by Iris Gower
And the years had been good to him, Llinos thought lovingly. She felt her heart swell with joy. He was her husband, and though he was past his fortieth birthday he was as dashing and handsome as the day she first met him.
‘You did your best for the poor woman,’ he said. ‘You ensured she had a decent Christian burial and you found the little girl a position in service.’
‘I worry about Shanni Price, though,’ Llinos said. ‘She’s so young, so vulnerable. What effect will her mother’s death have on her, I wonder?’
‘She’ll survive,’ Joe said. ‘You suffered a great deal of hardship when you were young too and you survived, didn’t you?’
‘I suppose you’re right, but then I had you.’ Not always, insisted a small voice inside Llinos’s head. Once Joe had left her for another woman. He had fathered an illegitimate child, a child growing up even now somewhere on the plains of America. As always, it was the woman who bore the consequences of an affair, and Joe had come out of it unscathed. Like the awful Mr Spencer. She pushed the unpleasant thoughts aside.
She took a piece of toast, ignoring the dish of devilled kidneys and steaming bacon. Whenever she thought of Joe’s mistress her appetite left her. She forced her mind on to other matters. ‘Perhaps we’ll hear from Lloyd this week.’
‘Our son is growing up now,’ Joe said. ‘He is becoming a man. We must stand back from him, let him mature in his own way.’
‘But he’s still very young.’ Llinos protested, ‘and I hate him being away. I’m sure a local school would have served just as well as one in England.’
‘He’s at my old school,’ Joe said. ‘I received an excellent education there and I wanted Lloyd to have the best.’
‘I still think of him as a baby,’ Llinos said softly. ‘I know he’s into his teen years now but I still want to hug him close, to feel his arms around me.’
‘Llinos, my love, to you Lloyd will always be a child. That’s the way of it with so-called civilized people. In the animal kingdom a newborn matures fast or dies.’
‘Don’t start on your American-Indian philosophies!’ Llinos said lightly. ‘Not over breakfast – you’ll give me indigestion.’
Joe helped himself to more toast. He ate silently, his whole being contained. Anyone would think he was still on the plains of his homeland, wary lest an enemy creep up on him. He looked up, and Llinos was comforted by the love she saw in her husband’s eyes. Would she ever understand this man who, after years of marriage, was still an enigma to her? She doubted it.
‘Why the scrutiny?’ Joe asked. ‘Not thinking about the past again, are you, Llinos?’
She shook her head. ‘I try not to, Joe, but sometimes I’m overwhelmed with the pain of it.’ She looked down at her hands, hands that had moulded clay into shape, had toiled long hours in the pottery in an effort to make the business the success it was today.
Joe regarded her steadily. ‘I know you were hurt, my love, and I’m so sorry for betraying you, but all that is past. We can’t let it affect our future.’
‘I do realize that, Joe. But how would you feel if I was unfaithful, if I had a child by another man?’
He sighed heavily. ‘I would want to kill you both,’ he said simply. He threw down his napkin and got to his feet. ‘I’d better get some letters written,’ he said more easily. ‘I, too, have a business to run.’
His words seemed like a reproach and Llinos sighed. Would she and Joe never fall back into the easy, loving relationship they once had?
She drank her tea in an effort to clear the obstruction from her throat; she would not cry the bitter tears that were always present whenever she thought of Joe in the arms of another woman. She would have to be brave like any other woman forced to swallow the pain of infidelity. ‘I think I shall take a look at the order books,’ she said, to his retreating back.
Her days were empty now: she was not needed in the flourishing pottery; she was not needed in her own house, come to that, not without her son. There were servants to cook and clean, and book-keepers to see to the financial side of her business. She was adrift, a woman without purpose. Suddenly her life seemed futile. Biting her lip, Llinos Mainwaring watched her husband leave the dining room and disappear into his study.
The idea of looking over the order books had lost its appeal. Instead, Llinos climbed up the broad staircase to the bedroom she shared with Joe. The windows were open and the breeze brushed the curtains into a frenzy of dancing. Llinos was restless; she stared out into the grounds where the lawn was sun-scorched. She felt downcast, her heart heavy with the knowledge that Joe, ensconced in his study, would be writing a letter for his mistress to read to their son.
She would go out, she decided, take a ride in the carriage, walk in the park and get some fresh air into her lungs. Then, maybe, she would go visiting. She paused before the mirror, examining her reflection. She was slim still. Her hair was dark with hardly any silver running through it, her complexion smooth, yet there was a sadness in her eyes that never left her.
Later, as the carriage took her along past the promenade Llinos looked out at the sea. The flow of the tides always made her feel calmer, as though the world was so big that her worries were diminished by the grandeur of the ocean, spreading away to merge with the sky. Beyond the bay the rocky head of Mumbles formed a sheltering arm around the town of Swansea. How she loved it here where she had been born and bred and where, doubtless, she would die.
The coach pulled into a long driveway and as Llinos leaned out of the window to stare at the house, large and mellow in the sun, she saw a familiar figure on the step. He stood tall, his hair pale and shining, her dear friend Eynon Morton-Edwards.
As soon as the coach stopped, Eynon opened the door and held out his arms to lift Llinos on to the drive. ‘Llinos, my lovely girl, you grow more beautiful every day.’
He kissed her cheek and she clung to him for a moment. Eynon had been her friend through the good times and the bad. He had always loved her and never had that love been needed so much as the day Joe left her.
‘Come inside. I must tell you about the season in London, the theatres, the brightly lit streets. It was such a sight, so much pomp and splendour. You would have loved it.’
He led her into the house and Llinos felt the coolness of the old mansion wash over her. ‘It’s always so peaceful here,’ she said softly.
‘Not when my beloved daughter is at home!’ He opened the door of the drawing room with a flourish. ‘Jayne is back at school now and I was glad to have her off my hands.’
‘I don’t believe that for one minute,’ Llinos said. She pulled at the tips of her gloves and handed them to the maid who hovered, waiting to take her coat.
‘Shanni, how nice to see you again. Are you well?’ She studied the girl, who was sombre in a long black skirt covered with a pristine apron. ‘You’re certainly looking very grand.’
She felt in that moment that she shared a common bond with the girl: they had both been orphaned, had struggled to survive. Llinos remembered the old days when her father had gone to the war against Napoleon. Her mother had been feckless, unable to control her own life, let alone keep a business afloat. After her mother died, Llinos had tackled the future with courage – courage that seemed to have deserted her now.
She watched as Shanni left the room. She was so pretty with her red hair, tied back in a knot now and covered with a cap as befitted a servant girl.
‘How is she settling?’
‘Shanni, you mean? She’s done very well in the few weeks she’s been here. Now, let me tell you all about London.’
Eynon was bent on talking about his trip and Llinos smiled indulgently. It would be good for her to listen: the trivia of court life would be a distraction from her own, often uncomfortable, thoughts.
Shanni Price returned to the kitchen and sat down near the window. She had taken to occupying this particular chair when she had some time off from work. From it she could look down at the sea rolling away be
low her, and think of things more important than being lady’s maid to the precocious Jayne when she was at home and maid-of-all-work when she was not.
‘Don’t sit there dreaming, girl!’ Mrs Pollard was the housekeeper and wielded her power over the other servants with great enthusiasm. She glanced at the cook. ‘Any tea going spare, Mrs Davies?’
‘I’ll warm the pot,’ Mrs Davies said obligingly. It paid to keep in with Mrs Pollard.
‘It’s my day off,’ Shanni said. ‘I shouldn’t be working at all, though I don’t suppose Mr Morton-Edwards even notices I’m here.’
‘Why on earth should he notice a jumped-up little serving wench?’ Mrs Pollard’s tongue could be acid on occasions. She turned her attention to the cook. ‘I just do not understand the young people of today, Mrs Davies, do you?’
The woman uttered something unintelligible and Shanni hid a smile. Mrs Davies was quite old, of course, almost thirty-five, and a widow, but even so she was far younger than the housekeeper, who would not see fifty again.
‘Going to meetings, talking about violence.’ Mrs Pollard was on her soap-box. ‘Decent women should know their place. Didn’t we have enough trouble in ’thirty-four when the Poor Law came in? A riot there was in Brecon, and the Swansea Yeomanry sent to sort it out. Brought back dead, some of them.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to, these days.’
Shanni remained silent. What did the old woman know of injustice? She had spent her life waiting on rich folk. She had not known the shame of poverty or of being alone in the world. Shanni was not so fortunate: she had been born in a hovel, had learned to hate the way society treated the poor in general and women in particular.
‘Well, what have you to say for yourself, Shanni Price?’ She sniffed. ‘Who would call a girl Shanni, I ask you? A fancy enough name for a child from the slums, wouldn’t you say?’
Shanni remained silent. What use was there in talking? Action was needed: action against the rich, action against the men who wielded power. She had heard only yesterday about poor Sally Jones. The girl was only twelve years old and a prostitute. She had been dragged to the sessions not because of her trade but because she dared to take away a copper kettle from an alehouse. For that small crime she was sentenced to transportation to some far-flung country. It seemed to Shanni that there was one law for the rich and quite a different one for the poor.
‘Take your mam,’ Mrs Pollard said. ‘I hear she was fooling around with Dan Spencer and carrying his babba.’ Mrs Pollard had a spiteful gleam in her eyes. ‘Lying in the bed of a married man is disgusting. What that man’s poor wife had to go through is no-one’s business.’
‘It’s none of yours either.’ Shanni stood up and stared at the older woman. ‘But, then, no man married or single would take you to his bed and that’s why you are so bitter!’
For a moment Mrs Pollard was silent then she screamed and held her hand to her brow. ‘Oh, Mrs Davies, fetch me some water quick, I’ve come over all faint-like.’
Mrs Davies obeyed, helping the older woman into a chair. ‘Go to the master, Mrs Davies, there’s a dear. Tell him Mrs Pollard can’t work today because of this dreadful girl. He must dismiss her. It’s her or me. I won’t stay under the same roof as her.’
Mrs Davies hesitated, but Shanni smiled slowly. ‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving! I can’t stay here with you, Mrs Pollard. You’ve an evil tongue and I hope you rot in hell!’
Shanni ran upstairs to her room. It took only a few minutes to put her clothes into a bag. She would have to take her maid’s skirts with her. It might be stealing, but the rags she had arrived in had been burned in the brazier in the garden.
Shanni felt the cool of the day on her cheeks as she left the house. She was half-way down the drive when she heard the sound of carriage wheels behind her.
‘Shanni Price, where do you think you’re going?’ Mrs Mainwaring was leaning over the side of the carriage, her eyes alight with amusement. ‘I hear you told poor Mrs Pollard a few home truths.’ She laughed, a pretty, ladylike sound.
‘Come on, climb in. I suppose I’ll have to take you in myself.’ Mrs Mainwaring moved over to make room on the seat and, after a moment’s hesitation, Shanni climbed aboard.
‘You’re a bright girl, Shanni Price. How would you like to read and write and do figures?’
‘I can read – a bit,’ Shanni said defensively. Then she relaxed. ‘I would like very much to be clever, to figure out sums and to write proper words.’
‘Then that’s what you shall do.’ Mrs Mainwaring smiled. ‘No more cheeking your elders, though. Is it a bargain?’
Shanni looked into the face of the older woman and saw only kindness. She remembered how gentle Mrs Mainwaring had been with Mam, how brave she had been to send the crowd of howling women packing.
She wanted to thank her but the words would not come, and for the first time since her mother died Shanni gave way to the hot, painful tears that she had long wanted to shed.
CHAPTER TWO
SHANNI SAT IN her bedroom at the top of the house in Pottery Row and looked around her. The curtains on the windows were of heavy material, clearly expensive, and the cotton sheets on the bed were spotless. She hugged herself in pleasure. She had a room to herself, not like the kitchen-maids who huddled three together.
Shanni put down the book she was trying to read. Sometimes she thought she would never learn to be fluent with her words the way that Mrs Mainwaring was. Still, she was getting better every day, even she could see that, and Shanni tried hard to learn. She wanted to please Mrs Mainwaring, to show that she was grateful for being taken into her home. Shanni had no idea what she would have done if Mrs Mainwaring had failed to notice her rapid departure from the Morton-Edwards household.
Shanni had come to admire Mrs Mainwaring; she was a woman who knew her mind, who took no cheek from anyone. Shanni had heard how bravely she had run the pottery when she was little more than a girl, and here she was now, a rich, successful businesswoman. It was an achievement Shanni dearly wanted to emulate.
Shanni moved to the window and stared out at the neat gardens below. A fountain spiralled water that fell like diamonds back into the stone bowl; the birds were singing in the trees and the sun dappled the lawns. Beyond the walls and to the left of the house stood the pottery. The kilns were always in use, shimmering with heat, but from her window Shanni could see nothing but beauty and greenery.
Whenever she thought of the past weeks, she comforted herself that she was not the only one to lose her mother in tragic circumstances. It had even happened to Mrs Mainwaring. She had not given in to an unfair fate but had worked night and day to make a success of the business that had once belonged to her father.
And just look what she had now: a place in society, a handsome husband and a fine son. Lonely and alone, Mrs Mainwaring had found the courage to flout the unwritten rules of polite society and marry an outsider.
Shanni could never imagine herself living with someone so different, a man from a land far away across the sea. But Joe Mainwaring was a good man, as far as Shanni could judge. He had strong features and lovely blue eyes, and he would never betray his wife the way some of the other rich folk did. Poor folks, too, come to that.
Her eyes narrowed as she thought of the way Dan Spencer had made a fool of her mother. He had ruined the lives of two families and escaped unscathed. No-one in Swansea blamed him for Dora Price’s humiliating death yet the townsfolk had poured scorn on Llinos Mainwaring’s marriage to an American-Indian.
Shanni sank into the window-seat and rested her head against the cool panes of glass, fighting back the tears. She was lucky to have found a benefactor who cared about her and wanted her to get on in the world. And she would prove that Mrs Mainwaring had acted wisely, whatever effort it took. She would make her so proud, make her glad she had taken in a poor girl from the slums. Mrs Mainwaring had no daughter, only one son who was away at school in England. Shanni would not presume to imagin
e she was the daughter Mrs Mainwaring had never had, but she came damned close to it.
She was startled out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. She brushed the tears from her eyes and patted her hair into place.
‘Miss Price, you’re wanted downstairs.’ The voice of Flora, the youngest of the maids, sounded shaky and timid. Shanni felt angry with the girl: she should not be humble; she should not believe herself beneath anyone.
‘Coming, Flora.’ Shanni opened the door and the girl stepped back respectfully. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Miss, but there’s visitors and Mrs Mainwaring wants you to meet them.’
‘Flora, straighten up!’ Shanni said firmly. ‘You do not have to bob a curtsy to me. I’m just a girl from the slums, remember?’
‘Right, Miss.’ Flora stepped aside and made way for Shanni to pass her on the stairs.
Shanni sighed. It was no good: Flora had the mentality of a maid and nothing would ever change her.
In the drawing room Mrs Mainwaring was waiting for her. She smiled and raised her hand, gesturing for Shanni to come forward. ‘This is Madame Isabelle.’ She nodded at the well-padded lady who stood tall and statuesque, dominating the room. ‘She will be giving you singing lessons and will teach you to play the pianoforte.’
Shanni nodded dutifully, but she was not sure she wanted to learn music. What good would playing the piano be to her in the outside world?
‘I would much rather learn about government and the running of the country, Mrs Mainwaring,’ Shanni said softly.
‘First things first, my dear.’ Madame Isabelle took charge, her voice echoing around the room. ‘A young lady needs refinement if she is to procure for herself a good husband.’
Shanni did not want a husband and she was not sure she wanted to be refined. What she really wanted was to alter the world for the poor, to make sure everyone had enough bread to eat and coal to keep them warm in the winter.
She bowed her head. ‘Thank you, Madame Isabelle,’ she said respectfully. She regarded the woman steadily. Madame Isabelle had some sort of foreign name but she was as Welsh as Shanni was, and she was putting on an act for the benefit of Mrs Mainwaring.