‘My dear Becky! You and I are one. If not actually in flesh, then in spirit, certainly.’ But now, taking the papers, Ellis began to fold them into quarters. Then, one by one, he fed them to the fire.
‘What will you say to Owen?’ asked Rebecca, as she watched them burn.
‘Need I say anything?’ Ellis looked up from his labours. ‘Will it enrich his existence, to know that his father was a common felon? That he died butchered like an animal, after breaking half the laws of this land?’
‘No, but — ’
‘That his mother met her death at the hands of those men who were her husband's closest associates? Nay, his very partners in villainy? That Jacob Atkins is himself now rotting in a convicted criminal's grave?’
‘Maybe not.’ Rebecca stood up. ‘But there are so many loose ends! So many doubts, so many queries still unresolved!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘According to Mr Bellingham, Jacob Atkins's son Michael — whom many of the witnesses quoted maintain was his father's right hand man — was not involved in either the murders, nor in any of the other crimes. During his trial, Jacob Atkins insisted his son knew nothing about the death of Lalage. Nor that of her husband, nor of anyone else. Consequently, Michael Atkins was never even interviewed. Let alone brought to trial. All the same — ’
‘Mr Bellingham examined Jacob Atkins many times,’ observed Ellis. ‘Always under oath. My dear Becky, the man was on trial for his life. Why should he have lied?’
‘I don't know. But what if he did?’ Rebecca began to pace the room. ‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘at least we can now piece most of it together. After you and your sister Lalage had — what shall we say? A disagreement?’
‘Disagreement!’ Ellis grimaced, his face working painfully. ‘Becky, Lalage tried to kill you! She — ’
‘That's of no consequence now,’ interrupted Rebecca. ‘Well, then. Lalage left Warwickshire in the company of her husband, Alex Lowell. Widowed, she subsequently married a certain John Rhys Morgan, a farmer from North Gower, who was also a smuggler and dealer in contraband.
‘Lalage gave birth to Owen. Some years later, John Rhys Morgan was arrested on suspicion of some sort of villainy, and died at the hands of the military while attempting to escape.’
‘As Bethan Davies told us.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Rebecca kept pacing. ‘At your instigation, Jacob — or Jack, as Bethan will have it — Atkins is investigated. Nothing is established against him. But then, three years later, a servant of the family is dismissed without wages or a character. He goes to the authorities and lays information that his master is involved in the trading of contraband. He also insists, under oath, that he was present on the occasion of Lalage Morgan's death – which he maintains was suicide under duress.’
‘Yes.’ Ellis winced, as if in pain. ‘So he did.’
‘But before your sister died — before, in fact, she ever met any members of the Atkins family, let alone accused them of procuring her husband's death — she asked her housekeeper Bethan Davies to take her son away. To convey him safely to England. To his own uncle's house.’
‘God knows why,’ muttered Ellis.
‘You still think it strange?’
‘Given that Lalage hated both you and me, and that I detested her, I am indeed surprised that my sister saw fit to entrust her only child to us.’
‘But Ellis, she loved you once! As children, you were devoted. When I first knew you, you loved her.’
‘Don't speak of that.’
‘But, Ellis — ’
‘Please, Becky!’
So Rebecca let the matter drop. ‘Should we not tell Owen anything at all?’ she demanded, anxiously.
‘As I said before, I don't think there's anything he needs to know. He is aware that his father is dead — Bethan Davies told him so, and he believes her. He assumes his mother is also in her grave.
‘In spite of this, he seems to be a happy child. His cousins love him, and he loves them. You, my dear, are his second mother — and a rather better friend to him than his first ever was, I strongly suspect.
‘Speaking for myself, I — well, I can tolerate him.’
‘Yes. But all the same — ’
‘Why cloud his days with sorrow? Why burden him with knowledge which can be of no benefit to him, now or in the future?’
‘Perhaps you are right.’ Considering, Rebecca nodded. ‘Yes, dear Ellis — I'm sure you're right.’
So it was agreed. Owen was told nothing of Mr Bellingham's letter, and if he noticed that his aunt and uncle were unusually silent and abstracted for the next few days, he appeared to think little of it, let alone assume it had anything to do with him.
* * * *
Bethan Davies, for many years the Morgan family's devoted housekeeper and Owen's own nursemaid, was getting old. Formerly hearty and energetic, if somewhat stout, over the past twelve months she had become progressively less active, for she was shorter and shorter of breath.
In consequence of this, she had slowed down considerably, and these days she spent most of her waking hours sitting at the kitchen table, making vast quantities of exquisite pastries, puddings and pies, of which she herself consumed a substantial share. Her weight had therefore ballooned, and she was now almost grotesquely obese.
But Owen still loved her. Still the child visited the kitchens daily, to see his old nurse, to sit down beside her and chat to her in the Gower Welsh which was his own first language, but which he was nowadays rapidly forgetting. Much to Bethan's distress. ‘These English relations of yours,’ she muttered sourly, one chilly October morning. ‘They'll turn you into a Saxon yet. When I'm dead and buried, you'll forget you're a Welshman at all.’
‘But you're not dead yet, Bethan,’ observed Owen cheerfully, as he scooped up another handful of fat, purple raisins and began to stuff his face. He grinned at her. ‘How old are you, anyway?’
‘One and twenty and a day.’ Reaching for the big jar of raisins, Bethan took a few herself, then munched thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, now. Is it the maids–of–honour your aunt likes best? Or does she prefer the honey and cinnamon tarts? I can never remember.’
‘She likes both equally.’ Owen's dark eyes sparkled with greed. ‘So make a batch of each, why don't you?’
‘I might.’ Bethan pinched his cheek. ‘You and your cousin will undertake to deal with any leftovers, then?’
‘Of course.’ Again, Owen grinned. ‘We're still growing, Bethan. We need our nourishment!’ Helping himself to a couple of crystallised figs, the child stood up.
‘Lessons now, is it?’ demanded the nurse.
‘Yes. All day.’
‘Be off with you, then.’
‘I'm going.’ Regretfully, Owen took himself off.
Later that day, as Owen wrote out a fair copy of a Horatian ode, Bethan was taken ill. A scullery maid found her slumped at the kitchen table where, blue in the face, she was hardly able to breathe.
Hastily summoned, the local apothecary shook his head. She was an old woman, he said. Her heart was not strong. He could prescribe nothing but beef tea, warm blankets and complete rest.
So now Bethan took to her bed.
For a few days, she seemed to rally. But then, she contracted a chill. The infection settled on her lungs. Neither the best medical care, nor the most wholesome diet, nor even regular visits from the local minister himself, could avail. In the course of a cold November night, she died peacefully in her sleep.
Told the following morning, by the woman who had been detailed to sit up with the invalid at night, Owen was at first silent and disbelieving. But then he became wildly, furiously angry. Glaring at the bearer of the bad news, he cursed her roundly, fortunately for his own hide in a language she did not understand.
Hastily summoned, Rebecca sent everyone else away. ‘Come, Owen,’ she said, opening the door of her own private sitting room. ‘Come and sit with me.’
But neither hot chocolate served in a silver mug, a dish of hi
s favourite almond sweetmeats, nor the company of his kind, unfailingly motherly aunt, could comfort someone as bereft as Owen felt. When Rebecca offered to embrace him, he literally pushed her away. When she reminded him that Bethan was now in heaven, her sufferings at an end, he cried that his were only just beginnning. Far from drawing consolation from religion, between sobs Owen Morgan uttered some of the most terrible blasphemies Rebecca had ever heard. Cursing and swearing, he announced that he did not even believe in God. There was only the Evil One, and he it was who had taken Bethan away.
‘Pray for forgiveness, Aunt?’ he demanded, as Rebecca tremulously suggested he should take back those last, hasty words, and go down on his knees at once. ‘I shall never say my prayers again, for as long as I live!’
So, seeing he was not disposed to be consoled, and attributing his reckless blasphemies to his early upbringing rather than to a naturally bad character, Rebecca decided he would be best left to himself for a while. ‘Go and walk in the knot garden,’ she advised. ‘Put on your greatcoat and muffler, then take a little exercise by yourself. But before you leave me, dear Owen, hear me for just one moment more.’
‘Ma'am?’
‘There is nothing to be gained from railing against your Maker. On the contrary.’ Rebecca clasped his cold hands in hers. ‘My dear child, I know you are distressed, that you feel your heart is broken. But do not fail this test! Try to resign yourself, to — ’
But she did not finish, for now Owen broke away, muttering something inaudible — but, Rebecca was afraid, almost certainly profane, probably in the extreme.
As he left the room, Rebecca sighed. She loved her nephew dearly. But these days she feared for him, too.
* * * *
Too lazy, or too indifferent to his own comfort even to think of fetching his greatcoat, Owen merely buttoned his jacket, then went out. Crossing the park, he walked through the ornamental wooded area planted for the squire and his lady's pleasure, then went into the wilderness beyond, where he kicked stones along the far shore of the lake.
He did not appear at dinner time. Nor at tea. As the afternoon light was fading, Rebecca became concerned. She sent the other children out to look for him.
It was Isabel, on a visit to Jane and Maria while her parents were in London on business, who found him. Lying under a wizened apple tree, he was half buried in the long, yellow grass of the biggest, most overgrown of the orchards.
‘Owen?’ For a long, terrible moment, she feared he was dead. Nervously, she touched his shoulder. ‘Owen!’ she repeated, her voice shrill with alarm, ‘Owen, please get up! Or at least speak to me!’
Owen did not move a muscle. But he did condescend to speak. ‘Go away,’ he said.
Never one to do as she was told, Isabel crouched down beside him. ‘Why are you lying here?’ she enquired. For, she did not begin to understand the significance of the old servant's death. No one had thought to explain to her, and by now she had forgotten all about it, anyway. ‘Why are you crying?’
‘I'm not crying!’ Owen stifled a sob. ‘Go away!’
So Isabel sat down. Patiently, she waited for her companion's gulpings and chokings to subside.
Eventually, they did. Now, Isabel thought, we will get some sense out of him. But it was not to be. Owen was too chilled to talk. In fact, he was half frozen. His hands and face were blotched with cold, here being an angry red, there an unpleasant, greyish blue.
Isabel, on the other hand, was warmly wrapped up in a voluminous cloak. Belonging to her mother, it was richly lined with the most costly of American sables — and, wonderfully generous in cut, it was easily large enough for two smallish children to share.
So, slipping it from her shoulders, Isabel laid half of it across Owen's prostrate body, while she rearranged the other half to cover herself. ‘It's not because of Bethan, is it?’ she asked casually, stabbing wildly into the dark. On the other hand, she reasoned, nothing else untoward had taken place that day. ‘It's not just because Bethan's dead?’
But it appeared it was exactly that. At the sound of the name, Owen's stifled sobs redoubled their intensity. Soon, they became howls. Astonished, Isabel stared. ‘So was Bethan very important to you?’ she enquired, trying to understand. ‘Was — was she your nurse, maybe?’
Lifting his face for a moment, Owen nodded. Then the tears began to flow again.
Isabel's small, white hand patted Owen's darker one. ‘I once had a nurse,’ she observed, offhandedly. ‘In Virginia. Her name was Elegant.’
‘Elegant?’ Lifting his head again, Owen stared at her in disbelief. ‘What a stupid name!’
‘It's not stupid at all! It suited her exactly.’ Remembering, Isabel sighed. ‘She was very tall. Very thin. Elegant, in fact.’
‘No servant is elegant,’ muttered Owen. ‘No — ’
‘She was a beautiful, purple black.’ Now, Isabel was in a world of her own. ‘So black! Her skin was like dewberries. Shiny, and blue–black. I loved her more than anyone. But I loved Benedict, too.’
‘Benedict?’
‘Her son. My foster brother.’
‘Oh.’ In spite of himself, Owen found he was intrigued. ‘So what happened to your nurse?’
‘My father sold her.’
‘Sold her?’ Puzzled, Owen sat up. ‘How could he sell her? She wasn't a sheep. Or a horse.’
‘She was a slave. Slaves can be bought, and sold. Just like cattle, in fact. Didn't you know that?’ Sometimes, thought Isabel, these English people proved to be astonishingly ignorant. ‘It was my mother who wanted her sold.’
‘Why?’
‘I don't know. As if they'd have explained to me!’ Casting her mind back, Isabel frowned. ‘In fact, it was very strange. You see, I thought my father liked her. He certainly liked Benedict! He used to take him on his knee and croon to him. Give him sugar candy, when he never gave any to me.
‘So anyway, Mr Hemming from Deepwater bought Elegant, and took her to Louisiana. But she caught a fever there, and died.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They told me.’ Helplessly, Isabel shrugged. ‘I kept asking when she was coming back, you see. So anyway — when they told me Elegant was dead, I nearly died too. I made myself so sick...’
Isabel gulped. She knuckled her eyes.
‘What happened to Benedict?’ asked Owen, solicitously.
‘Oh, he came into the house, to learn to be a valet.’ Again, Isabel shrugged. ‘But soon after that, we left Virginia anyway. We went to live in Canada. My father wanted to take Benedict with him, but my mother forbade it.’
‘What became of him then?’
‘When we sold the plantation he was sold too, along with all the other slaves.’
‘Oh.’ Digesting the novel idea that even people could be bought and sold, Owen almost forgot his own unhappiness. In any case, he had no tears left. He stood up, brushed himself down, and handed Isabel her cloak. Together, they walked back to the manor house.
From that day forward, Owen tolerated Isabel rather more readily than he'd been used to do. For he and she shared a secret sorrow. His Aunt Rebecca loved him, his cousins were his friends, it was true — but only Isabel understood what it was to mourn. To be acquainted with grief.
Chapter 3
The bells rang out to welcome the new century. In churches and chapels throughout the land, the people prayed for forgiveness of their sins and deliverance from their enemies.
On the whole, however, they weren't unduly concerned about the latter. Napoleon Bonaparte was merely the most recent of a long line of foreigners — invariably French in origin — intent on subduing the island race, and no ordinary Anglo–Saxon would have given any more for the upstart Corsican's chances than for those of his predecessors.
Napoleon was a bogeyman, that was all. A name to conjure with when children needed to be subdued or frightened off to bed. Indeed, nursemaids and mothers from Cornwall to the northernmost isles regularly informed their infant charges that if they we
re naughty, or refused to go to sleep, Boney would come and get them. ‘Then, when he catches you,’ they would add, ‘he'll gobble you all up. While you're still alive!’
At thirteen, Rayner and Owen were far too old to be taken in by this nursery nonsense. They were not afraid of the French, whom they'd been taught from birth to despise. As every red–blooded Englishman knew, the French were snail– eaters and effeminates, to the very last man.
Having also been taught the rudiments of mathmatics, English grammar and Latin syntax at home, soon Rayner would be ready to go away to school. His father had been to Harrow, and Rayner was to follow in his footsteps. As for Owen — it was probably felt that an orphan with no property to inherit nor, indeed, prospects of any kind, was hardly worth educating at all.
‘They've said nothing to me.’ Lying on the daisies under one of the great oaks in the park, Owen and Rayner were sorting marbles and having a private conversation, keeping a wary look–out for pests like Isabel Graham the while. Morosely, Owen sniffed. ‘So I suppose when you've gone,’ he muttered, ‘I shall be sent about my business directly. Given a half sovereign and a loaf of bread, then told to be on my way.’
‘Nonsense.’ Rayner grinned. ‘There's no reason why you shouldn't come with me. Look — I'm sure Mr Fenton would recommend it. He thinks very highly of your learning and application, so he's certain to tell my father how clever you — ’
‘Don't be ridiculous.’
‘Don't you be a fool to yourself! You write a beautiful clear hand. Your command of English grammar is perfectly proficient. You can spell, and in Latin and mathematics, you're miles ahead of me. You probably always will be.’
‘Maybe.’ Owen shrugged. ‘But what of it? You are the heir. You are to be squire here. I, on the other hand, am a poor relation. A charity child, who has nothing, save what your father chooses to give.’
‘But my father has always been generous. He — ’
‘He hates the sight of me. He hides it well, I agree. But, all the same, I feel it.’
‘What foolish nonsense!’ Rayner laughed. Then, playfully, he punched his cousin's shoulder. ‘My father is severe with everyone, save my mother and the girls. It's just his way.’
The Ash Grove Page 3