by Iris Gower
Bridie bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She forced herself to think calmly, they wouldn’t get away with it, she would put a stop to it right away. Her mind was suddenly clear, she would forbid Paul to take any more orders from Glyn Hir, he would have to tell the widow that this trip had turned out to be a most unprofitable one. Ellie Hopkins would find that it was Bridie who wielded the power and that Paul’s little schemes were easily nipped in the bud.
It would make little difference financially to the brazen widow, of course, she was so rich, a little loss on leather wouldn’t matter. Which made the entire transaction almost laughable if Bridie wasn’t so incensed by the pitiful attempt to deceive her. Perhaps, even now, they were together in Ireland, perhaps Ellie Hopkins was the reason Paul had accepted the shorter runs with such good grace.
Well it wouldn’t work, they would both see that, Ellie Hopkins and Paul. Later, she would think of other ways of undermining Ellie Hopkins, smearing her name so that she would be unable to hold her head up in Swansea ever again. But for now, at least she had somewhere to start.
She rose from her chair in a burst of determined energy, she would act now. Excitement rose within her, she would go over to Ireland on the next tide, she would foil Paul’s plans, surprise him into an admission of his guilt, then, by God, he would have to come to heel or else.
She moved to the cabinet and looked through the list of sailings, there were three of her ships in dock at the moment, she saw with satisfaction. Good, she would just have time to make her arrangements with the master of one of them and then go home and pack a few necessities.
She clenched her hands into fists. ‘I knew it,’ she breathed, ‘I just knew he was up to something. And by damn I’ll find out what it is if it kills me.’
‘I’ve been invited to this soirée at Sarah Frogmore’s house,’ Calvin was stretched out beside Arian on the bed in his luxurious house, his arms behind his head, ‘is the woman entirely without sensitivity, I ask myself?’
‘I know.’ Arian sighed, ‘She’s so intent on being included in the social whirl of the town that she just doesn’t stop to think what the effect on her husband might be. Parties, that’s all she has to fill her life, I think.’
‘Well, I will have a pressing engagement elsewhere, of course,’ Calvin smiled, ‘I don’t think I could sit in the same room as poor Frogmore.’
‘Well, you did make him a cuckold,’ Arian ran her finger over Calvin’s cheek, ‘with a little help from Sarah, of course.’
‘With a great deal of pressure from Sarah.’ Calvin turned over and leaned on his elbow. ‘I’m not excusing myself, I felt hurt and betrayed by the women in my life and I’m afraid I used Sarah as a sop to my damaged pride, not very noble of me, I’ll grant you.’
‘It’s all in the past now.’ Arian’s voice trembled a little as she moved into the crook of his arm. ‘We’re together, that’s all that counts, let’s not waste a moment of our time wallowing in unpleasant memories.’
‘You’ve been to see Gerald?’ There was concern in Calvin’s voice and Arian closed her eyes against the unwelcome vision of her husband as she had last seen him, securely bound in straps, his eyes glaring at her with hatred.
‘Two weeks ago but I need to pluck up the courage to face him again soon, I feel I owe him that much,’ she sighed. ‘It’s awful, he becomes so agitated whenever I go to see him that he has to be subdued with sedatives.’
‘You don’t have to go,’ Calvin kissed her forehead, ‘the visits are not doing him any good and are certainly not helping you.’
‘I feel I owe it to him,’ she repeated doggedly, ‘he’s still my husband whatever he’s done or become.’
‘I know but you get so upset, Arian, look at you, trembling now at the very thought of going to that awful place.’
‘Let’s not talk about it.’ Arian turned to him and put her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him as though to fuse her body with his.
He kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts. ‘I want you, Arian, I will always want you.’ He took her sweetly, he was mindful of her needs as well as his own. He made love, as he did everything else, with finesse. He was all she could desire. If he was her husband instead of her lover, would she be so happy, she wondered?
She forgot everything then but this feeling between them. She moaned softly, arching against him as the flow of their passion swept away all other thoughts and sensations. She cried out his name and clung to him, tears of happiness and release flowing down her cheeks.
Later, they sat together in the dining room and took supper. Cook had prepared saddle of lamb in mint jelly for the main course with a rich plum duff in brandy to follow.
Arian felt aglow with the delight of being loved by such a man. How she had come to take it all for granted, her changed lifestyle, Arian mused. Such a long way to come from the girl who had ridden bareback over her father’s land, defying anyone to try to tame her. How she had hated her father and yet here she was, successful at the very trade in which he had been engaged, that of newspaper proprietor.
The door closed behind the servants and Calvin leaned forward. ‘You’ve gone far away from me,’ his voice broke into her thoughts and Arian smiled up at him. ‘I will never be far away from you, not while I have breath in my body.’
He took her hand. ‘I wish we could be married. We could be married if only you would divorce Gerald Simples. You have every reason, he’s criminally insane, no-one expects you to remain tied to such a man.’
‘You know I won’t divorce him.’ Arian brushed back a stray wisp of hair from her eyes. ‘I owe him some allegiance, I married him after all.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘In any case, you would be marrying a divorced woman, your reputation would be in shreds.’
‘It is already,’ Calvin’s eyebrows were raised quizzically. ‘Do you think people thought me a gentleman when I cast my wife and her child out into the street?’
‘You had your reasons for that,’ Arian protested. ‘Eline had given birth to another man’s child, you had the sympathy of most of the townspeople when you obtained your divorce.’
‘I’m sure people speculate about our relationship, Arian,’ Calvin’s expression was grave, ‘do you think I like it that your reputation is open to question?’
‘Come now, who can prove anything except that we dine together at your home?’
‘If one of the servants was to be indiscreet then everyone would know soon enough.’
‘We’ll have to risk that,’ Arian said flatly. ‘When you come to my home Mary is there at all times and though she hasn’t been with me all that long, I think I can count on her loyalty.’
‘I’ll admit she makes an excellent chaperon,’ Calvin’s amusement was evident in the light in his eyes and the way his mouth turned upwards in a smile. ‘She manages to interrupt us as often as she can.’
‘Anyway,’ Arian said softly, ‘I don’t suppose we are very often the subject of discussion, there’s so much going on in Swansea and you and I are only a small part of it.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Calvin poured more coffee, ‘but I doubt that much escapes the gossips of our fair town.’
‘It seems that your popularity is not diminished,’ Arian said dryly, ‘at least you are still invited to soirées at the home of Sarah Frogmore.’
‘An invitation I could well do without.’ He put down his cup as Arian rose to her feet.
‘I shall withdraw,’ she said in mock severity, ‘I shall wait for you in the drawing room. You enjoy your cigar and brandy in peace.’
As she left him, Arian paused for a moment in the hallway. This house of Calvin’s was so different from her own home. She lived in an apartment above her business premises. She slept in a small bedroom at the top of the house while downstairs, far below her, was the lifeblood of her newspaper; the offices where the copy was written ready for the printers and even further down, in the basement, the machinery for printing. It would all be quiet now, empty and d
ark, shut up for the night this past hour. How she loved it all, she could never give it up, perhaps that was one reason why she could accept the role of lover rather than wife, as it was she had everything, well almost.
As she moved on towards the drawing room, she was unaware that Calvin was not so content, he sat in the dining room, staring up at the high ceiling, knowing what was lacking in his life, what he desperately wanted was an heir, a son to take over his title, his great wealth. That heir must be legitimate, there could be no other way. The uncertainties in his life must be resolved, he needed to settle his affairs one way or another. Arian must divorce Gerald Simples before it was too late, too late for her to bear Calvin the son he so desired.
The land was lush and verdant, the skies above her reflected the blue of the water lapping the edge of the dock. Ireland was a beautiful country but Bridie Marchant was in no mood to appreciate it.
‘So the load of leather from Glyn Hir is sold then?’ She spoke harshly to the master of the Marie Clare, he was unfamiliar to her, probably employed recently by Paul. He stared ahead of him obtusely, determined to give nothing away.
‘It’s sold, Mrs Marchant.’
‘To whom?’
‘It is in the records, Mrs Marchant. Shall I fetch them for you?’ She ignored this. ‘Where is my husband?’
‘Mr Marchant went ashore.’
‘I gathered that but where has he gone?’ Bridie spoke the last four words with emphasis but they evoked no further response from the man who simply shrugged.
‘Call me a cab,’ she ordered and the man looked at her then in some surprise.
‘No cabs around these parts, missus, only pony carts and such.’
‘Where is the nearest hotel then, can you tell me that?’ It was like wheedling a winkle from a shell but Bridie persisted. ‘I’m not familiar with this part of Ireland but you must have been here before, man.’
‘Aye, I have that.’
‘Well then, where is Mr Marchant likely to stay?’
‘The best place is Ma Murphy’s ale house.’ He stopped speaking as though he’d said too much and Bridie smiled triumphantly. ‘There, that wasn’t so difficult was it?’ A gust of wind in from the sea lifted her hat and she fastened it more securely, replacing the pins.
‘Now, you will take me to this ale house.’ She held out her bag and the man took it grudgingly. ‘Be careful, you are newly in my employ and you will not remain with us for long if you do not serve me well, understood? What is your name?’
‘Charlesworth, Richard Charlesworth.’ His tone indicated he was not used to being spoken to in such a way even by the ship’s owner but Bridie didn’t give a fig for him. He could go or stay with the line, it was a matter of complete indifference to her. There were masters aplenty to be had and Charlesworth knew it.
‘I must give my men some instructions, please give me a minute.’ The master disappeared up the gangway and Bridie fumed impatiently on the dock, tapping her foot, torturing herself with the image of Paul in the arms of some hussy.
Soon, she was sitting beside a silent Charlesworth, taking the short journey towards the small group of buildings that sprawled around the docklands near Cork. A church spire rose into the sky and a huddle of houses seemed to crouch close to the cobbled streets.
Cork itself, as Bridie knew, was a flourishing township but Paul had, apparently, chosen a modest abode near the docks rather than take the trouble to select a good hotel in the town. Her spirits lifted, he could hardly be planning an assignation or he would certainly have been out to impress Ellie Hopkins.
They stopped outside a modest ale house and Charlesworth helped her alight from the cart. ‘I don’t know if he’s here, missus.’ He sounded surly but she saw his eyes flash to an upstairs room.
She went inside and immediately saw that the place was far from respectable. In the room to the left of the hallway, men sat around tables drinking dark beer and the floor of the bar was covered in sawdust.
A woman came forward dressed in a rough calico skirt and a freshly laundered blouse, her hair was twisted into a severe bun and a shawl was draped around her plump shoulders. This then was Mrs Murphy, hardly the type to interest Paul, Bridie decided with a sudden springing of hope.
‘Can I help you, then, madam?’ She spoke with a distinctive Irish accent and in spite of her polite manner, her eyes as they rested on Bridie’s well-dressed figure were hostile.
‘I am Mrs Marchant.’ Bridie saw the woman’s eyes narrow, ‘I’m simply enquiring if my husband is lodged here.’
The woman glanced over her shoulder and Bridie felt, rather than saw, the master’s almost imperceptible nod.
‘Sure, your man lodges here but he’s not in, not right at this moment. Sorry.’
‘Then oblige me by taking me to his quarters, I shall wait for him there.’ Bridie turned to look back at Richard Charlesworth, he was already walking into the ale-sodden bar, nodding to the locals and taking the corner seat as though he was a regular customer.
Mrs Murphy hesitated but clearly Bridie’s imperious manner overawed her and with a bob, she led the way up the uncarpeted stairs.
Bridie wondered why on earth Paul should stay in a place like this when he had the means to reside in comfort in a much higher class establishment.
In his rooms Bridie looked around her disdainfully. The furniture was old but good, that much she conceded and the smell of beeswax indicated that the rooms were well cared for. She tugged back the patchwork quilt and saw that the bed linen was spotless. Perhaps, in this area of docklands, Murphy’s was the best that Ireland could offer the casual visitor.
She dragged a rattan chair close to the small deep-set window and stared out into the gathering gloom of the evening. She felt weary, wondering if she had been foolish to come here, what if Paul was truly here only on business? How would he react to finding her spying upon him?
She was almost asleep, her head fell back onto the hard cane of the chair and the contact jerked her into wakefulness. She forced herself to concentrate, the street outside seemed to be darker. Two people were coming out of the gloom into the splash of light from the open doorway of the ale house.
Bridie rose to her feet and with a beat of her pulse saw the stocky figure of her husband, his dark hair glinting with the fine rain that had begun to fall. Standing looking up at him was a woman, Bridie could see she was small and well-formed even though a coarse shawl was wrapped around her head and shoulders.
Anger filled her, she put her hand to her throat and leaned closer to the cold glass, straining to see if any scene of tender intimacy would be enacted between her husband and this whore he was with.
Was the woman Ellie Hopkins? The figure was small enough but it was too dark to see any detail. Paul put his hand on the woman’s shoulder and for a moment, as he bent forward, Bridie thought he would actually kiss the upturned face. Then a third figure joined the pair, a man, it was Richard Charlesworth, Bridie would stake her life on it. Charlesworth spoke for a moment and then took the woman’s arm and led her within the building and out of Bridie’s sight.
Paul glanced up, his face a mere blur. She clenched her hands together and drew herself to her full height, her husband was betraying her. She turned into the room, perhaps they slept in this very bed together. Anger burned in her skull, she knew that if, in that instant, she had a weapon she would be capable of killing anyone who stood in her way.
She heard footsteps on the stairs and then Paul was in the room, the scent of the cold rain mingling with the clean fresh smell of his skin. She loved him so much she ached. And yet she hated him too.
‘What are you doing here?’ He sounded cold. He closed the door behind him and came further into the room. ‘And why are you sitting in the dark?’
He lit the oil lamp and turned to look at her, there was no smile of welcome. ‘Well?’
Bridie found she was at a loss to reply, she was afraid to accuse him outright of being unfaithful and yet what other reason
could she have for coming to Ireland?
‘You have been spying on me, is that it?’ He was not playing the loving husband now, he was angry with her and Bridie knew that she had nothing to lose. She might just as well give voice to her suspicions and see if he could answer them.
‘You are having an affair, aren’t you, Paul?’ She sounded as angry as he appeared to be.
‘What nonsense is this?’ he stood staring at her, his whole body tense. ‘What on earth has put such a foolish notion into your head?’ In spite of his words, he sounded uncertain.
‘I know you’re being unfaithful to me, so don’t try to deny it,’ she flung at him and he sank down heavily on the bed. There was a strange look on his face and for a moment Bridie thought he was going to confess everything but he remained silent.
‘It’s that hussy Ellie Hopkins, isn’t it?’ She was incensed by his silence, the swine was guilty, it was plain as the nose on his face.
His reaction startled her, he burst into loud laughter, leaning back against the pillows, uncaring that his booted foot was resting on the clean quilt. What rubbish!’
Was she wrong or was that relief she could hear in his voice? She stared at him closely. ‘Tell me then, why did you bother to come to Ireland with such a pathetic load of leather? You know and I know that carrying a few boxes of skins, even supplemented with fuel blocks, can not be profitable.’
‘Glyn Hir gives better service than some of the bigger tanneries. The skins are delivered to the saddler for me and then collected and brought to the docks as part of the bargain. I did it as a favour, if you must know.’
Now she had him. ‘A favour for Ellie Hopkins, is that it?’
‘No, that isn’t it at all.’