“So did you assault the constable?”
“I pushed him out of my way.”
“That sounds guilty to me. Ten pounds fine. Pay the clerk on your way out.”
George left the dock and walked towards the clerk of the court to pay his fine. The midshipman and petty officer, who had been negligently loitering in the corner of the court, approached him. They were about to grab him and add him to the queue of unfortunates who were doomed to a term in the royal navy. “We'll get your fine waved if you come this way.”
George pivoted on his heel and snapped an order at them in his best parade drill voice. “Attention, you miserable excuses for officers. Do you know my rank?”
“No sir!” Much to their surprise they found themselves standing to attention. “I'm not surprised. Didn't you hear them refer to me as Captain Wood?”
“No Sir!”
“And you call yourselves officers in the King's service.”
Much to the amusement of the impressed men, which was quite possibly the last amusement that they would have for a long while, he walked around the two sailors and inspected them. Then he stood in front and started to dress them down. “In the army we would never tolerate such sloppy uniforms. Stand to attention when I'm talking to you.”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Now salute!” They saluted him, and he returned it. When he got to the clerk, Meadows had already paid his fine.
As they left the court, Meadows turned to his master and asked him, “Sir, if you are ever upset with me, please tell me before you use that voice.”
George smiled, “Don't worry about that, I won't. I'm pleased that I haven't forgotten how to do it. Now let's get back to the White Swan and think if there's some way we can find Cecelia.”
“If you would, sir, leave me to search. You need a rest and I can ask the servants. It is unlikely that the sudden arrival of an unattached young woman at her maiden Aunt's would not give rise to rumors.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, sir, that I can find out much more easily than you can, if Miss Wood is in Swansea.”
Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, no one remembered a young woman getting off the stage just over a week earlier. Neither did anyone have an unusual visitor from Bath in the same time period. Meadows searches were fruitless. They returned to Penyclawdd. The journey felt long and tedious. Penyclawdd was quiet and only enlivened by Heulwen. Even the dog seemed to be missing someone. A franked letter awaited the Captain's return. It was from Mrs. Ames. In it she explained that she and Mr. Ames had a long-standing relationship. Then she finished by giving her blessing to the Captain and Miss Wood. She asked when the wedding would be and could she be invited to it. It solidified and deepened the dull greyness that surrounded Captain Wood.
12. The Quarry Goes to Ground.
By the time Miss Wood awoke in the morning at the ferry inn in Aust, the storm from last night had passed through and the sun was shining. The winds were calm and when she looked out at the Severn channel the waves were, by comparison to yesterday afternoon, flat. She quickly packed her bag, grabbed a roll for breakfast and headed down to the ferry to take her place on the first trip of the day.
The ferry captain had some bad news for her. “Miss, I know you were worried about the wind last night. Worried that it was too strong.”
“Yes, it was scary. That boat is so small and the wind was so strong.”
“Well Miss, I wish we had some of that wind now. It's too weak for the ferry to cross the Severn. That 'small' boat is too big to scull across the channel. You'll miss the stage in Chepstow unless the winds pick up soon. If we miss the tide, it will be even later.”
Cecelia shrugged, as long as Captain Wood wasn't following her, and there was no reason for her to believe he was, time didn't matter. Swansea and her aunt would still be there tomorrow or the day after. The ferry captain continued, “Miss, after you went to the inn, this young man came through. He was in a dreadful hurry, he was. Said he was looking for a Miss Wood. You wouldn't know her by any chance?”
She paled and shook. Then she blurted out, “Miss Wood? No I don't know her. Not at all. No one of that name, and definitely not me.”
“No matter, Miss. It's not my business. Just he said, that if I was to hear of her, I should send him a message at Penyclawdd. You wouldn't know anything about this perchance?”
“No, no, nothing to do with me. I'm a Miss Arnold. Miss Jane Arnold. Never heard of a Miss Cecelia Wood.”
The ferryman smiled at her. He hadn't mentioned Miss Wood's first name, “If you say so Miss Arnold. You know that young Captain was a handsome looking devil. Make some woman very happy when he marries her.”
“A captain was he? I wouldn't know any military men.”
“In any road, Miss Arnold, we'll call at the inn when the wind is strong enough for us to cross.”
“Do you mind if I wait here? That inn was so noisy this morning and it is so peaceful watching the river.”
An hour later as the sun warmed the inlands a stiff breeze came up the Severn. The ferry was quickly full of passengers and cargo, including 'Miss Arnold'. Cecelia watched anxiously as the boat scudded across the channel. Much to her surprise, she found sailing on a broad reachvi in a steady wind to be an exhilarating ride. It wasn't until the boat was almost docked in Beachly that she had an unpleasant surprise.
The ferry captain came over to her and said, “Miss Wood?”
She answered, “Yes, what is it?”
“I thought that might be your real name.”
“No it's not, I'm Jane Arnold.”
“If you say so, but next time you take a false name 'Miss Arnold', make sure you don't answer to your real one.”
“I tell you I'm Miss Arnold.”
“Right. It doesn't matter to me what you want to call yourself, Miss Wood. I'm going to escort you to the Anchor. There is, or was, a man who was looking for you there. I hope he's still there for both your sakes.”
“Please no. Please.”
“I'm sorry, but you're a young woman without an escort. You're not even 21 are you?”
“I'm almost 19.”
“Last time I counted that high, almost 19 was less than 21. Miss Wood, it's my duty to see you are properly turned over to an adult relative, if I can. Failing that I'll see you're looked after on the stage.”
The ferry captain asked one of his crew to carry Miss Wood's bag and the three of them set off to cover the short distance to the Anchor. Cecelia felt her heart race and her face flush as they approached it. It felt as if she were on the tumbrel approaching Tyburn field. When they arrived at the Anchor, they found that Captain Wood had left early in the morning in a great hurry. To her very great surprise, she felt disappointment instead of relief.
“Miss, you can catch the stage from here to Swansea, if that is where you are bound.”
“It is, my aunt lives there. Don't worry about her being respectable, her husband is in the clergy, a vicar.” The ferry captain waited a few minutes while Cecelia arranged for her place on the stage. Then he asked the landlord to make sure she was aboard it when it left.
After a slow and tedious journey, with several changes of horses and innumerable stops for passengers or parcels, the stage finally arrived in Swansea. It pulled up in front of the White Swan. Cecelia, like the other passengers, got out, retrieved her luggage and set about her business. Cecelia wondered aloud how she would ever find her aunt in this big city. Then she realized, that she didn't need to find her aunt, her uncle would do just as well. Surely the local clergy knew each other, if not personally, at least by reputation. St. Mary's church was not far from the White Swan so she went in search of a vicar or curate.
It did not take her long to find one. Mr. Andrews, a young and impressionable curate, met her as she was poking around the church.
“Miss, how can I help you?”
“I'm Miss Wood. Miss Cecelia Wood. My uncle is Reverend Thomas Hopwell.”
<
br /> “Yes, I'm pleased for you. So what do you want me to do about it?”
“I just arrived from Bath. I was supposed to meet my aunt in town, but we seem to have missed each other.”
“Ah, I see. That could be a problem.”
“So I was wondering if you knew where his parish is.” Mr. Andrews wasn't sure. “I don't know, but I'm sure my vicar does. If you'd walk with me.” He led the way into the vicarage and explained Miss Wood's dilemma to his superior. Cecelia smiled sweetly as she told the Vicar the same fallacious story she used with the Curate. Namely, that she missed connecting with her aunt in Swansea. After some thought, the Vicar answered, “St. Fili's. It's in Rhossili. It's on the far end of the Gower. Fifteen miles away.”
“Then I'd best get going, I knew I might have a bit of a walk. What's fifteen miles?”
“Miss Wood, I can't let you do that.” Mr. Andrews asked his vicar for permission to visit a fellow member of the cloth. His vicar ambled over and inspected Miss Wood. She passed his inspection as a nice, quiet, modest girl, the kind that might be an ornament to the cloth of a young clergyman. In addition to her clearly elegant demeanor, she was a vicar's niece. This might make her a fitting partner for a young priest like Mr. Andrews, who was clearly destined for high rank in the church.
Two hours later a gig pulled up in front of the vicarage in Rhossili. The tall heather covered Rhossili down towered over the small whitewashed stone building nestled on a wide ledge below it. The vicarage overlooked the grand sweep of Rhossili bay out to the west. Mr. Andrews told his guest, “This isn't the richest parish in Glamorgan, but I can see why your uncle likes it.”
“It is beautiful. So desolate. So romantic.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Mr. Andrews, can I trust you?”
“Absolutely, what is it?”
“I'm being pursued by this man, a Captain Wood, Captain Ge-,” here she gave a gulp, then continued, “Captain George Wood. If he should find you please do not let him know where I am.”
Since Miss Wood was a beautiful young woman, and Mr. Andrews was an unattached and unsophisticated young man with aims of his own, this was not a difficult promise for him to make. “Of course. I promise that Captain Wood will never hear where you live from me.”
“Thank you.”
Cecelia hopped down from the gig and ran to the door. She gave it a quick knock, and burst in immediately afterwards shouting, “Aunt Hopwell, Uncle, I'm here!”
“What! Who?”
“Don't you recognize me, I'm your niece, Cecelia?”
Her aunt slowly rose from where she was sitting and coaching her eldest boy in his reading. “Cecelia? Cecelia Wood? What in the world are you doing here?”
“Aren't you glad to see me?”
“Yes, but I thought you'd send a letter first.”
“Why? Did you expect I'd be arriving with a husband in tow?”
“I don't know, but Rhossili, as much as I love it is an isolated place.”
“I'm here. You knew I was coming once my father died with Penyclawdd entailed away from me.”
“Yes, but Cecelia, what are we going to do with you?”
There was a calmer knock on the door. It was Mr. Andrews. “Mrs. Hopwell, might I stable my horse here? Thirty miles is a bit long for it without a rest and a thorough rub-down.”
“Oh, I don't know what I'm doing. Go ask Mr. Hopwell. He's in one of the barns.” Mr. Andrews left to seek out his fellow clergyman and see to his horse's wants.
Dinner at the vicar's was a hectic affair, much more like the informal dinner's at Penyclawdd than the elegance she had grown used to in Bath. In Bath and with the Somersets the dinners were elegant and structured dinners. The vicar's extended household did not run to many servants. The presence of several small children at the table ensured that the meal was lively, if disorganized.
After dinner Cecelia's aunt did the unusual step of calling Cecelia and the children away from the dining table to the parlor. This left the vicar and Mr. Andrews alone to discuss church matters over port. It was not long before the two men rejoined them. Mr. Andrews begged his leave, “There is a fine moon tonight, so I should return to my duties at St. Mary's”
Cecelia curtsied to him, and replied, “I cannot thank you enough for your help. Please remember what I said.”
“I will.” He then turned to Mrs Hopwell and her husband and asked, “With your permission, I'd like to visit again sometime. Our theological discussions were most interesting, and did my duties tomorrow morning not require me to return I would like to pursue them further.”
“Please do. It's always pleasant to talk with another member of the clergy.” Mr. Hopwell showed Mr. Andrews to the stable and helped him hitch up his gig. While they were gone, Cecelia's Aunt turned to her and asked, “What did you tell Mr. Andrews?”
“Nothing.” She avoided her aunt's eyes.
“Nothing? Answer me truthfully.”
“I warned him that a Captain Wood might come looking for me and asked him to keep my whereabouts private.”
“Cecelia, that smacks of deception. Why?”
Cecelia started to cry, and tried to answer through her tears, “I, I can't face him. Not after I destroyed his. I'm a home-wrecker.” Then she gave up into tears. All her aunt could do was to comfort her and try to reassure her that it would be fine in the end.
The next morning was bright. Cecelia rose early and walked to the top of Rhossili down. She could see from the morning smoke of Swansea around to the sweep of the southern Welsh coast by Kiddwelly. Directly south, the tip of Worms head snaked its way into the Atlantic Ocean at the mouth of the Bristol Channel.
She told the seabirds that wheeled over the broad breadth of Rhossili beach below, “This is almost as romantic and beautiful as Hatterrall hill. I could just stay here and enjoy it forever.” She missed her book of poetry, left in Bath to be returned to the circulating library. This would be the perfect place to sit and read Byron.
A chilly wind from the sea swept over the down, and brought Cecelia's musings to an end. Chilled and hungry, she returned to the vicarage to break her fast. “Oh Aunt,” she gushed, “I was up on the down this morning and it is so beautiful here. I could just stay and read poetry forever.”
Her uncle pointed out, “It's not so beautiful in a winter storm. Cold, soaking wet and your book would soon be blown away.”
“Still, it is lovely.”
Prosaic as ever, her aunt injected, “Yes it is. Dear Cecelia, after breakfast would you escort the children to the parish school.” Her son started to object, “I can go myself. I always do.”
“I know, but I'd like your cousin to get to know her way about, and this is a good chance for her to start. Besides, from what your late Uncle Wood said in his last letter, she's a dab hand at games and racing. So you should enjoy her company on the walk.”
At the end of breakfast, the vicar Thomas Hopwell, called his wife Martha into his study to discuss some 'matters of spiritual import'. Cecelia gave them a worried look, but her aunt reminded her to look after the children and see they made it to the village school. No one seemed to think that it was in any way unusual for her aunt to have a discussion over 'spiritual matters' with her husband so she relaxed.
Closing the door behind her, Martha asked her husband, “What matter of spiritual import? Are the dissenters setting up a new chapel in your parish again?”
“No. What are we going to do about Cecelia? Nice enough girl, and I know she can be a good hand around our farm, but she cannot stay here forever.”
“I know.”
“Did you ask her why she came here from Bath? What was all the hurry and why wasn't she escorted properly?”
“I tried and she broke into a flood of tears. Something about being in love with a Captain who is engaged to someone else, and being a home-wrecker. I couldn't understand what she was saying.”
“She reads too many novels. It's made her imagination much too fanciful.” He l
owered his voice, “Is she intact?”
“I'd think so. She's been managing the farm at Penyclawdd for the last couple of years. Knows what that's about when it comes to the details of breeding.”
“Good, so we can work on finding her a husband. Wonder if any of the Talbot boys are interested? I'd rather one of them than that curate.”
“You may leave the match-making to me, Thomas.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Now, what about finances?” With a growing family and the parish worth only £102.15.0 per annum, money was never far from either the vicar's or his wifes' minds.
“Doesn't she have some portion due her from her poor mother?”
“Probably, my brother Giles wasn't profligate, so I'm sure she has something.”
“Why don't you take her into Swansea today and start with the arrangements to get it sent here. Even if it's only a few pounds, it will make a big difference.”
“I was also wondering if she could be an asset with the farm. Do you think she'd be willing to help with the stock?” One way the vicar, like many of his colleaguesvii, made ends meet was to run a small farm as well as perform his calling. It supplied that much needed extra bit of blunt that came in so helpful from time to time. In addition, it helped him stay closer to his flock who were mostly farmers or farm-workers.
“I'll ask her tonight. Poor Giles' last letter boasted about how good she was at managing Penyclawdd. He said that he wasn't worried about the health of the farm as long as she was in charge of it.”
By the time Mrs. Hopwell left her husband's study, Cecelia and her children had left for the parish school. Cecelia was returning down the lane that led from the town below the towering Rhossili down. Mrs. Hopwell dashed out and caught her niece. “Cecelia, I have an errand in Swansea, and I need you to come with me.”
“Aunt, what is it?”
“I assume you have a settlement on you from my late brother Giles' will?”
“Yes, it was a thousand pounds in the four-percents.”
Mrs. Hopwell paused, it was terribly impolite to talk about money with a guest. Then she steeled herself to the task, took the bit in her mouth and asked, “You know this is not a rich parish?”
What About Cecelia? Page 13