by Iris Gower
About the Book
Shanni Price is a spirited, lively girl, but her tragic and poverty-stricken life has given her little chance to enjoy herself. Then, at a moment of dreadful despair, she is given protection by lovely, wealthy Llinos Mainwaring, and goes to live with her at the famous pottery in Swansea. Llinos, whose marriage to handsome, exotic Joe has run into trouble, is glad to have this strong-minded girl as her companion, but when they both meet the dashing Dafydd Buchan, young Shanni begins to regard her employer as her rival in love.
These are troubled times in South Wales, when the poor people are feeling the effects of repression and the Rebeccas, bold rebel leaders dressed as women, are storming the countryside. As Llinos begins to wonder whether her marriage to Joe is over, and Shanni becomes involved with the rioters, the life of the pottery is threatened as never before.
In this powerful new novel Iris Gower continues the story begun in Firebird, Dream Catcher and Sweet Rosie, set amongst the romantic china clay potteries of South Wales.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
About the Author
Also by Iris Gowe
Copyright
Daughters of Rebecca
Iris Gower
To Tudor, my husband,
for all his love and patience
CHAPTER ONE
THE SUN WAS shining on the narrow, cobbled road outside number 13 Fennel Court, highlighting the motes of dust that grimed the windows so that the light failed to penetrate into the small kitchen at the rear of the house.
In the heart of Swansea Town the chapel bells were ringing for evening prayers but only the rich could spare time for the Almighty. The grand copper barons would take their seats in St Mary’s and offer thanks to God for all their riches. And all that the Sabbath gave Shanni Price was a few hours to spend with her mother.
Shanni brushed the damp red curls from her brow and stirred the thin stew with more enthusiasm than expertise. She heard a stifled moan and looked up from the cooking pot. ‘Soon be ready, Mam.’ Shanni bit her lip, staring anxiously at her mother who was lying on the narrow bed in the corner of the room. ‘I’ve done some nice cawl, Mam. This will make you feel better.’ She attempted to smile, though fear clenched her heart. Her mother was sick, had been for months, and the talk around the courts was that widowed Mrs Price was ‘in the way’. Shanni had tried to ask her mother if she was expecting a child but even as the words formed in her mouth her courage failed her.
‘Bryn the butcher has given us some ham bones,’ Shanni said. ‘He’s even left a bit of meat on them. Kind man, Bryn.’ If she talked, perhaps everything would be normal: her mother would sit up and smile and she would be well again.
Shanni tasted the stew and grimaced. She was no cook – in fact, she was not adept at anything, which was why she worked in the heat of the copper sheds fetching beer for the furnace men. Once the copper, red and liquid like hot blood, had caught her arm and she still had the scar. It was a hard job and it might be lowly but at least it brought some money into the house.
Shanni threw more salt into the pot. The handful of carrots, cabbage leaves and a few old potatoes did not make for a tasty meal but with the last of yesterday’s bread it would do; at least they would eat today.
Her face was hot from the fire and Shanni paused to wipe the beads of perspiration from her face with her arm. She looked up as her mother moaned again, a low moan that seemed to start deep in her throat.
‘What is it, Mam? Are you worse?’
‘I think it’s started. My pains are getting regular, see.’ Dora Price was sweating and her knees were drawn up to her stomach. Shanni stood silent, unable to ignore the truth of their situation any longer. Her mam was about to bring a bastard child into the world and all Shanni could think of was the shame of it, of another mouth to feed and not enough money to go around.
‘Oh, Mam, how could you?’ She started to move towards the bed but she stopped suddenly, her head lifted in an attitude of listening. ‘Duw, Mam, what’s that?’
The crash of tin kettles, the beat of wood against wood, the howling of human voices shattered the stillness of the evening. Shanni put down her spoon and wiped her hands on her apron. Her heart was thudding and she could hardly breathe.
The sounds grew louder and Shanni began to tremble. She stared around her in panic. She knew what the noise meant and she was terrified. She dragged the heavy pot to the side of the grate, careless of the soup splashing into the fire. ‘Mam, what are we going to do?’
Dora Price pressed her hand across her swollen stomach and lifted her head wearily. ‘Sounds like the Ceffyl Pren. They’re bringing the wooden horse to punish me. Run, Shanni. Get out the back now, don’t let them see you.’
Shanni ignored her mother and hurried to the small front window. She pushed aside the torn curtains and rubbed her fingers over the grimy glass. She took a ragged breath as she saw a crowd of women rounding the bend. They were carrying tin buckets, brandishing sticks and screaming abuse as they marched into the narrow, filthy court off Potato Street.
‘Go on, girl.’ Her mother had made an effort to rise from her bed. She stood swaying beside Shanni, holding her swollen stomach. ‘No sense in them getting you as well.’ Though she spoke with studied calm, Dora Price was terrified and it showed in the pallor of her face.
‘I’m not leaving you, Mam.’ Shanni stood in the doorway, forcing the rotting wood into place. She propped a battered chair against the planking and picked up a broom ready to stand guard over her mother. ‘They are not putting you on the Ceffyl Pren! That wooden horse was made to punish cheats and liars and loose women, and you’re not going to be dragged through the streets like that, not when you’re so sick.’
‘Let us in, Dora Price!’
One voice, more raucous than the rest, rang out stridently into the sudden silence. Trembling, Shanni peered through a crack in the door and stared into the bulging eyes of May O’Sullivan. ‘Where’s your mam?’ the woman demanded, kicking the frail door in her fury. ‘Let us in, Shanni Price. There’s no stopping us and our quarrel is with her, not you.’
‘She’s very ill!’ Shanni called. ‘Why do you want to punish her? She’s done nothing wrong.’
‘Nothing wrong? The woman is a harlot, a stealer of husbands. We’ll show her right from wrong.’ May O’Sullivan began heaving and kicking at the battered door. She was joined by others from the crowd and, in a few moments, the frail door splintered and swung on its hinges, broken beyond repair.
May O’Sullivan pushed past Shanni, sweeping the broom from her hand with little effort. ‘Out of the way! You’re only a child. You must pray you don’t grow up a wanton like your m
other.’ She confronted the sick woman. ‘You know the charge, Dora Price, that of tempting a married man, making him be unfaithful to his wife.’
Shanni looked at her mother. Dora’s face was white and her lips trembled so much she could not answer. ‘It was the other way round!’ Shanni shouted. ‘Mam has done nothing. That Spencer man has been round here telling my mother he loved her, that he would leave his wife for her. I’ve heard him myself!’
‘Lies!’ May pushed her aside and hauled Dora upright. ‘That’s my poor sister’s husband you’re talking about and her crying her eyes out over a weak man.’ She spat on the floor. ‘You’re a whore, Dora Price, and we’re taking you out to make an example of you – and don’t think that your belly will save you. Spawn of the devil you got in by there, see?’ She prodded Dora’s stomach with spiteful fingers.
‘Don’t do that! My mam is having the pains – you can’t take her out of her bed.’ Before she had finished speaking Shanni was knocked to the ground by the rush of women fighting to get their hands on Dora Price.
‘We’ll teach the whore a lesson she’ll never forget,’ May shouted.
Shanni struggled to her feet and screamed in anguish as her mother was dragged outside into the dusk of the evening air.
Shanni stared through the shattered door at the roughly made Ceffyl Pren. It was made of old wood and bits of cast-off clothing with a carved head jutting from the front, painted eyes rolling. Beneath the hangings at the back four legs were visible, men’s legs. Shanni recognized the polished boots of one and pushed her way forward. ‘So, Dan Spencer, you would carry my mam to her shame, would you? After you coming here lying and cheating, telling us what a harridan your wife was. You evil devil, you!’
Her attempts to lift aside the rags were obstructed by May O’Sullivan’s meaty arm. She smacked Shanni in the face and she fell backwards on to the filthy ground. She stared up at her mother, white and pleading, her lips forming the words ‘Help me.’
The procession wound out of the court and on to the main street. The throng of women shouted abuse and May laid into Dora Price’s back with her own broom. Other townsfolk joined the procession, anxious to see an example made of a loose woman. More than half of the women in Swansea had suffered the same fate as poor Mrs Spencer, that of a wicked woman taking advantage of a married man. But not all culprits were found out in their sin and this was the first time a woman pregnant by a bewitched husband had been exposed.
Shanni followed at a distance, tears running down her cheeks. She knew what came next for she had seen such acts of vengeance before. Her mother would be stripped naked, her shame exposed for all to gaze upon. She would be tied to a horse post and pelted with mud. The mud would be rubbed into her skin and chicken feathers daubed all over her. Her mother would be forced to stand there until she dropped from exhaustion.
When the women reached the square, the procession halted. Spoons were rattled against the sides of pots and kettles; the noise was deafening.
Shanni cried out as her mother was dragged from the horse and tethered like a beast. She saw her mother moan and hang her head as the ragged clothes were torn from her and she was made to stand silent and bowed.
May O’Sullivan was the first to throw a clod of earth; it caught Dora squarely on her protruding belly. Other women joined in the sport of tormenting a fallen woman, and all the time Dora stood silent, her long greying hair hanging over her face.
‘Stop it!’ Shanni cried, as her mother’s thin legs buckled under her. Dora lifted her head and her eyes met Shanni’s.
‘Get off her!’ Shanni picked up a piece of wood that had fallen from the Ceffyl Pren and laid into the nearest women with it. She was almost at her mother’s side before a straight blow to her head felled her.
Half-conscious, Shanni slumped to the ground, clutching the gritty earth beneath her fingers with a feeling of despair. ‘You’ll kill her!’ she sobbed, but no-one was listening.
Shanni was struggling to her knees, shaking her head to clear it, when she heard a voice, cultured and strong, ring out over the heads of the women.
‘Stop this obscenity at once!’ Mrs Mainwaring, pottery owner, was pushing her way through the crush. ‘What in the name of heaven is going on here?’ Shanni got to her feet and a faint stirring of hope began to burn within her as she saw the richly dressed woman make her way to the front of the now silent crowd.
‘You.’ She pointed a riding crop at May O’Sullivan. ‘Release that poor woman at once before I have you thrown in jail!’
‘This is no business of yours, Mrs Mainwaring, if you’ll pardon me saying so.’ May O’Sullivan had lost some of her bluster. ‘This is a matter for we working folks to settle.’
Mrs Mainwaring took no notice. ‘My coachman and his boy are gone to fetch the constable so I would advise you to go about your business, if you do not wish to be flung in the castle dungeons. Now, go before you find yourselves in deep trouble.’
Grumbling, the crowd thinned and when the coachman came swinging round the corner of the square, a huge stick in his hand, even May O’Sullivan thought it politic to move away. ‘That’ll teach you to act the whore, Dora Price.’ Her parting shot was emphasized by a lump of mud that caught Dora’s cheek.
‘Come on,’ Mrs Mainwaring said, breathlessly, ‘let’s get you home.’ She untied Dora and put a cloak around her shoulders. ‘Can you manage to climb up into the coach?’
When Dora was seated, Mrs Mainwaring wrapped a warm rug around her knees with gentle hands. Shanni sat on the opposite seat, sunk in misery, hating the barbarism, the injustice in punishing a woman for loving the wrong man.
The coach manoeuvred its way through Potato Street but was too broad to tackle Fennel Court. The coachman lifted Dora and carried her gently into the tiny kitchen of number 13.
‘Fetch some water, Graves.’ Mrs Mainwaring was rolling up her sleeves. ‘Is there any left in the kettle, child?’
Shanni nodded and poured the water into a bowl. Mrs Mainwaring took it from her and gently washed the mud from Dora’s swollen stomach. ‘Come on, now, get into bed. Try to rest and to forget this dreadful day.’ Mrs Mainwaring pulled up the thin blankets as tenderly as if Dora had been a child herself.
‘I’ll get more water, Mrs Mainwaring,’ Graves said, and went out into the yard. When he returned, he pushed the kettle on to the fire, his head discreetly turned away from the woman on the bed.
‘Thank you, Mrs Mainwaring.’ Shanni stood awkwardly in the gloom of the kitchen, not knowing what to say. ‘Thank you for being kind to Mam. She’s not to blame for any of this. It’s Dan Spencer who should be punished. He’s a liar and he led her astray.’
Mrs Mainwaring nodded and touched Shanni’s shoulder. ‘Look, I shall bring this to the attention of the magistrates. It’s rough justice and should not be tolerated in our society, not in these enlightened days.’
Shanni nodded, but she did not hold out much hope that Mrs Mainwaring’s intervention would do any good. She was about to say something when the silence was shattered by her mother’s terrified cry. ‘The waters have broke. The baby is coming – oh, Lord above, help me.’
Mrs Mainwaring took charge. ‘It’s getting very dark so light some candles, find clean cloths – is that water hot yet? Graves, fetch the doctor. Tell him I need him at once.’ She turned to Shanni. ‘We’ll both have to help your mother until the doctor comes. I can’t manage alone.’
Shanni fetched the tin bowl and some pieces of rag from the clothesline. Her heart was still beating rapidly and she felt sick. She hated people, she hated the whole world, and one day she would have her revenge on them all.
Mrs Mainwaring worked hard, encouraging, admonishing, as Dora struggled to bring forth her baby. Shanni built up the fire, boiling more water, but in her heart she knew it was useless. Today the heavens were against them and nothing good would come from the birthing of the infant conceived in shame.
Graves returned and stood in the doorway, shaking his he
ad. ‘The doctor is out, Mrs Mainwaring, but I’ve left a message with his wife. He’ll come as soon as he can.’
‘We’ll just have to manage till then.’ Mrs Mainwaring glanced at Shanni. ‘I don’t suppose the local midwife would come, would she?’
Shanni shook her head. No-one in the vicinity of Fennel Court would help them, not now. The moon was gliding across the sky by the time the child slid into the world, white and dead. Dora Price sighed wearily. ‘It’s for the best,’ she whispered. ‘The little mite wouldn’t stand a chance.’ Her eyes closed and her lips were pale. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and a streak of dirt still darkened her cheek.
‘Where’s the damned doctor?’ Mrs Mainwaring said tersely. ‘Go to Graves, Shanni. Tell him to try again to fetch a doctor or a midwife – anyone will do.’
‘It’s too late to help me.’ Shanni heard her mother’s voice, thin and threadlike. ‘But, please, take care of Shanni, my lady.’ Her hand fumbled for Shanni’s. ‘You must forget all this and have a good life, Shanni. May God in his mercy take care of you.’
Shanni clung to her mother’s hand for a long time until, at last, Mrs Mainwaring drew her away from the bed. ‘Let’s go now,’ she said softly. ‘Graves will come back here and see to everything, so don’t worry.’
Dumbly Shanni allowed herself to be led back along the silent court towards where the coach was waiting. She sank into the cold leather seat and closed her eyes. Her mother was dead and nothing Shanni could do would bring her back to life.
Llinos Mainwaring stared across the breakfast table at her husband. ‘I’m so sorry for Shanni Price, deprived of her mother in such dreadful circumstances.’
Joe Mainwaring put down his paper. ‘I know. The barbarism of the wooden horse was a terrible thing for you to see, my love, and you must try to put it out of your mind.’ His dark hair was streaked with a ribbon of silver and hung to his shoulders. He looked noble and proud, every inch a man of mixed race. His American-Indian blood showed in the gold of his skin, and his inheritance from his white father was the bluest eyes Llinos had ever seen.