Longing

by Mary Balogh

  “No, Gran,” Siân said. “I shall go alone. It is silly to expect the man to be some sort of ogre just because he is an English marquess and lives in a castle. Besides, Grandad and Uncle Emrys will be angry if you are not here to give them their dinner when they come home.”

  “And serve them right too,” her grandmother said, bristling, but she sat down again. “I shall send Grandad up there if you are not home at a decent time, Siân.”

  Siân, almost sick with fear, considered her appearance. Should she pin up her hair and put on her Sunday dress? She thought of all the dresses bought for her by Sir John Fowler and left behind in her mother’s cottage. But she was not going to dress up for the Marquess of Craille. Not just to be dismissed from her job and interrogated about the men at the meeting. She took her shawl from the back of the door and wrapped it about her shoulders. She lifted the weight of her hair outside it as she left the house and closed the door, leaving a worried-looking grandmother behind her. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and strode purposefully along the street.

  She had never been close to Glanrhyd Castle. Despite her resolutions she felt her knees tremble and her heart beat with uncomfortable thumps as she walked between the wrought iron gateposts and through the massive gates, which stood open, and past the two square stone houses just inside them. One of them belonged to Josiah Barnes, she knew. It might have been her home.

  A straight and wide stone driveway sloped upward to beautifully laid out formal gardens, with the house beyond, all turreted towers and arched windows and aristocratic magnificence. She headed toward the main doors beneath a high stone archway and at the top of a steep flight of steps. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was doing quite the wrong thing, that she should be seeking out the servants’ entrance. But she did not know where it was. She lifted the heavy wrought iron knocker and let it fall back against the door. She resisted the absurd and cowardly urge to turn and run.

  She was in for it, she thought, as the door opened. But she felt curiously calm as she stepped inside the large hall. There was no going back now. And she would show no nervousness before the Marquess of Craille.

  She would not.

  * * *

  It seemed rather late in the evening to be having a caller, Alex thought, looking up in surprise from his book when his butler opened the door to inform him that Mrs. Siân Jones was in the salon downstairs. It was almost dark outside. He had not expected her to come until morning. Did she know why she had been summoned and was she that eager? He closed his book and went down. It would have been better if she had come in the morning. Verity could have met her and had some input into his decision. But then if he found her quite unsuitable, as he somehow expected he would, it would perhaps be better for his daughter not to meet her at all. Verity had been in bed for an hour or more.

  She was wearing a faded cotton dress and a shawl that had seen better days. Her very dark hair was in heavy, shining ripples down her back. She looked no different from the way she had looked up on the mountain that first evening—and the next. For one moment he wondered why she had come, and he stared at her, thinking that she was even more beautiful than she had appeared in the moonlight. And then he remembered what his butler had called her. Ah, not his maiden of Cwmbran at all. The large puddler must be Mr. Jones. But, no. Miss Haines had called her a widow.

  “Mrs. Jones?” he said, stepping into the salon and hearing a servant close the door behind him.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She stood straight and tall, her feet slightly apart, her chin up. She looked directly at him with eyes of a clear dark gray. And beautifully lashed. She gave him no title and offered no curtsy. She really was quite startlingly beautiful. He wondered if it was the stolen kiss that was making her look defiant. Had it been that good?

  “Will you have a seat?” He gestured to a chair beside her.

  “Why?” she asked. “What do you want of me?”

  She was frightened, he realized suddenly, and doing an admirable job of masking it with pride and disdain. She was expecting him to renew the questions he had asked her on the mountain? She did not know why she had been summoned, then?

  “I wish to discuss the possibility of employing you,” he said, and wondered even as he spoke if he really wished to do so. Have a woman who sneaked alone up the mountain to an all-male clandestine meeting in the middle of the night teaching his daughter? And a woman who stood on the hills, embracing her lover for all to see? Would she be a suitable teacher and companion for Verity? But by God, she was lovely. He remembered how after kissing her very briefly, he had had to fight desire all the way home across the mountain.

  “You already employ me,” she said.

  “Do I?” He wondered in what capacity.

  “I almost collided with you this morning,” she said.

  He tried to picture any near accident he had had while on horseback that morning and could remember nothing. “I went down the coal mine this morning,” he said.

  “Yes.” She looked at him calmly. She still had not seated herself.

  The eyes. Good Lord. The woman had been dirty and sweating. She had looked more like a beast of burden than a human. Certainly she had not looked like a shapely, feminine, beautiful human. Her hair had been hidden beneath a filthy cloth. But the eyes. Was it possible? He stared at her.

  “That was you?” he asked.

  She said nothing.

  “It must be backbreaking work,” he said lamely.

  “Yes.”

  There was hostility emanating from her though her face was expressionless. Why? Had he forced her into that job? Did she not feel that he paid her enough? Had she heard about next week’s cut in wages? Despite the assurances of both Barnes and Fowler, he could not feel easy in his mind about that. Or was it just the memory of that stolen kiss? Should he apologize for it? But he was not sorry. In fact, it would give him the greatest pleasure to repeat it—not a thought to be pursued at this precise moment.

  “You have been recommended to me as a possible governess for my daughter,” he said. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  She stared back at him. “A governess?” she said.

  “I am told you were educated at a private girls’ school in England?” He looked inquiringly at her.

  “Yes,” she said. “For four years.”

  He wondered suddenly how a girl from this Welsh valley, who had ended up hauling one of those carts in a coal mine, had come to be at a school in England. She was clearly Welsh. She was speaking flawless English, but she was doing so with a lilting accent that clearly came naturally to her. And her name was Welsh—both names. She offered no explanation.

  “I would imagine, then,” he said, “that you are qualified to instruct a six-year-old child.”

  She said nothing. She was clearly not going to sit down. He did not offer her a seat again.

  “I want something more than just that, though,” he said. “I want someone to teach her Welsh.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Welsh?” she said.

  “This little part of Wales will be mine for the rest of my life,” he said. “It is possible that I will live here for much of my time. My daughter will live here with me. If I do not remarry and produce sons, it will all be hers one day. It seems logical that she learn the language of the people who work for me.”

  She smiled. It was not a very pleasant expression. “It is a barbaric tongue,” she said.

  “Let me guess,” he said, clasping his hands at his back. “You were told that at school.”

  She inclined her head.

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “I would have my daughter learn this barbaric tongue. And something of the history and customs and culture of Wales. This is a very beautiful valley.”

  “It was beautiful,” she said quietly.

  He raised his eyebrows at the impertinence. H
e was responsible for spoiling its beauty? That was what her tone had implied.

  “My daughter also needs someone willing to play with her,” he said, “and take her for walks. And runs. She is fascinated by the hills. Hills for children are irresistible. They must be climbed.”

  “They have that effect on many people, regardless of age,” she said. “Hills are meant to be seen over.”

  He half smiled and had that yearning feeling again very fleetingly. It was gone even before he could begin to grasp at it. Hills were meant to be seen over. He must remember that.

  “Can you oblige me?” he asked. “Can you give my daughter what I need for her?”

  She was silent for a long moment. “No,” she said at last.

  “Why not?” He frowned. He had expected to be the one making the decisions. It seemed as though Mrs. Siân Jones was turning the tables on him.

  “I have work already,” she said.

  “And you enjoy it?” His frown deepened.

  “Other women do it,” she said. “I am no different from other women.”

  He suspected that she was. In beauty if in nothing else. He felt unaccustomedly dazzled by it. He was used to having his favors courted by all the most beautiful ladies of fashion. But then this woman was not a lady. Not in social status or in dress, anyway. But she had a dignity that he found appealing.

  “You would live here,” he said. “You would have a room of your own close to my daughter’s and a clothing allowance.” He glanced at the clean shabby dress she wore. It did nothing to detract from her loveliness. “I would pay you . . .” He named a sum.

  Her eyes widened.

  “You are interested?” he asked.

  Color flooded her cheeks. “No,” she said.

  “How much do I pay you to work in my mine?” he asked.

  He was staggered when she told him, though he had already seen some of the books in which the wages of his men were recorded. How could anyone live on such a pitiful—pittance?

  “Is that before or after the cutback?” he asked her.

  She smiled again—the same way she had smiled before. “Before,” she said.

  Good Lord! “Would you not prefer to earn what I have offered you to be a governess?” he asked. “Would you not find the work more pleasant?”

  He was surprised to see her lips tighten with what could only be anger. “Can you afford to pay me so much?” she asked. “I thought everyone was suffering with the reduction in iron sales. You included.”

  He felt anger too. Was she daring to use sarcasm on him? “Will people suffer?” he asked. “I know that no one likes to have less money than they have been accustomed to. But will there be actual suffering?”

  She looked at him and said nothing. He waited for her reply but she obviously had no intention of making any. Mrs. Siân Jones, he decided, was a prickly woman. Beautiful, but lacking in the sort of soft charm that he expected of women. Her lover doubtless derived enormous pleasure from that luscious body—his eyes strayed downward to her generous, well-formed breasts for a moment and he remembered again how they had felt against his coat—but he had better be a strong man himself, in character as well as body, if he was to hold her tamed. Yet again Alex was not sure that he wanted her teaching any of her qualities to his daughter.

  “You are adamant in your answer?” he asked. “You would not like to meet my daughter, perhaps tomorrow, before you give your final answer? She is an eager child and has some charm, I believe.”

  “I will be working tomorrow,” she said. “She will be in bed by the time I get home and bathe and have a meal.”

  “Is that why you came so late this evening?” he asked. “Do I keep you working for such long hours? You were working this morning.”

  “Today was longer than usual,” she said. “I had to stand in line for over an hour, as I do once a week, to collect my wages. All your mine girls do.”

  Good Lord. She hated him. It was there in her voice and in her eyes. Had Barnes painted too rosy a picture of his workers and the conditions under which they lived and worked? Was this girl—this woman—typical of the way his other workers felt about him? Or was she the sort of person who felt bitter about life and took it out on anyone who got in her path? It would be interesting to know the story behind her four years at an English school. Any decent private girls’ school would have cost many times more for one day than she now earned in a month.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” he said, making her a half bow and turning toward the door. “I will not take any more of your time. Thank you for coming so promptly.” He opened the door and stood to one side.

  She did not move for a while. “Will I now be dismissed?” she asked. Her face looked like marble. “I would ask you please not to have my grandfather and my uncle dismissed too. This has nothing to do with them, and they have been good to me.”

  He stared at her long and hard. He felt again that he had stepped into an alien world. Was it possible that life could be so cruel in her world? Or was she given to theatrics? He rather suspected the latter.

  “Mrs. Jones,” he said, “you are welcome to pull coal carts in my mine for as long as you wish. You appear to enjoy doing so. Your grandfather and your uncle and any other relatives you have may continue with whatever they do in my employ. I am not much given to spite.”

  She licked her lips and hesitated. She spoke in a rush. “Not even about the other night?” she asked. “Why have you done nothing? I thought that was what this summons was about.”

  “If I had wanted to discuss that matter,” he said, looking closely at her, “I would have summoned your lover, Mrs. Jones.”

  Her eyes widened. “My lover?”

  “The dark-haired puddler who looks as if he is also a prize-fighter,” he said. “I would speak to him, Mrs. Jones. But I choose not to. Not yet, anyway.”

  She seemed about to say something else. Thank you, perhaps. But instead she hurried across the room and past him without another word. He stepped into the doorway and nodded to a servant who was standing close to the outer doors. The man opened them for her and then closed them quietly behind her.

  Alex stood staring broodingly at the closed doors before turning abruptly and climbing the stairs back to the haven of his library. Perhaps it was as well she had refused, he thought. He was not at all sure she was the sort of woman he would want as Verity’s companion and teacher. And he was not at all sure it would be good for him to have her living in his house, close to him whenever he was at home.

  In fact, he was quite sure it would not be good for him. The thought definitely had its attraction, of course—as temptation always did.

  Alex smiled suddenly despite himself. Siân Jones might lack charm and wisdom, but she was abounding in courage. She had been afraid at the start and afraid at the end, but between times she had quite effectively spat in his eye—metaphorically speaking.

  It was a shame he was to have no further dealings with her.

  Tomorrow he would have to decide whether he was going to send to London or go to Newport himself. He did not particularly relish doing either. He sighed as he sat down in the library again and picked up his book.

  5

  THE following evening Siân waited for Owen to come to take her to the weekly choir practice at the chapel. Her grandfather had gone already. Emrys, though he had a good voice, never went since the practices took place in the chapel and both the mixed choir and the male voice choir were conducted by the Reverend Llewellyn. Emrys had no use for the preacher though he had admitted years ago that the words spoken at his wife’s funeral had been meant to comfort rather than chastise him.

  “Llewellyn is a fool,” he was fond of saying. “He preaches acceptance of our lot when we should be fighting to change it.”

  Even the fact that the Reverend Llewellyn had attended the Chartist meeting and led it in prayer and s
igned the Charter did not mollify Siân’s uncle. The preacher had not joined the Association and had spoken out against it. It was right to ask for changes, he had said, but it was not right to insist.

  “Bloody idiot,” Emrys had said before being commanded by his father to apologize to the women for using such language in the house.

  Siân always looked forward to choir evenings. Singing was the most relaxing thing in the world to do, she always thought, and one of the most joyous, especially when one sang in company with a hundred or more others who loved it as much. Actually to call the mixed group a choir was rather comical since it consisted of at least three quarters of the Sunday congregation. And they did not really need to practice since they all knew the hymns by heart—some of them had to do so if they could not read—and were well familiar with their own particular part. Hymns in chapel were always sung in four-part harmony.

  The male voice choir always practiced after the mixed one. Siân thought it unfair that men singing in harmony together sounded so much lovelier than women or mixed voices. But she loved to stay and listen to the men. They did not practice in order to sing in chapel—the women would not have consented to be quiet themselves since it was mainly to sing that they went to chapel. The male voice choir practiced to sing competitively. They sang a few times each year at minor competitions and once a year at the big eisteddfod, or music and poetry festival, that was held in one of the valleys. This year it was to be in the neighboring valley. The Cwmbran male voice choir had been beaten only twice in the past ten years—both times by their bitterest rival.

  The eisteddfod was the big social and cultural event of the year in the valleys. Cwmbran would virtually empty out on that day while all its people trekked over the mountain to whistle and cheer for friends and relatives and to hiss and heckle rivals. It was also the big annual hunting ground for young people. Many an intervalley courtship began at the eisteddfod.