we’ve allowed ourselves to fix our eyes too much on Margaret Jones and not enough on Rebecca.’