Guardian Angel

by Brian John

  Wilmot’s health took a turn for the better now that Jonas Harry was off his back and now that his prime estate had been sold. Perhaps his illness had all been in the mind. He told me with delight that the sale of Plas Ingli was a very fair one, which resolved all his financial difficulties. In a move of great magnanimity, he offered the hand of friendship to his erstwhile enemy Jonas Harry, and that offer was accepted. He moved him out of the Black Lion and into Plas Lllanychaer, and somehow found space for his three manservants as well. Shemi also showed that he was a man who knew the meaning of magnanimity. He had whispered and roared at the public meeting with the sole intention of bringing Jonas Harry’s precarious scheme crashing down about his ears; but having achieved that, he showed considerable generosity towards his victim and offered to treat Harry for his disability. He examined him and conducted tests which seemed to others to smack more of magic than of science; and then he gave him various herbal potions to drink, designed to have an efficacious effect upon the nervous system.

  Around mid-July, something extraordinary happened. Donal formally released Jonas Harry, having completed his investigations. The Irishman came to visit me at Brynglas, and we embraced and said a fond farewell, for I had come to have a great liking for him as an honest and attractive man, and a gentleman to boot. We drank tea together in the garden, and I asked him where he was off to next. He smiled enigmatically and showed me an envelope with an elaborate seal upon it. “From Lord Palmerston,” he said. “London for my next task, following up certain irregularities in South Kensington.” Then Ianto and Twm turned up as well, to say their farewells. They had news for me. Having finished their spell as special constables, they had received their full payment from Donal and were also intent on setting off for London, with a friend from Merthyr Tydfil, to set up business as coal merchants. I gave them £100 each to help them to get the business going, and they gave me hugs fit to burst my stays before they went on their way.

  As if that was not enough for one day, Shemi then turned up in Wilmot’s carriage, with Jonas Harry and his three servants. “Myfanwy, please put the kettle on and make some more tea!” I shouted. “We have more visitors!” We talked for a while, and enjoyed tea and scones in the shade. I found Harry to be much changed; he admitted that he was bankrupt, but hoped that he might be able to keep Plas Glas, and he said that he was giving up all of his business activities and would henceforth remain close to home, devoting his time to charitable works. I was not sure I believed that, but at least he would not be breaking the laws of the land and spreading mayhem. Then Shemi said: “Susanna, I have to admit that I’ve not come to see you at all. Where’s young Merlin?”

  “Why, he is up at Cilgwyn Mawr, helping in the dairy. He will come back if I ring the bell.”

  So I rang the bell, and ten minutes later the boy came running, with his fresh complexion ruddy from the exercise. “Well, Grandma Susanna,” he panted. “Trouble is it? Or is it time for lunch?”

  “Neither, Merlin. We have visitors who wish to see you. But since you are always hungry, I will see what we can do in the matter of food.”

  I went into the kitchen to organize a light lunch with Myfanwy, leaving Shemi and the other visitors to talk to Merlin. Ten minutes passed. When I came out again, carrying a tray laden with food and drink, I almost dropped it in surprise, for Jonas Harry was standing up, unsupported, with tears streaming down his face. Merlin and Shemi were embracing, and the three manservants were dancing a jig around the lawn. Shemi would not let Harry try to walk, and said that the muscles in his legs were so wasted that he might fall and do himself great harm. “This will take a long time, Jonas,” he said. “You will have to exercise those legs very carefully and persistently for several weeks, but I will show you what you have to do. In about a week you can take some steps, supported by your good friends here. Then you will need crutches once you become independent. I predict that by Christmas you will be able to throw the crutches away.”

  What a lunch we enjoyed! Jonas Harry was giggling and laughing like a small child, and his servants behaved as if a great load had been taken from them, which indeed it had. I noticed that Shemi was lost in thought for much of the time, and that Merlin was exhausted. That child has a wonderful and mysterious skill, I thought, and he is the next in a line of great wizards in this district. I knew that one day he would be a greater healer than Joseph Harries.

  A week later Jonas and his men returned to Plas Glas, and as predicted by Shemi, the man who had been my implacable enemy was walking freely in time to carry the flaming plum pudding to his Christmas table.

  And what of my beloved Bessie? At the time of the great events described in the last chapter she was still poorly, and being nursed with great devotion by Patty and her family in their house on the Parrog. She recovered, and in truth her condition was probably brought on by sheer exhaustion, occasioned by the extent of our travels abroad, or by too much opera, or too much red wine. I visited her often, and felt guilty on that account; but she said over and again that the expedition to foreign parts, in my company, was the most wonderful thing she had done in her life, and that she would not have missed it for all the world. I believed her.

  One day, while walking arm in arm with Bessie along the estuary, I asked her if she might be interested in working with me on this memoir. She knew that my rheumatic right hand was making writing very difficult, and so we devised a plan whereby I would dictate and she would write. Subsequently we have spent many happy hours -- indeed many happy days and weeks -- together over the course of more than a year, reminiscing and committing this tale to paper. Now we approach Christmas in the year 1857. The task is almost done, and when it is ready, maybe next spring, I might travel up to London with Daisy to see if I can find a publisher. Indeed, she is encouraging me to seek the publication of my fantastical memoir. She says that a certain publishing house owned by Messrs Jebson and Pickersniff is reputable and relatively generous in the matter of royalties. Truly I do not need the money, but however much more time is left to me on this earth, I wish to remain independent, and pay my way.

  I have written to all of the villains in the story, and they have all given their consent, for a memoir about the saving of the mountain and the defeat of the Carningli Stone Company. They have asked that certain elements of the tale should be disguised, and I have respected their wishes. They do not come out of it too badly, and after all, none of them has been as evil as Attila the Hun or Genghis Khan. And in this gentle adventure nobody has died, and in truth nobody has been greatly harmed.

  What my correspondence has not revealed to anybody else with a role in this tale is the secret of my true identity. That will, I think, be a surprise for many if this memoir should be published. In the way of things I think it most likely that this book will be published after my death. And what will I do if a publisher, in his wisdom, wishes to rush it into print and turn it into a great publishing success while I am still alive? Then I will have to face the music. There will be anger, and even fury, among those who have been misled; but I think I might be quite relieved about that, since I will be able to resume my own identity. Will I then have to live out my days incarcerated in some foul prison? I hope not, for I think I have committed no crime, and I have not sought to benefit from the imperson-ation of someone else. I am old, and increasingly frail. And I hope that if I should end up in court, the likes of Donal and Wilmot might speak for me, and argue that I have made my atonement. I trust that my misdemeanours are more than balanced by the manner in which I fought for my people and my beloved mountain, and brought a wicked conspiracy to light.

  My bank account in the name of Mrs Susanna Ravenhill has been closed, and my modest fortune distributed among my children. I will leave no other will, for I have no possessions. My family will look after me for however long I may have left upon this good earth. To reach the age of eighty would be a fine thing, if God wills it. My greatest pleasure, since the occasion of my reported death, has been to enjoy a little mo
re time to tramp upon the mountain, and to smell its sweet scents and sun-baked rocks, and to watch its changing face, season to season and day by day. If I die with my family around me at the Plas, I think I will be truly content; and when my angels choose to take me, I will try not to slip out of their grasp.

  I have left the matter of Brynach, my adopted son, to the very end of this tale, for it will be a very emotional business for me to describe what transpired on his return to Wales.

  Unknown to me, it was agreed some time before the famous meeting in the Church Chapel, in the course of much correspondence back and forth across the Atlantic Ocean, that Brynach would buy back the Plas Ingli estate from Wilmot. He had made a fortune in America since his arrival there as a penniless immigrant in 1845, with a certain amount of help from his natural mother, my sister Elen. But in recent months he had become concerned about the widening split between north and south, mostly to do with the treatment of slaves, and he was becoming convinced that Civil War was inevitable. One of the reasons for Brynach’s sudden departure to New York, as admitted to me in various letters, had been his failure to find a new wife, following the death of his first wife Anne. That had left him with two small children, David and Rose, to bring up alone. Then there was a brutal refusal by a certain Squire Preece to allow Brynach to marry his daughter Lisbet, with whom he was deeply in love. She had been in love with him too, but had been forced by her parents to marry the eldest son of the Squire of Llys-gwynt near Llandeilo. That was not an unusual state of affairs, but both young people had been heartbroken. Recently, as I learned later from Betsi, circumstances had changed. Lisbet’s husband William had inherited the estate in 1852, and had died in a hunting accident a month before my own reported death. There were no children in the marriage, and no other male relatives, and William’s will specified that Lisbet should remain as Mistress of the estate. She was now a free agent in possession of a considerable fortune, and was a great deal wealthier than I had ever been as Mistress of Plas Ingli. She and Brynach had re-established contact with Betsi’s help, and with Elen’s blessing, and it was a convenient thing indeed that Brynach had not, in his decade in America, found anybody to compare with Lisbet, and had remained an unmarried widower. He had proposed to her in a letter in March, and she had accepted in April.

  For three months everybody had known about it, except me. Betsi told me the news a few days after the big meeting in the Church Chapel, when we two were out gathering hedgerow flowers, having determined that I was sufficiently recovered from the excesses of the previous weeks to deal with another shock. I had until that moment assumed that Brynach had purchased the Plas Ingli estate from a distance, as a foreign investment, and for the purpose of providing for Rose and Henry. I had not for a moment imagined that he might return in person to the Plas or to the district in which he had grown up. When I was told, I had to sit down on a log on the roadside, for I had never contemplated the possibility of Brynach coming home. I did not weep, but neither could I laugh. “Dear Mother!” said Betsi, knowing that my mind was in turmoil and my emotions in disarray, and putting her arms around me. “ It will be a marriage made in heaven, with money on both sides, and with my little brother Brynach and nephew David returning to the land of their birth.”

  I asked Betsi what my sister Elen thought of this development, and she said that she had lately received a letter from her in which she expressed very great joy, for all she ever wanted was Brynach’s happiness. She had had ten years of his love and companionship, she said, and that was more than she ever deserved.

  The travellers from America arrived in Milford Haven in the middle of August 1856, and went immediately to Plas Llanychaer where Wilmot arranged a great reunion between Brynach and David and his daughter Rose and her family. There was no reason for me to be there, and indeed Brynach had no wish for me to be present, for he still thought me dead. Then there was another reunion at Brithdir, involving Brynach’s sisters Betsi and Daisy and their families. I was informed later that those were wonderful, tearful, joyful occasions, and as reports were given to me in my little cottage in Brynglas I too wept tears of joy. Then Brynach jumped into Wilmot’s coach with David and Rose, and they travelled to Llandeilo to meet Lisbet. I was heartbroken to learn that he had left the district, but then realized that if I had been in his boots, with a wife-to-be only fifty miles away, after a decade and an ocean of separation, I would have done exactly the same.

  A fortnight later, Brynach was back in the area, for more discussions with Wilmot and Wilkins Legal relating to the marriage settlement and to the purchase and transfer of the Plas Ingli estate. He stayed with Betsi and Ioan at Brithdir. Still I did not see him. Then Betsi and Daisy arranged a subterfuge about which I was entirely ignorant. One evening Brynach said that he wanted to visit Cilgwyn Church, on his own, so that he could visit my grave and spend a little time in quiet contemplation in the tranquillity of the churchyard. There, he thought, he could bid me farewell beneath the great pine trees, with the familiar silhouette of Carningli against the setting sun. “When you have done that, brother,” said Daisy, “why don’t you call in at Brynglas and meet Aunt Susanna, Mother’s half-sister, who has recently moved into the district? She wants to meet you, and she deserves your thanks, for she was instrumental in saving the mountain and the estate from the depradations of the Carningli Stone Company.” Brynach was at first reluctant, since he knew that he would be in an emotional state following his visit to the graveyard, but when Betsi also pressed him, and said that it was only a five minute walk from the church, he agreed.

  At about eight o’clock, as the western sky was starting to take on the colour of the dusk, there was a knock on the door. Myfanwy, Merlin and I had just finished supper, and we were all surprised, since we were not expecting visitors. Merlin sprang to his feet and answered the door. I heard voices, and then he came back inside. “Grandma Susanna, there’s a gentleman to see you. He has been weeping.”

  “Why, my dear child! Who can that be? Well, invite him in!.”

  He brought Brynach into our little dining room, and I came face to face again with my long-lost son. I recognized him immediately -- the brown eyes and black hair, the upright posture, and the dark complexion. He was less slim than he had been when he left, and he now had the air of a wordly and wealthy gentleman. How I loved him, as my breast was swelled with pride! But there was a redness around his eyes, and I saw at once that Merlin was right -- he had been weeping, for the death of his mother. I had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in my mind, but now I did not know what do do. I wanted to run to him and gather him in my arms, and cover him with kisses, but I dared not do it. He too looked confused and lost, for he saw in me his mother, Martha Morgan, and knew only that I was a stranger called Susanna Ravenhill. His heart, I suspect, told him one thing while his mind told him something else.

  “Myfanwy, shall we go and wash the dishes?” said Merlin, who knew that it was the right time to retire and leave me and Brynach alone.

  We stood facing each other for a while, and then I found the resources to say: “Brynach, it is very good to meet you at last.”

  “And you are my Aunt Susanna, I presume?”

  I managed to smile. “So they tell me. Shall we go up to my room? It is more private there, with two comfortable chairs, and Merlin and Myfanwy will not disturb us. We have many things to talk about.”

  Brynach bowed, and allowed me to lead him up the stairs to my room. Once there, I closed the door and we sat down, facing each other. Having promised Brynach that we had many things to talk about, I could not think of anything that might now be appropriate, so I just looked at him, marvelling at his good looks and his fine clothes. My heart was beating wildly, and I had to fight to retain my self-control. At last, I was able to say, in a very feeble voice: “Lisbet is a very lucky woman, Brynach.”

  “Thank you, Aunt,” he replied. “You are very kind. I believe I am a lucky man too, for she is very beautiful, and has had many other suitors.”


  “And is it good to be home?”

  “Very good. I have longed to be back in this place ever since I first landed in America, for this is truly where my heart is.”

  “And now you have the Plas again........”

  “I thank God for it, Aunt. And I have to thank you too, for I have heard of your role in saving both Wilmot’s estates and the mountain.”

  “I have done what I could, and I think it was my destiny, Brynach. But you have been weeping. For your mother, I think?”

  “Yes, Aunt, and for myself, for I have not grieved properly until now. She died here, on her beloved mountain, when I was an ocean away, unknowing and uncaring.” He looked at me, and there were tears in his eyes. “She truly gave me life, and gave me everything that I know to be good. Now she is gone, and we are still separated, but now by a few feet of sandy soil that might as well be a thousand miles thick........”

  “She is closer than you think, Brynach.”

  He was so wrapped up in his private grief that at first he did not react to my words. Then he looked at me intently, with growing disbelief.

  “I do not understand...........”

  “Do you think that I look like your mother?”

  “The likeness is uncanny. You are older than I remember her, and your hair is not the same as hers, but your eyes, your lips, your complexion, your high cheek-bones, and your voice -- if I was to meet you suddenly in the street I would not just have my head turned by your beauty and your elegance, but also by your familiarity. Excuse me, but I do not know what to think. I am very confused.”