Guardian Angel

by Brian John

  “You are right, Daisy. But please allow me to try, for that is what I wish to do.”

  Then I announced that I would accept no more charity from Wilmot -- I said that he had helped me too much already, since the collapse of the Plas Ingli estate ten years since. I knew, as we all knew, that times were tough for the small estates -- and I said that he and Delilah had their own family to think of. They protested that looking after me was no more than any friend would do -- but then Betsi and Daisy surprised me -- and Wilmot and Delilah -- by handing me £500 in cash -- the very money handed to them by Wilkins Legal as a result of my will. They insisted that I must take it. I could hardly believe it, and wept while they smiled.

  Ioan then admitted to me that my letter dated 27 March had been intercepted and read by somebody else. When it was delivered to Brithdir the seal had been broken and crudely repaired. The delivery boy had claimed, upon being accused of a criminal act, that it was like that when it came into his possession, having previously been handled by two other delivery men en route.

  We were all now very worried, and my friends became even more worried when I said that I suspected one Jonas Harry of being behind some campaign to harm me, interrogate me, or abduct me. When I mentioned that name, I noticed that Wilmot and George exchanged the most fleeting of glances. All who were present in the room knew that blackmail could destroy them. So we discussed what I now needed to do. The men agreed that I must go far away, at least for a few months, in order to grow into my new identity and hopefully to throw off my pursuers. The women were less certain, for they knew how lonely I would be. But I assured the family that I would keep them informed of my whereabouts. I said that my letters would always be short and unemotional and would be signed as “Mrs S Ravenhill.” We agreed that all letters must be destroyed as soon as they were received and read. My daughters said that I should shortly get out of mourning dress and face the real world without a veil. But, said they, in spite of my having left my old clothes behind at the Plas, I must beware of dressing flamboyantly in bright blue or red, the colours favoured by Mistress Martha. I must keep my hair dyed, and keep it short. Women are too observant, said Daisy, and too suspicious........ and I was pleased that on the occasion of the meeting I had decided not to wear that beautiful pearl necklace recently given back to me by Rose.

  Wilmot smiled and said “We are all in this together, my dear Mrs Ravenhill, and we might as well be discreet, and do as little as possible to cause tongues to wag .” He suddenly produced some papers and handed them to me. They referred to a Susanna Ravenhill of Trefach, Swansea. I was mystified, until he explained with a crafty grin upon his face that this was a property which he owned and for which he had made out a fictional “tenancy agreement.”

  “But so far away, Wilmot? What if I am forced to show this to somebody, and am asked to describe the area where I supposedly live?”

  “You will think of something, Susanna. And the risk is much smaller than that involved in giving you an address in Puncheston or Brynberian -- any suspicious fellow who wanted to check on your credentials could do it in half a day, even without a horse or a carriage. And as for Trefach, Swansea, there must be fifty places of that name in my fair town, making it almost impossible for anybody to find the one which you have supposedly taken a lease on. And in view of your great age, Mrs Ravenhill, you are probably pretty unsure of where it is yourself, having just come down from London. Perfect, don’t you think? And a very jolly subterfuge!”

  He roared with laughter and slapped his knees, as he was wont to do on all jovial occasions. Delilah was as surprised as I, and squealed in her admiration for her husband. Her bosom, already considerable, swelled with pride. “Dearest man,” she gushed. “You are truly a genius!”

  Wilmot also gave me various documents including recommendations, forged letters from fictional relatives, receipts and invoices from imaginary shops, bank papers and so forth. I was amazed.

  “Where on earth did you get all of this material, Wilmot?” I asked, with my eyes wide.

  He winked. “I have been in business for a long time, Martha. There are a good many people -- some of them very unsavoury fellows indeed -- who owe me favours...... and our friend Skiff is very helpful too.”

  That was just the start of it. He had opened a bank account in my name in the Carmarthen branch of the Lewis Bank, and asked for my signature on a bank document. I signed as Mrs S Ravenhill. That made me very worried, since forgery (a capital offence) was thus added to my list of crimes -- but on thinking about it I had no alternative if I was to survive more or less independently out in the wicked world. As Wilmot explained, I had to have a bank account as well as an identity so that I could remit funds and draw upon them as needed. With Wilmot’s advice I decided to keep £100 and to bank the other £400 for the time being.

  Finally Wilmot produced a pair of heavy horn-rimmed spectacles, very different in appearance from those which I normally used for reading. The lenses were the same as those which I currently used -- and indeed they had been taken from one of the old pairs of spectacles found among my possessions at the Plas. He also handed me another pair of heavy spectacles for use when I was out and about, and advised me to use them.

  George insisted on paying for the hire of the room and for the meal. And then my dear friends left me to decide for myself where to go and what to do next. I promised to inform them as soon as decisions had been made. As they climbed back into their carriage Ioan promised, under his breath, that he would investigate and deal with the strange men who had been following me. I thanked him, and wondered how on earth he would find them, let alone deal with them, since he would be in Newport and they would be skulking, in all probability, round the next corner in Newcastle Emlyn. But I begged him, if he should catch up with them somewhere, not to resort to violence against them, and to that, he reluctantly agreed.

  When I walked back from the Emlyn Arms to my lodgings, I saw the stable lad running off down a back street, and I knew that I was still being watched and followed by the forces of darkness.

  rrr

  The Celestial Empire

  I decided suddenly, without informing anybody else, that I would go to Cardiff to help the poor, and maybe to do some private tuition in order to keep myself alive, if funds should run low. I also thought that I might be able to throw off the armed men who were on my trail.

  I remained indoors all day, packing my bag and hoping that I could induce boredom in the men outside. Next morning, before dawn, I paid Mrs Elkins and walked out of town on the Carmarthen road, assuming that spies would not yet be out and about. I enjoyed an early breakfast in the White Hart Inn, which I knew was a stopping point for the early morning stage coach to Carmarthen, and at 8 o’clock I was safely away, in the company of two other passengers. In Carmarthen I took a light lunch and then caught the train to Cardiff, and felt that at long last I could relax.

  Cardiff had changed out of all recognition since my last visit, and was now a bustling place crossed by roads and railway lines carrying coal and iron from the pits and great industries to the north down to the docks. The streets were crowded and the shops and inns were busy. I took a room in a little guest house near the docks which was used by respectable people newly arrived in the town, and for some days I wandered about, getting the feel of the place and learning to know some of the locals. I had never seen such a community of all colours and all creeds, and although the air was thick with smoke and poverty, and the smells on the streets did not exactly remind me of a Pembrokeshire springtime clifftop, there was a raw energy about the place which was intoxicating and challenging. I began, in a strange way, to enjoy myself.

  I had not forgotten that it was my penance for past sins to help the thousands of poor people who swarmed in the streets; and as the days passed, I gradually discovered which of the local gentry were involved in good works. I met several gallant and high-principled ladies and offered to help them in their endeavours, and they accepted without question my stor
y about bereavement and about my need to do good works among the poor, so as to “give something back” to those on whose sweat-covered backs and bowed shoulders my late husband’s fortune had been built.

  So for the rest of the month of April most of my daylight hours were spent in the Workhouse and the Prison. Before gaining entry to those places, I needed to prove my credentials, and my forged papers came in very handy. They were truly terrible institutions, filled with the dregs of humanity who had been condemned to lives of misery, hunger and deprivation thanks to either their own shortcomings or the slingshots of fortune. Some of them were unpleasant individuals who had sunk into crimes of the most appalling nature and who were now paying the price that must be paid for evil. Others were incarcerated following mishaps or dreadful miscarriages of justice. My heart went out to them, and while I did my best to minister to their needs, I could not do much to alleviate their distress or to intercede on their behalf with the authorities. I got to know some of them very well indeed, and because I knew Welsh better than most of the other ladies in my little circle, and I suppose because I was older and tougher than they, I found a little niche for myself as a representative of those who had come from the country districts of Wales and who spoke no English. They seemed to find some relief just from talking to me, and relating their tragic tales. I helped in the distribution of food at mealtimes. I ministered to the sick, and rediscovered my aptitude for healing. And I wrote letters for those who could not write, and posted them off to their loved ones in all corners of the globe. I even wrote letters to Africa, and posted them off, on behalf of a little group of negro prisoners in the gaol, although I never was sure that the recipients would be able to read English, or indeed read at all. I used my powers of persuasion to convince various tailors and dress-makers to give me offcuts and old garments, which I turned into passable items of clothing for those who were dressed in filthy rags. Although my hands were giving me a good deal of rheumatic pain, I found that I could still stitch and knit. To my delight I found that I could also still play the harp, and when I found an old instrument in a back room of the Workhouse I obtained permission (after much aggravation) from the Master and the Overseer of the Poor to give little performances for the inhabitants and to bring a little light into the dark corners of that foul place.

  All this activity gave me a new lease of life, and was a merciful release for body and soul after the weeks of hiding from thugs in Cardigan and Newcastle Emlyn. I felt younger and healthier, and above all I felt free. On several occasions I had to suppress the instinct to try and reform this, that and everything; and I did that by reminding myself that any proposals put to the authorities would involve more contacts with magistrates and other notable persons, and more publicity in the press, both of which would bring me unwelcome attention. So I tried to remain anonymous, and found that anonymity was actually quite pleasant. Every night I went to bed exhausted, and slept as only the just can sleep. Sometimes I became over-tired, and decided upon a day reading in my lodgings, or a day down at the Docks, watching the comings and goings of the ships; and on those occasions I simply sent messages to my fellow charitable workers to say that I would not be on duty again until such and such a date. They were perfectly accommodating, since in any case we worked to no fixed schedules, and I put in many more days of work than they. On several occasions I wrote to my friends and family to assure them that all was well, taking care not to reveal my address. I did not even tell them that I was in Cardiff, and described my present home only as “a growing place based upon industry, far away to the east.” This meant that I could receive no messages from them, but I took out a subscription to The Cambrian, and that provided me with snippets of news about the happenings in and around Newport.

  I felt fulfilled in doing my good works, and although I missed my family and friends, and my beloved Plas, activity kept my mind busy and my feelings of loneliness and loss under control. But I was appalled by the degradation and exploitation of the poor people caught up in the crushing jaws of industry, and the manner in which many previously honest shop-keepers and merchants were corrupted by their dreams of wealth and power, just as the great entrepreneurs and iron-masters were. This was certainly a city of hard work and respectability, populated for the most part by good people; but within my sphere of interest I saw cruelty and greed everywhere. I often thought that the captains of industry were rich beyond the wildest dreams of the poor, but that sensibility and nobility were attributes which they might never understand, let alone attain. Some of the most powerful men in Cardiff knowingly turned their workers into beasts who, when they were cast aside by industry because of injury or the vicissitudes of the market place, prowled the streets like hungry tigers and took their revenge upon innocent passers-by. Ironically, the wives of the captains of industry then went out onto the streets and helped the victims through their charitable works, without ever seeing the connections. The poor people themselves joined this charade, bowing and scraping and tugging at their forelocks, and thanking the “good ladies” for providing modest relief from the misery into which the “good lords” had dumped them. Indeed, those good ladies obtained admiring mentions in the newspapers, enhancing their reputations as benefactors and as “the new nobility,” notable because of their largesse. Where newspaper reporters did not report these charitable works, the good ladies actually placed notices in the papers themselves, drawing attention to their latest soup kitchens or schemes for the alleviation of poverty and ignorance. I saw the consequences of murder, rape, robbery and extortion, and mindless violence associated with the consumption of ale in prodigious quantities. The churches and chapels (of which there were many) were thriving, and their members did what they could to encourage virtue, but they could do little in the face of the sheer scale of social deprivation and malaise. The petty crimes of my little Newport and the hamlet of Cilgwyn paled into insignificance alongside the misdemeanours of those who made crime into a profession in Cardiff. In my rural paradise I had remained largely ignorant of the savagery inflicted upon human beings by the monsters called iron and coal, and the trades and industries which they spawned.

  Then I realized that in mulling over the inhumanity shown by men towards other men, I was in a glasshouse throwing stones. Had not my own father invested in industry, and made a good fortune from those investments, and passed on some of his earnings to me at the Plas when he died? Was my own son Brynach not involved in buying and selling the products industry in America, giving me much maternal pride as he accumulated wealth and gave security to his children David and Rose? And my good friend Wilmot -- was he not a man who had made his fortune from industry, in the filthy and dangerous copper smelters of the Swansea valley, and was it not his money that had saved the Plas and kept me alive for a decade or more? I resolved to keep my outrage under control, and to try to stop throwing stones..............

  When I had been in Cardiff for about a month, I met up with a feisty woman named Lady Charlotte Guest, a widow whose husband Sir John had been one of the great ironmasters. She said that she had heard of my good works and my inexhaustible energy, and I found it hard to convince her that I was old, and that my reserves of energy and enthusiasm were anything but inexhaustible. She was herself a veritable whirlwind of energy and good intentions, speaking at a ferocious pace in a strange and affected way. But I liked her, and knew immediately that she was honest. “Mrs Ravenhill,” she said, “I have heard from other ladies of your talent for winning the sympathy of the poor, and of your skill in healing bodies and souls. I also hear that you are a fluent Welsh speaker. It so happens that I am about to depart for Merthyr Tydfil and Dowlais, where there is deprivation on such a scale as to make Cardiff appear to be a paradise. I need you there. Will you come with me?”

  “Madam, you flatter me. But I am a woman of very modest means, and a journey to Merthyr Tydfil will involve planning and expense. I can just afford the modest guest house which is my current home, while I am away from my normal rented a
ccommodation near Swansea..............”

  “Think no more about it, Mrs Ravenhill. You will travel with me in my coach, which I use in preference to my railway. I will pick you up at your lodgings at ten in the morning. You need not think about accommodation. I will ensure that you are comfortable, at no cost to yourself. Help me in my latest scheme, if you will, with no obligation. I have absolutely no wish to take advantage of your goodwill, or to tire you out by loading you with responsibilities. Give whatever time you can spare, and if you wish to return to Swansea at any stage I will be perfectly understanding. Those of us involved in charitable works know that every hour freely given out of the best of motives is a gift from heaven.”

  I thought that that last statement involved a degree of hyperbole, but I could not help smiling, and of course I agreed to go with her. After all, I had no ties in Cardiff, and I had nothing to lose. Merthyr Tydfil would give me a new place, a new challenge, and a new opportunity to do penance for my past misdemeanours.

  Next morning Lady Charlotte’s grand coach collected me from my guest house, and I left no forwarding address. On our journey we spent four hours in convivial conversation, during which I learnt a great deal more about her than she learnt about me. But that suited both of us, since for all her charitable instincts Lady Charlotte enjoyed talking about her wealth and her status. I was amazed to learn that following the death of her husband, she was having to raise her ten children alone. She was herself now in charge of the greatest iron-making enterprise in the world, with an income measured in hundreds of thousands of pounds each year, and with the destinies of thousands of workers in her hands. She personally placed orders for ship’s cargoes of iron ore from Sweden, Spain and elsewhere, and trainloads of coal and limestone; and together with one or two other ironmasters like Sir Robert Crawshay who owned the blast furnaces at Cyfartha, she effectively controlled the world price of iron. Perhaps because she was so powerful, she also had enemies, and those whom she hated with particular passion were the Butes of Cardiff. I learned later never to mention them to her, for fear of bringing on a fit of apoplexy.