by Iris Gower
The moon trailed across the sky, dodging in and out of the clouds, and Shanni caught sight of Dafydd Buchan, strange in horse-hair wig and petticoats. And yet, in spite of the clothes, he looked menacing. Some of the other men were wearing women’s clothing, ‘Daughters of Rebecca’, they called themselves, and Isabelle had explained that the name was taken from a quotation from the Bible. Dafydd had a different story: he said that a woman called Rebecca, a huge woman, was the only one in the neighbourhood with skirts big enough to fit a man.
The crowd had reached the gate on the Carmarthen Road at last, and Shanni heard Dafydd shout for the keeper of the gate to come forth from his bed. After a few minutes a startled woman with hair loose to her waist opened the window of the toll-house peering over the sill, her face white in the glare of the torches. ‘Go away!’ she called feebly, but for an answer, one of the men began to hack at the gate, tearing at its hinges. The cracking of timber echoed through the darkness.
Once the gate was down, a torch was set to it and the wood began to blaze fiercely, sparks shooting into the sky like fairy-lights. The woman inside the toll-house began to scream, and Shanni looked over her shoulder, afraid the noise would attract attention from the wrong quarter. Perhaps the police would come and drag every one of them off to the prison. It was a fearful thought.
One of the men shouted above the noise, ‘Justice for the people!’ Someone threw a burning torch through the window of the toll-house and immediately the flames sprang upward, smoke billowing from the window. Justice for the farmers, if it came at all, was going to cost some people their lives.
Shanni heard a terrified shriek and the woman ran from the house, her skirts aflame. ‘You’ll kill me!’ she wailed.
A torch was lifted high into the air and Shanni heard it crack as it caught the woman a blow to the side of her head.
‘No!’ Incensed by the mindless violence, Shanni pushed her way through the crowd but Dafydd was there before her. ‘Stop this!’ he shouted above the noise of the flames. ‘The Daughters of Rebecca want justice not revenge on the innocent.’
Shanni pulled her cloak closer around her, shivering in spite of the warmth of the evening. Dafydd stood before the crowd of men, his arms raised. ‘Get to your homes!’ he shouted. ‘Our work here is done.’
Slowly, the men began to disperse, muttering protests but afraid to disobey. As the crowd thinned, Shanni saw the woman from the toll-house crouching on the ground holding her head. Shanni took a quick breath, the picture in her mind of her mother being shamed by the Ceffyl Pren. Anger against this woman who was betraying the cause mingled with pity as she watched her limp back towards the toll-house.
Shanni heard the sudden crack of a pistol and broke into a run. Breathless, she made her way back across the fields to Isabelle’s house. There had been nothing heroic about the action tonight. A defenceless woman had been hurt, her belongings burned. Was that how justice was achieved?
Climbing back into the bedroom was more difficult than Shanni had imagined. The rough stonework tore at her stockings and by the time she swung herself over the sill she was breathless. She dropped through the window into the bedroom, gasping for breath.
‘I needn’t ask where you’ve been!’ Madame Isabelle was standing in the doorway, a candle in her hand. Her face was white in the pale light, and her voice had a hard edge to it. ‘I expressly forbade you to go to the gate.’
Shanni sank on to the bed. ‘I’m sorry.’ She was still struggling for breath. ‘I didn’t know there was going to be so much anger and violence or I wouldn’t have gone.’
‘I told you it would be rough. The men are tired of half-hearted efforts to make landowners see sense, and that is why I changed my mind about you going tonight. Do you realize that if you had been discovered you would have been traced to my house? I would be questioned about how a young lady from Swansea came to know of the movements of the rioters.’
Shanni nodded. ‘I do understand and I’m sorry, Madame. I was very foolish and I won’t ever do it again.’
‘You won’t be given the chance!’ Madame Isabelle said. ‘At least, not from my house.’ She sat on the bed. ‘I won’t allow you to stay here until I have your solemn oath that you will not disobey me again.’
‘I’ll give it freely,’ Shanni said. ‘I swear I will never go to a meeting from your house without your consent.’
Madame Isabelle nodded. ‘Very good.’ She held the candle high. ‘Well, now that you have seen what happens to the gates, what do you think?’
‘The energy of the men was wasted. Why don’t they attack the people who impose the tolls instead of picking on poor defenceless women?’
‘The women you speak of, they should not betray their fellows by manning the gates in the first place. It’s often their own families who suffer when the tolls are imposed.’ Madame paused. ‘As for the landowners, their day will come.’ She got to her feet. ‘Now, try to sleep, or you will be too tired in the morning for your music lesson – and then what will Mrs Mainwaring have to say?’
She closed the door quietly and Shanni was left in darkness. As she undressed she could smell the smoke on her clothes. She grimaced and draped them across the chairs to allow the air to freshen them.
She washed quickly in the cold water from the jug and basin then crept into bed. But she could not sleep. Shanni kept seeing the frightened face of the woman at the gate, and deep within her she knew that, however just the cause, nothing good would come of this night’s work.
‘So the gate on the Carmarthen Road was burned last night, then?’ Llinos sat in the hotel bedroom with Dafydd and pulled on her boots.‘Thank goodness you got back safely. But how did Pedr Morgan know where to find you?’
‘I left word with Isabelle,’ Dafydd said. ‘I should have held the men back, kept them in check.’
But he had been thinking of her. She was more important to him than the burning of a gate. The thought made her feel young again, beautiful and desirable. But it was a dangerous feeling, and a dangerous situation she had got herself into. Llinos felt a pang of guilt: she was a married woman and she was committing adultery, she should be ashamed. But all she felt was happiness.
‘Do you know if anyone was injured?’ she asked, although her mind was scarcely on the rioters – not when she had her own worries. Joe would be home one day, and how then would she manage to meet Dafydd, with her husband keeping his eye on her?
‘According to Pedr, the woman from the toll-house was hit,’ Dafydd said, ‘but she wasn’t badly injured, thank God. I wish the men would show a little restraint. I’m all for the rights of the privileged but last night’s violence was unnecessary.’
Llinos felt suddenly anxious. ‘Isn’t this dangerous, Dafydd, this rioting and burning down gates?’ She answered her own question: ‘It must be! Oh, Dafydd, be careful.’ She turned to him, rested her head against the warmth of his back. ‘I hate to think of you going out there on dark nights. What if the men of the constabulary catch you? And surely the militia have guns? You might be killed.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Dafydd took her in his arms. ‘I’m like a cat – I’ve got nine lives. Now, come along, Mrs Mainwaring, I’d better get you home.’
Yes, home. But for Llinos home was no longer the happy place it had once been. Home in the pottery house took her too far away from Dafydd.
‘We’ll see each other again soon, won’t we?’ she asked.
A smile softened Dafydd’s face. ‘Of course we will. Nothing could keep me away from my little darling.’ He kissed her, and the gentleness of his touch, the look of love in his eyes, made her heart swell with happiness. Whatever happened in the future, she would always be glad she had spent this time with Dafydd Buchan.
Joe stared miserably through the window at the rain-drenched plains. There was little chance of continuing his journey if the weather did not change. Even when the rain stopped, the ground would be muddy and the animals would find the going heavy.
‘Hey,
Joe, come and have a drink of my father-in-law’s fine whiskey with me.’ Binnie was intentionally cheerful. He was a kind man and Joe knew he would far rather be sitting round the log fire with his family than drinking with him.
‘I think I’ll have an early night,’ Joe said, ‘but I’m obliged to you for the offer.’ At the door he paused. ‘I know I must be outstaying my welcome but I’ll be off in a few days and leave you in peace.’
‘Nonsense!’ Binnie said. ‘You’re no trouble around the place. Hortense likes you, and the boys enjoy your tales of the Mandan. It all sounds like an adventure story to them, you growing up with the Indians then going off to a fine college in England.’
Joe nodded. ‘I suppose mine was an unusual upbringing to say the least. I hardly knew my father. I spent more time with him when he was on his death-bed than I ever did as a child. I used to think he was ashamed of me because he was white and I was of mixed blood.’
‘And you were proved wrong?’ Binnie asked.
‘Yes. He left me his fortune. But, more important than that, we became quite close at the end.’
‘Well, now you’ve got your own little family and I can understand your impatience to get home to them.’ Binnie handed him the jug of whiskey. ‘If you’re determined to go to bed at least take some of this to help you sleep.’
Joe took the whiskey and walked soundlessly up the stairs to his room. He put down the jug and fell back against the pillows. He wanted to sleep but all he could see was his wife, his own Llinos, and clouds of mist wrapped round her, closing him off from her embrace. Had he lost her? The heaviness in his heart told him that something was wrong at home. The sooner he set sail for Swansea, the better he would be pleased.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROSIE GLANCED UP at Watt Bevan and her heart missed a beat. Even now, after all this time, he was so familiar to her. The cut of his jaw, the way his hair would never lie flat, even the scent of him was enough to remind her of the time she had spent as his wife.
‘I vowed to keep away from you, Rosie,’ Watt took her hand, ‘but I just couldn’t. I had to see you, to try again to make it all up to you.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘Come on, let’s run. It’s going to rain.’
It felt good to be linked to Watt, fingers entwined as he drew her towards the cottage. This man was her husband. She had made love with him, slept beside him and woken to find him next to her when the sun rose. But had he ever loved her? He professed love now, but was that just his conscience bothering him? How could she trust him, and how could she trust her own instincts?
‘I want you back as my wife, Rosie.’ He pushed open the door to her small home. Below, the sea swept into the shore, the clouds raged over Mumbles Head. They had ended their walk just in time because all the signs indicated that a storm was brewing.
Inside the house the fire glowed in the grate, the smell of baking bread emanated from the kitchen and all was welcoming. Could she give this up? Now that she had become independent, how would she adapt to being a wife again? On the other hand, did she want to live out her life alone?
‘Sit down, Watt.’ She pushed open the door to the sitting room. ‘I’ll just get changed. The hem of my dress is covered with mud.’
He sat like a visitor on the edge of his seat. He stared miserably at his boots, and Rosie wanted to run to him, to hold him close and tell him she loved him, she had always loved him. She restrained herself, this time. She must be really sure of Watt or she would always be insecure and afraid.
In her bedroom, with the beams cutting across the corners of the room, Rosie studied herself in the mirror. She was still young: her hair was bright, her skin had a bloom of health. She was young enough to bear children, to fulfil herself as a mother. Was that what she wanted?
She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off her boots, remembering when she had first noticed how handsome Watt was. It had been her birthday and her mother had invited Watt to join them in the small celebration she had planned. Rosie had seen Watt before: he was a manager at the pottery where her mother worked. Then she had never really looked at him as a man, but as he sat opposite her at the table, his face scrubbed, his linen fresh and clean, she had known he was a man she could love.
She sighed. It was all in the past now and she had changed a great deal from the dewy-eyed bride she had once been. Living with Alice Sparks had seen to that.
Dear Alice, she had clung to Rosie in her dying days, the gulf between them breached by friendship. Alice had been born to riches, had enjoyed the best that life could provide, at least until she had married Edmund Sparks. And Rosie, well, she was simply the daughter of a pottery worker.
Rosie changed her petticoats and drew on a clean gown. She found her house slippers near the window and pushed her feet into them. She looked out across the bay: the storm clouds had become blacker and the Mumbles Head was shrouded in mist. Even as she watched the rain began to fall in heavy bursts, flaying the window, driven by the winds coming in from the sea.
‘Rosie, are you all right?’ Watt’s voice startled her. She glanced once more in the mirror before hurrying down the stairs. She knew Watt would want an answer, but was she ready to give it?
He was seated on a chair in front of the fire his head in his hands. He sat up as she entered the room and there was such longing in his eyes that Rosie knew beyond doubt that he wanted her. But would it work this time? She was so unsure of her own feelings and needs, how could she deal with his?
‘This would be an ideal time for us to try again, Rosie,’ Watt said, watching as she took a seat on the opposite side of the room. ‘Your brothers are independent now. My job of bringing them up was over and done with long ago.’
‘I’ll always be grateful to you for that,’ Rosie looked into the fire, ‘but I won’t make the mistake you made.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You married me because you felt you should, not because you loved me. Please don’t try to make me feel obligated to you – that’s no basis for a marriage.’
Watt made to rise but Rosie held up her hand. ‘I have to think everything over very carefully,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready for marriage right now.’
‘But you are married!’ Watt was becoming impatient.
Rosie lifted her head and stared directly into his eyes. ‘In name only,’ she said calmly. ‘And I will decide if and when that is to change.’
Watt got to his feet. ‘Very well, Rosie, you win, but don’t blame me if I find someone else. I’m only a man, after all, and I need a woman beside me.’
‘You need, you need! It’s always you, isn’t it?’ Rosie was on her feet, her hands clenched into fists. Suddenly she was furious with him. ‘What about my feelings? What do I need to make me happy? Have you asked yourself that?’
He took a deep breath, but she shook her head at him. ‘Just go away and leave me. Find someone else if you haven’t done so already.’
‘I have been faithful to my vows!’ Watt seemed outraged. ‘I have led the life of a monk since you left me.’
Somehow Rosie knew he was lying. ‘I don’t believe that of you for one minute! You can’t even tell me the truth now.’ She opened the door of the sitting room. ‘Go home, Watt. Make what you will of your life. I’m not sure that I have a part in it any more.’
‘But, Rosie, can’t we just talk?’
‘It doesn’t seem like it, does it? Just give me time, Watt. I’ve got a lot to sort out in my mind. Now that I’m back home in Swansea I don’t seem to know what I want any more.’
‘You’ve grown up, Rosie.’ Watt stood in the doorway. ‘You’ve grown into a fiery, beautiful woman.’ As he opened the front door, the rain lashed inwards and he stepped back. ‘Lord!’ he said. ‘I think the heavens have opened.’
‘Wait a while,’ Rosie said quickly. ‘You can’t go out in that – you’d be soaked to the skin before you walked half-way down the hill.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ Watt replied harshly. ‘In any c
ase, I can’t trust myself to stay here any longer. I might forget to behave like a gentleman.’
He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Rosie hurried to the window and watched him disappear over the brow of the hill. Suddenly she felt lonely. Had she done the right thing in sending him away?
Gloom settled over the house. Darkness had come early because of the lowering clouds. Rosie sank into a chair in front of the fire and it was only then that she realized her eyes were full of tears.
Llinos opened her fingers and allowed the letter to fall on to the table. So Joe was coming home. His ship had docked in Bristol several days ago and his first thought had been to visit Lloyd, not to rush to his wife’s side. Llinos stood before the window and stared out at the drizzle. It had rained for almost a week now: the bushes in the garden drooped miserably and droplets fell from the overhanging branches of the alder trees. The landscape was grey, misty, and Llinos shivered.
In his letter, Joe had not mentioned Sho Ka. Was he coming home to settle his affairs and to tell his wife he was leaving her?
He would know about Llinos’s altered feelings. Joe, in the mystical way he had of knowing everything about her, would know she had been unfaithful. What would she say to him? Did she want to leave him for Dafydd? She had asked the question of herself more than once, but as yet she had no answers.
Was it possible to love two men at once? Llinos bit her lip. She could not give up Dafydd: he was like an addiction. She wanted him badly, wanted his lovemaking, but did she love him? She was confused, uncertain, but one thing was clear: life was never going to be the same again.
‘Excuse me, madam, but there’s a visitor. Mr Morton-Edwards would like to see you. Are you at home?’
Llinos turned at once. ‘Of course, Flora, I’m always at home to Mr Morton-Edwards, you know that.’
Eynon swept into the room and took her hands in his. ‘You smell of rain,’ she said accusingly.
‘So would you if you’d just ridden miles on a reluctant horse, my love. Now, instead of insulting me, get me a good hot toddy, there’s a darling.’