by Brian John
“Where were we?” he said. “Ah yes, your sudden change of fortune in the town of Carmarthen. My men were amazed when they observed the lavish luncheons and suppers attended by your accomplices from the Newport district! No expense spared! No doubt you paid the bills. But their behaviour was quite disgraceful, Madam, though I say it myself, for they were all supposed to be in deep mourning following the death of Mistress Martha. A little more decorum might not have come amiss.”
“I take that point sir, and am touched by your sensibility.”
“To continue. And then, in a great flurry of activity, you make plans to go off to the continent with another old lady from Newport who was a faithful retainer of the Morgan family. Mrs Ravenhill’s Grand Tour, they called it! No doubt to celebrate the completion of your business deals, Mistress -- and the last person to see you before you went off to Paddington was none other than Gwynne! One of my men saw the pair of you wandering by the river, arm in arm, making plans. He even gave you a kiss! A nice little deal, sealed with a kiss! Very touching.”
At this point I became quite convinced that Jonas Harry was as mad as a hatter, which probably explained his interest in LeClerc de Paris, makers of fine gentlemen’s headwear. I smiled to myself at my little joke, and thankfully he did not appear to notice.
“Once you were on the Continent, I tracked you for a while, but then gave up on it and decided to wait for you to come home. Not all of us can afford the Grand Tour, Madam, or afford to send fellows chasing after you from one capital city to another. And some of us have work to do. I know you have stayed in certain grand houses and at least four castles, and have visited a few more counts and princes with capital to spare, who might be looking for a sound investment in South Wales. But I knew that you were coming back to Paris, and knew where you would stay, so I thought that a little interview would be appropriate, well away from that fellow Gwynne and the Morgan family..............”
Knowing very well by now what the answer was, I asked: “And how did you know when and where I would be in Paris, sir?”
“Ah, that would be telling. Shall we say that I have my sources, and very reliable they are.”
“I know more about them than you might suppose, sir. Now then. You have told me a very long story, which I will not bother to dispute. But that cannot have been your reason for intercepting me. I would be glad to know why you have gone to all this trouble.”
“Ha! We are getting somewhere, Madam. You are old and frail, but I have to say that your intelligence -- and your ability to lay false trails and to act coolly under pressure -- are mightily impressive. I am full of admiration. I wish I knew more about your contacts, and about the scale of your activities. All in good time. But just now I think that you and I could work well together, for the good of the people of Wales.”
“Is that a proposition, sir?”
“In a manner of speaking. I cannot see why you choose to work with that fellow Gwynne, who is ill, and whose mind is addled with too much country air. I assure you that I know much more about the manner in which finance works, and about the great projects that are suited to the modern world.”
“And you are working with Sir Thomas Lloyd, the Lord Marcher, no doubt under the pretext that your plans will bring great benefits to the community?”
“I don’t deny it. Your information is sound, Mrs Smith. I am very impressed.”
I judged that the time was right for me to move over onto the offensive. “You realize, Mr Harry, that I have been greatly inconvenienced by the armed thugs whom you have hired to follow me and threaten me over the course of many months?”
“As I have explained, Madam, I deemed it necessary. It was not my intention that you should feel threatened.”
“Not your intention?! Frankly, sir, I do not believe you. That fellow Iago sought to frighten the living daylights out of me in Cardigan, and another of your men actually ransacked my lodgings. I thought that I might get a bullet in my brain or a knife in my back at any moment. Not very subtle, Mr Harry -- considering that you see yourself as a man of sophistication and sensitivity.”
Jonas Harry squirmed in his deep chair, and wiped his brow. “Well, Madam,” he muttered at last, “perhaps Iago and the others could have been more invisible. They are not very delicate fellows............’
“So,will you now call these thugs off Master Gwynne and myself?” I asked, drawing myself up to my full sitting height.
“If you wish it, Madam.”
“I take that as a promise. Do not betray me, sir. I do not take kindly to those who say one thing and do another. Now then, Mr Harry. I’m intrigued by your familiarity with Paris and by your connection with the hat firm of LeClerc. Will you tell me more?”
He laughed. “I am in Paris very frequently, Mrs Smith, when I am not in my London office, or at home in the Mumbles. I find it convenient to use the financial facilities of this fine city, for reasons that should be obvious to you. And I am Monsieur leClerc! What do you think of that? A nom de plume is, as you say, a very fine thing in certain circumstances. I actually do employ three good men who make fine hats, and so we are a very proper and well-established commercial concern. I find my French bankers very cooperative.......”
“I quite understand, sir. Where can I contact you?”
“The time for subterfuge is past, Madam, and my plans have all been set in motion, while you have been away. Just write to me at Plas Glas. I expect to be at home in three days’ time.”
“Now sir, will you be so kind as to tell me the time?”
“Twenty-five minutes after three, Mrs Smith.”
I stood up. “Then I will be obliged if you will ask your thugs to release me back onto the street. Bessie is under strict instructions, today and every day, to alert the gendarmes if I am not back on the premises by half past three.”
Harry slapped his knees and roared with laughter. “Oh my goodness, you have a fine sense of humour, Mrs Brown! I like it! As if the gendarmes would miss an old lady who is a few minutes late for her afternoon tea! Very good indeed!”
“You may laugh, sir, but the minutes are ticking away. You might have observed, if you had been more fastidious, that when I am in Paris I always use hotels that are next door to gendarmeries. And I always make a point of getting to know the gendarmes personally; I find that they are exceptionally kind to wealthy old ladies who move in the right circles.”
A minute later, I was on the street again, walking back towards my hotel and feeling very smug. As I entered the hotel foyer, I was accosted by a tall and very handsome man with a bushy beard, who gave a deep bow. I did not recognize the beard, but I did recognize the eyes. It was my mysterious Irish friend.
“Why, Donal!” I said. “How good it is to see you! I observe that you have recovered well from the injuries inflicted upon you by Twm and Ianto. What on earth are you doing here?”
“Looking after you, as ever, Mrs Ravenhill. I saw that those bastards had grabbed you, and I was very worried. Have they harmed you or forced you into any indiscretions?”
“No no. I assure you that I am perfectly all right. In fact, I have had a most entertaining time, talking with a silly fellow over matters of mutual concern. I declare that I have never felt better.”
He looked relieved, and I continued. “Now then, I would count it an honour if you will come upstairs to my suite, and meet Bessie, and join us old ladies for afternoon tea and pastries.”
In the very interesting conversation which followed, I did not at first press Donal as to his real identity or affiliations, nor did he press me on mine. But after we had talked for a while, Bessie told me with her eyes that he was honest, and I decided to trust him. I did not reveal my identity, but I told him almost everything I knew about Wilmot Gwynne and Jonas Harry, and about what had transpired in the smoke-filled room. Donal decided to trust me too, and told me what his real purpose was in following Harry’s men and in protecting me. We talked far into the night, and made plans.
rrr
Bolt from the Blue
After a year away, with only occasional news from home, both Bessie and I were suffering from hiraeth. Truly we had seen enough of castles and palaces, and had grown weary of travelling through landscapes which we had initially considered fascinating. We had attended too many operas and had admired too many wondrous works of art. Now we both longed for the fresh sea air of the Parrog, and the wide sky over the summit of Carningli, and the unpretentious comforts of our little town of Newport. Only three days before we were due to leave Paris for Calais and home, Bessie’s health took a turn for the worse, and I wanted to get her home where she could receive good attention from my son-in-law George Havard and from Shemi, who between them made a formidable medical team. Now I realized that I would have to live the part of Susanna Ravenhill, half sister of Mistress Martha, in the full light of day, and in a familiar environment. This would be my ultimate test.
One day in late May we travelled by train from Paddington to Carmarthen, and thence to Narberth. We took the best room in the King George Hotel, and were joined there on the following day by Daisy and George, Betsi and Ioan. We six had a great reunion, and I treated them all to a splendid supper and to a night’s accommodation in the grand style. For me it was a late birthday celebration, and I felt wealthy, having been informed by my bank manager that I still had more than £2,000 in my bank account. I had not previously appreciated the full extent of the free hospitality and free transport which had been given to us on the continent, partly as a result of Daisy’s apparently endless list of counts and princes who had, almost without exception, proved to be remarkably generous. So I gave Daisy an extra warm embrace, and she winked in that devilish way of hers, and we all fell about laughing. I wanted to know all the news, and some of it was given to me over our interminable and excellent meal. They all called me Aunt Susanna, and I realized that I was now, well over a year after my reported death, quite comfortable with that label.
All of my own relatives were thriving, said Betsi and Daisy, but Wilmot’s son Joshua and his wife Jane were not proving to be very popular at Plas Ingli. They were petulant and disorganized, and were thoroughly bored. The children were ill-behaved, and three nursemaids had come and gone in less than a year. Myfanwy had also left after being very badly treated by the new mistress. Will and Gerallt had both complained to Wilmot, said Ioan, and had threatened to leave within the month if things did not improve.
“Is this recent news, Ioan?”I asked.
“Just last week, Aunt Susanna. Wilmot is at his wit’s end, and the worry is not improving his state of health.”
On pressing further, I discovered that Wilmot had been confined to bed on several occasions over the past year, and appeared to be distracted by weighty business matters. George thought there was a rift between father and son. I was greatly saddened by this news -- and by the thought that the Plas, once a House of Angels, should now be a place racked by dissension and ill-will.
“I met Wilmot just two weeks since,” said Betsi. “He is seldom seen in town. He looked haggard, and he has lost his good humour..............”
“Oh, no!” I moaned. “I cannot imagine dear Wilmot without his good humour. He is the most jovial fellow I have ever met -- and the life and soul of every party! I wonder if I can help him in some way?”
I left matters there, but I knew in my heart that Wilmot’s misery must have something to do with Harry and his plans. I determined to find out more on my return to the district.
After breakfast next morning the members of my family left me in Narberth, and took Bessie back to Newport with a view to settling her into her lodgings with Patty and Jake, and giving her proper medical attention. Before they left, they promised that they would “lay the foundations” for the arrival of Aunt Susanna in Newport, and said that they had already organized accommodation for me, in the cottage called Brynglas in Cilgwyn -- a place which had a better view of the mountain than any other residence in the district. I knew it, and was delighted.
I arrived quietly in Cilgwyn some days later by hired carriage, and presented myself at Brithdir, the residence of Betsi and Ioan. With very little fuss, I gave my greetings and then went with Myfanwy (who was now -- much to my delight -- to work for me) to settle into Brynglas. I had forgotten what a sweet cottage it was, placed quite high up on the eastern side of the cwm, with Carningli dominating the western skyline. The Plas was within easy walking distance, but even closer was Tycanol Wood, a place of particularly vivid memories which I preferred, for the moment, to keep at the back of my mind. On the slope above the house was the big farm of Cilgwyn Mawr, which in my days at the Plas I had often coveted but never managed to buy; and on the summit of this prominent ridge were the beautiful rocks of Carnedd Meibion Owen, blue and cool and lichen-encrusted, and reputed to be the petrified remains of the last giants to have lived in the neighbourhood. I determined that if I needed exercise and fresh air, those rocks should be my destination for the time being, for I did not want my routines and my passions to be identical to those of Mistress Martha.
It was early June, and a time of clear skies, and high sun, and mellow light. I chose for my bedroom a little room on the west side of the cottage with a single window which gave me a perfect view of Carningli and the Plas. On my first morning I woke at five o’clock to find that it was already light and that I had missed most of the dawn chorus; I grumbled to myself and resolved to wake earlier on the morrow. I got out of bed and pulled aside my curtains, and saw before me the great bulk of the mountain bathed in the most beautiful golden light. I had never seen anything like it, for I had never before looked at the mountain from this angle, so early on a summer morning. It took my breath away. There was not a cloud in the sky, and not even a whisper of wind. I felt that the whole world was holding its breath. High on the slope of the mountain the Plas, that beloved and lovely place where my heart resided and where angels dwelt, gleamed in a sacred whiteness that made it look more like a church or a shrine than a working farm. Below it the lower fields and indeed the whole of the basin of the cwm were invisible, lost in an early morning gossamer blanket of mist which moved about with infinite slowness and began to dissolve as I watched. A column of smoke, hardly visible, rose straight from the kitchen chimney and eventually disappeared high above the mountain summit. Somewhere -- I think it was at Brithdir -- a border collie barked. A cock crowed somewhere else, and I realized from the strange choked ending to its serenade that it was the Plas Ingli cock which I had hated ever since it had first attacked me. Was that monstrous creature still alive, when it should have been consigned to the pot long ago? Time passed, and the gold that burnished the mountain turned to silver. Had I really had the temerity to insult this place by wishing to be somewhere else? With the full realization that I was at home again, I became aware that tears were streaming down my cheeks.............
“Breakfast time, Mistress! It’s eight o’clock!” shouted Myfanwy up the stairs, .
For some days Myfanwy and I enjoyed ourselves in the cottage and went nowhere. There was plenty to do, since the place had stoood empty for almost two years following the death of the last member of the Gwilym family. We brushed and dusted and polished, moved furniture about, made curtains and sorted out linen and sheets and blankets. I sent orders to various shopkeepers in town, and received deliveries of china and glassware, cutlery and wooden bowls and platters, meats and vegetables, bread and pastries, fruits and preserves, cheeses and pickles, and all the other things needed for a well-stocked pantry. I ordered in some good wines, and barrels of cider and ale. The cupboard had not exactly been bare when I arrived, for Ioan and Betsi had kindly taken care to stock it with essentials like flour, dried fruits,spices and sugar and salt. Gradually I put my stamp upon the place, and once there were flowers in the vases and food in the cupboards Myfanwy and I began to feel quite homely and cosy. Somehow or other, several of my favourite ornaments from the Plas, which had been distributed to family members following the reading
of my will, took up residence at Brynglas. So a favourite ebony statuette which had gone to Betsi appeared on the mantelpiece of the dining room; a lovely crystal decanter which had gone to Daisy took pride of place in my glass cabinet; and a carved wooden fruit bowl given to me long ago by Owain and passed on to Rose now miraculously reappeared on the sideboard in the little parlour. I was a little concerned at first that these personal effects might be recognized by strangers or neighbours who were not part of the conspiracy -- but I need not have worried, for people are in truth a great deal less observant than one might think.
One day I went for a walk amoung the giant rocks of Carnedd Meibion Owen, and on another I dared to enter Tycanol Wood. That was a place of undimmed memories, where I had lain in the arms of my husband David on many occasions; where I had allowed my passions to get the better of me in the presence of my last love, the preacher Amos Jones; where I had found the rotting corpse of the poor woman who loved Amos, and who could not bear to see him in the arms of someone else; and where Amos had been strung up in a tree and left to die. Wonderful memories, and terrible ones, from the final pages of the journals of Martha Morgan. Much to my surprise, I coped. As I walked, there were certain spots which I knew I would never again visit, but I found new places instead, beside the gnarled and fantastical oak trees with their intertwined branches, and beneath the whispering canopy of fresh oak leaves, and behind moss-covered rocks, and in hidden dells dappled with sunlight. I put my memories away, and tried to see the wood as a small child might see it, as a place of shy elves and dancing fairies.