by Mary Balogh
There it was again, the threat. If she did not obey, there would be punishment. But perhaps the very marriage vow presupposed that. She would have to learn to be obedient during those times when they were opposed. Perhaps the occasions would not be numerous.
She nodded and moved her head forward for his kiss.
* * *
Alex was crossing the hall when Siân arrived for work the next morning. For a long time he had been careful not to run into her. He had seen her only in brief visits to the nursery or from the windows when she had Verity out in the park or when they were taking longer walks out on the hills. The day of the eisteddfod had been the exception to all that. But then that was not something he had planned. She had come and sat with him while everyone was singing on the mountaintop, and he had neither turned her away nor gone away himself.
The fact that he met her now, quite by accident, in the hall told him that perhaps it was not really so accidental after all. He had not slept all night—and had slept only fitfully for nights before that—wondering what the reaction would be to the announcement of next week’s drop in wages. He had wondered what her reaction would be.
He got his answer, loud and clear.
“Good morning,” he said, stopping in the middle of the hall and clasping his hands behind him.
She looked up at him, startled, flushed deeply, jerked her head away again, and hurried past him and up the stairs. Her back, he saw, staring after her, was straighter than ever.
He felt an unreasonable flash of anger. How dare she ignore him. How dare she cut him so pointedly. She was his servant! But she had provided him with the answer he had lain awake worrying about. He had trouble on his hands. And so far, though he had spent long days toiling over books, striving not only to make sense of them but also to feel that he was thoroughly in command of their contents, he had found no evidence to support the idea that the business would collapse if wages were not reduced. His profits would be down—considerably. But not far enough to put him in danger of financial ruin, even if they were his sole source of income.
And yet he dared not act on his findings yet. There was so much more to learn, so much more to know. He could not risk so many livelihoods on the strength of half-digested facts. Especially when so many other men of experience, including his own highly competent agent, were strongly united in disagreement with him.
He summoned his housekeeper after half an hour in his study had convinced him that he could not concentrate on the books this morning.
“Go up to the nursery, please,” he told her, “and ask Mrs. Jones if she will take luncheon with me today. Give instructions in the kitchen accordingly.” But he stopped her when she turned away with a nod. “No, better yet, Miss Haines, tell Mrs. Jones that she is to take luncheon with me to report on my daughter’s progress.”
He did not want her, he thought, his jaw tightening, refusing his invitation and making him the laughingstock with his other servants. He did not even know quite why he had decided to have luncheon with her, anyway. Or perhaps he did. He felt the need to justify himself to her. Though how he could do that when he could not even justify himself to himself, he did not know.
He was not to be allowed to settle to his morning of study. A short while later Josiah Barnes was announced and ushered into his study. There was to be a midnight meeting up on the mountain in four nights’ time, he told Alex. Chartists again. Apparently John Frost, the ringleader and big troublemaker from Newport, was coming to address the men.
“With your permission,” Barnes said, “I will have it squashed. I know who the leaders are—there are three or four of them, though Owen Parry is the main one. I will have them dismissed from their jobs and threatened with arrest if the meeting goes on, and the others will all take fright and fall into line.”
“No,” Alex said. “There will be no dismissals. And no arrests. The men will be allowed to have their meeting. It is supposed to be a free country we are living in.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Barnes said, frowning, “but this is most irregular. There will be trouble. The men are not in the best of moods. They will use the meeting to air all their grievances. I would not be surprised to find that there is talk of a strike.”
“I will take responsibility for what comes of the meeting,” Alex said. “It will be allowed to proceed. How do you know about it?”
“I have my occasional informers,” Barnes said evasively. “One of the men who was whipped a few weeks ago has no love for the likes of Owen Parry. Let me beg you to reconsider, sir.”
“The meeting will proceed as planned,” Alex said. “And you will not need to endanger yourself by spying on it, Barnes. I shall doubtless do that myself.”
“Ah,” Barnes said, brightening somewhat, “then you will be able to see with your own eyes exactly who is to be dismissed, sir. And you will know exactly what the plans are so that they can be squashed. I did not understand.”
“And still do not, perhaps,” Alex said. “I cannot help but sympathize with my men, Barnes. I believe if I had to live on what they now earn and support my daughter too, I might be willing to throw caution to the winds and demonstrate against the government and strike against my employer. That will be all, thank you.”
Barnes stared at him, stupefied, and then turned and strode from the room.
Another enemy, Alex thought ruefully. He had enemies on both sides and felt very much alone and lonely in the middle. He wished fervently that his mother’s brother had had some closer kin to whom to leave the lucrative ironworks and coal mine of Cwmbran. He wished he had never set eyes on this accursed valley.
And yet—he closed his eyes and pictured it as he had seen it that first night from up on the hills, just before he had come upon that other meeting. And as it had appeared from the top of the mountain on the night of the eisteddfod. And he heard again in memory the male voice choir as they had sounded when practicing inside the chapel, and the whole community singing during their gymanfa ganu—Verity had taught him the Welsh name for their communal singing. And Siân singing her Welsh folk songs to the accompaniment of the harp.
He felt on the verge of tears suddenly. And that mysterious, unnameable yearning rushed at him, taking him quite unaware and acting on him almost like the infliction of pain. No, he could not wish that he had never owned Cwmbran and never come here. He could not wish it at all. He was a part of it whether he liked it or not, and it was a part of him.
He loved it. And he loved its people.
He loved Siân.
He had never verbalized that realization in his mind until this moment.
* * *
Josiah Barnes, striding along the driveway toward his own house, was white with fury. For twelve years he had run the works and made them profitable. He had worked on an equal footing with Fowler and Packenham and the other owners. He had won their respect—and that of the workers of Cwmbran—through sheer hard work.
And now this fool had come along to ruin everything with his bleeding heart and his damned conscience. And his dangerous respect for what he saw as the rights of his men. Did he not realize he was headed for ruin—and that he would drag Josiah Barnes down with him?
Barnes had had control of the situation—he had the likes of Owen Parry exactly where he wanted him. The man would be dismissed and unable to find work anywhere else in the valleys, and the masses would take fright at the fate of their leader. All would be quiet again.
Parry of all people. Barnes had been elated with the sweetness of his knowledge and power. Parry was to marry Siân Jones within a few weeks. The marriage plans would come to nothing if the man was dismissed. Or if she did marry him regardless, then she would starve with him.
Yet that fool had put a stop to it all.
Somehow Barnes’s fury focused more on Siân as the day wore on than on either the marquess or Owen Parry. There is no fury like that of a woman scorned, the
old adage says. Perhaps it applied equally to men scorned.
* * *
If it had been an invitation, she would have refused it, Siân thought. But it was a command. She was to dine with him and report on Verity’s progress. It was a reasonable command—he was the child’s father. But she could have wished he had summoned her to his study, where she could have made her report formally and briefly. And she could have wished that it was not today of all days. She had begun the day by cutting him in the hall, refusing even to say good morning to him. Her back had bristled as she had climbed the stairs. She had expected to be called back and dismissed.
He was standing at a window looking out when she was shown into the dining room. He hurried across the room toward her and drew back a chair so that she could seat herself. Neither of them spoke a word. She did not look directly at him. He took his place beside her, at the head of the table, and signaled to the servants to bring on the soup.
“I understand that the lessons are going very well,” he said. “Verity shows off new knowledge to me every evening and seems very enthusiastic about it.”
Siân breathed a silent sigh of relief. She had not been invited under false pretenses, then. He really did intend to discuss Verity’s progress.
“The secret is,” she said, “to make it all seem like the playing of games, so that she does not realize that she is learning.”
“The secret is,” he said, “to give her attention and approval and affection. She is thriving under your regime.”
Siân fought against the glow of warmth his approval brought. “She is particularly interested in music,” she said. “I believe she has some talent at the pianoforte. I hope you will nurture it.”
“I hope you will,” he said.
It was the opening she needed. “I will be here for only two weeks longer,” she said. “After I am married, I will have a husband and home to keep me busy.”
She was aware of his eyes on her for a few silent moments as she sipped her soup.
“Is that your decision?” he asked. “Or is it Owen Parry’s?”
“Both,” she said, aware of the lie. “We make decisions together.”
“I am sorry about it,” he said. “Verity has become attached to you. She needs a woman with whom to identify and one to give her a sense of security. You will not reconsider—at least until such time as you are with child?”
Siân could feel her cheeks grow hot and wondered how he could seem so oblivious to the silent servants who were waiting to clear away their dishes and serve the next course. “No,” she said. “I must leave.”
He was silent while the servants were busy and then signaled them to leave.
“Is it entirely because of the demands of your marriage?” he asked. “Why did you ignore me this morning, Siân?”
Well. It was not to be avoided after all, then.
“I did not want to bid you a good morning,” she said. “It was not what I wished for you. I came here to teach your daughter.”
“You had your wish,” he said. “It was not a good morning. Neither was last night a good night. Or the last week a good week. I cannot blame you for your hatred.”
She could no longer even pretend to eat. She set her napkin on the table beside her plate. “If you had always been as I expected you to be,” she said, “I would not have felt betrayed. In a way I can respect Josiah Barnes. He has never pretended to be anything that he is not. You have. You have pretended to care.”
He was bound to dismiss her. She hoped he would. Then she could please Owen and her family without having to make the decision herself.
“Betrayed,” he said softly. “Is that what I have done to you, Siân?”
“Yes,” she said. “I had begun to think you were a kind man. I had begun to l-like you.”
“Had you?” His voice was soft and devoid of expression. “That was a mistake. Men like me cannot afford to be governed by kindness, Siân. There is too much responsibility on our shoulders. But I cannot expect you to understand and I will not plead for your sympathy.”
“And I will not plead for yours.” She looked him directly in the eye and almost flinched away from his pale, drawn face. “I will let the facts speak for themselves—if you will allow them to speak and do not shut yourself up in your castle and shut them out.”
“What facts?” he asked.
“It is always the children who start dying first,” she said.
He recoiled rather as if she had slapped his face. “Is that not rather melodramatic?” he asked.
“No.” She got to her feet, pushing her chair back with the backs of her knees. “If you will excuse me, I cannot eat any more and even if I could, I would not want to eat with you.”
She waited for the inevitable words of dismissal.
“Siân.” He got to his feet too, flinging his napkin down on the table. He drew breath to say more but merely released it instead. “No, there is nothing to say, is there? Go back to Verity, then. I’ll have food sent up to you. Thank you for being so kind to her despite my perfidy.”
“She is an innocent child,” she said, “and in no way responsible for her father’s sins. Just as I was not for mine.”
She hurried from the room, wondering if the day would come when Verity hated her father as much as she, Siân, hated hers. And would yearn as much for his love. Would yearn as much to forgive him.
But then their situations were not really comparable, hers and Verity’s. Verity was not an illegitimate child. And he clearly loved his daughter as her own father had not loved her.
Was that what she wanted? Did she yearn for Sir John’s love? Did she yearn to forgive him? The idea was unfamiliar to her.
She made a conscious effort to smooth out her frown before opening the door into the nursery.
15
SIN never knew what made her more curious than other women. Or more courageous. Or more foolhardy. Or whatever it was that needled at her and nudged at her until she went to see something for herself. It was not that she was without fear. That first time, when she had gone up the mountain to hear Mr. Mitchell, she had been afraid every moment of the embarrassment of being found out, and in the event had suffered the fright of being caught by a stranger. And on the night when the Scotch Cattle had been out and anxiety for Iestyn had driven her from her bed and from the house, she had known stark terror.
But she went again on the night John Frost was to address the men up on the mountain. She tried not to go. She lay in bed for a long time after Emrys and her grandfather had left, trying to will herself to sleep. But she wanted to know what Mr. Frost had to say, exactly what plan of protest he had. She wanted to know how the men of Cwmbran would react, how eagerly they would fall in with the plan. She wanted to know if the black mood of the men, so apparent all week, would turn ugly under such conditions and if they would discuss action other than the demonstration. Would there be talk of a strike?
She wanted to know what Owen’s part in the proceedings was to be. She wanted to know how united all the men would be and how kindly they would look upon those who would inevitably disagree with their decisions.
She wanted to see if they were spied upon, as they had been the last time. That last time the Marquess of Craille had decided to do nothing with his knowledge. But he was not after all a kind man. He was a selfish and cruel and crafty man. This time if he had got wind of the meeting or if he stumbled upon it by chance, there would be trouble. Trouble for everyone. Trouble especially for Owen.
And so she went, hurrying up the mountain from shadow to shadow, her teeth chattering from mingled cold and excitement and dread, almost as if by her very presence she could hold at bay all the dangers she feared. Almost as if she thought that by listening to the plans she could prevent them from being seditious.
The men were gathered in the same place as before, though there were surely more of them
. Siân flattened herself behind the same rock as had hidden her the last time and felt the same pounding fear as she had felt then. If she were caught . . .
If she were caught, it might go hard with her. Any woman caught there could expect to arouse the anger of the men and the particular fury of her own men, who would possibly feel obliged to assert their male dominance by chastising her—perhaps publicly. But she was not just any woman. She was the woman who worked directly for the Marquess of Craille and had refused to leave her job after the second reduction in wages even though it seemed to be general opinion that she ought to have done so. If she were caught, she might be taken for some sort of spy.
If she were caught, there would be Owen to contend with.
She was a fool, Siân thought, pressing herself closer to the rock. She had everything to lose and nothing to gain by coming up here. It was a darker night than before with clouds obliterating all but the occasional glimpses of the moon. Even so, there were no lanterns, no lights at all. Only hundreds of men packed shoulder to shoulder in darkness, waiting quietly for the meeting to begin.
He had watched the last meeting, Siân thought. He had caught up to her farther down the mountain, but it was obvious that he had listened to what had been said. He had seen Owen. She wondered where he had hidden and gazed fearfully all around. In the darkness it was impossible to see any lurkers. Did he know of this meeting? Was he here? Fear clawed at her back and fingered its way between her shoulder blades to her neck.
Finally the meeting began, led by Owen, like last time. John Frost, though he was a Welshman from Newport, chose to address the men in English. His speech was as long and as impassioned as Robert Mitchell’s had been. The time for petitions was over, he explained to rumbles of approval from the men. The time to stand up and be counted had come. Any man who wished to assert his dignity and his right to freedom and a portion of the bounty of the land was now called upon by his very conscience to participate in a mass march on Newport. All the men from the valleys, in three great columns—from the east, from the west, and from the central valleys, were to converge on the town at the same time one night so that in the morning light the authorities would see what solidarity looked like.