‘Is it?’
‘Of course it is. Owen?’
‘What?’
‘Would you like to go to school with me?’
‘I — well, yes. I think so.’
‘Then I shall tell my father. I shall ask him to send you to Harrow, too.’
‘As you wish.’
‘As I wish? Don't you want to come?’
‘Of course I do.’ Jumping up, Owen grinned. ‘Yes!’ he cried, rather more cheerful now, ‘I'll come! You and I together — what a pair of fellows we'll be! We'll make perfect fools of the ushers! Run rings round the masters! Our names will go down in history.’
* * * *
‘Sir?’ Having sought the interview without more ado, ten minutes later Rayner stood in his father's study. A pleasant, south–facing room overlooking the rose gardens, Rayner could never feel at ease here, for he was only ever summoned hither when he was to be reprimanded. Or — very rarely — whipped.
His father was so reserved. So unbending, so stern. Grey–haired, harsh–featured, he was also the tallest man Rayner knew, and the easy relationship which the child had always enjoyed with his plump, blonde, pretty little mother had somehow never been even remotely possible with this great, gaunt crag of a man, who never laughed, seldom smiled, and whose features seemed almost permanently set in a coldly forbidding frown.
Rayner screwed his courage to the sticking point. ‘Sir, in September I am to go to school.’
‘So you are.’ Irritably — or so it seemed to Rayner – the Squire of Easton glanced up from the paperwork which was spread all over his desk. His quill remained poised, in mid–air. ‘Well, child? What of it?’
Rayner drew a deep breath. ‘May Owen go with me?’ he asked.
‘Owen.’ Ellis frowned. For a moment, he appeared to consider the request. But then he spoke. ‘There's no need for that,’ he replied.
‘No need, sir?’
‘None at all.’ Observing his son to look somewhat mulish now, Ellis Darrow sighed. ‘Do you not see how it is?’ he demanded. ‘You do not? Very well, then. Allow me to explain.
‘You, Rayner, are the heir to a large estate. At school, you will mix with the heirs to other fortunes, with the sons of gentlemen, who will be your friends and form your acquaintance for the rest of your life. Their interests will be yours. Their incomes will be commensurate with your own. From among their sisters or other female relations, you will choose your wife.
‘Owen, on the other hand, is poor. He has no prospects, he will inherit no property. In short, he will be obliged to make his own way in the world. So, sending him to a great public school would be both unwise and unkind. He would be educated far above his station, and learn no lesson so well as envy of his betters, and dissatisfaction with his lot in life.’
‘But, sir! You — ’
‘Rayner, you forget yourself!’ Ellis glared. ‘Have I not made myself plain?’
‘Perfectly, sir. But — ’
‘Then there is nothing more to say.’
‘But he is your own nephew!’ Shaking in his shoes – for no one, save occasionally Rebecca, ever presumed to question the judgement of the squire — Rayner met his father's startled gaze. ‘Owen may have no property,’ he went on, recklessly. ‘He may indeed be without prospects, save those you are willing to open for him. But his talents and birth surely fit him for a gentleman's education? If he knows nothing, moreover, if he meets nobody — if he has no learning, if he makes no friends — how is he to make his way in life?’
‘Rayner, I expressed a reluctance to send Owen to Harrow. I was not proposing to turn him out of my house!’ Ellis shook his head. ‘You sincerely wish your cousin to go with you to school?’
‘Yes, sir. I do.’
‘In spite of understanding my reservations in the case?’
‘Sir, I know you have Owen's best interests at heart. But I feel — ’
‘I shall think about it.’ Ellis managed a faint smile. ‘Rayner, your concern for Owen Morgan's welfare and happiness does you great credit. I only hope he returns your regard.’
* * * *
‘Well?’ demanded Owen, as Rayner opened the door of the old nursery, to find his sisters and cousin anxiously awaiting his return from the fray, ‘what did he say to you?’
‘That he would think about it.’
‘Oh?’ Maria frowned. ‘What is there to consider, pray?’
‘Since Owen is poor and has no prospects, my father is anxious not to educate him above his station in life.’
‘Stuff and nonsense! What can he be thinking of?’ Jumping down from her seat on an ancient, ink–stained desk, Jane shook her ringlets in disgust. ‘I'll go and talk to him. If you like.’
‘Would you?’ Owen dared to look hopeful. Jane was her father's darling. If anybody could persuade him to do anything, it was she. ‘Will you go now?’
‘Certainly.’ Jane gave Owen a hug. ‘Don't look so anxious,’ she went on, gaily. ‘He'll get no peace until he agrees, so he might as well give in gracefully. Preferably today.’
So Jane went to see her father, who never denied her anything. Fifteen minutes later, she was back in the nursery, well pleased with herself. ‘He wishes to speak to the pair of you,’ she said.
* * * *
The squire was standing at the window, gazing out towards the park. ‘I have decided that since you both appear to wish it, you shall go to school together,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir!’ Delighted, Rayner beamed.
‘Thank you,’ echoed Owen. Too much in awe of his uncle to smile, he merely nodded his own gratitude. Then, assuming he was dismissed, he turned to go.
‘Just one moment.’ Walking away from the window, Ellis sat down at his desk. He looked from one child, then to the other, then fixed his gaze on his nephew. ‘Well, Owen,’ he began calmly, ‘since you are here, we may as well discuss one other matter now. I had meant to speak to you later this evening, but — I have been making enquiries about your father's relations, you see.’
‘Sir?’ Owen was astonished. He hadn't known his father had any kin.
‘I find you have another uncle living,’ continued the squire. ‘He is an apothecary, practising in Cardiff. Just recently, I wrote to him. You may be interested to see his reply.’
‘Thank you, sir. I would.’ Owen accepted the proffered letter. He began to read.
‘My dear Mr Darrow,’ wrote David Morgan, ‘many thanks for yours of the 12th instant. You may imagine my feelings on receiving the same! I can only say, may heaven bless you for your goodness, and keep you in happiness and prosperity for the rest of your days.
‘As you will appreciate, the death of my brother and the disappearance of his wife and child were heavy blows for me to bear, especially since these were the only relations I had in the world. After my brother's demise, I made many enquiries into the fate of Mrs Morgan and her son, but I could discover nothing. They had vanished, apparently without trace. For a long time I was most desolate, and only the consolations of religion and philosophy kept me from total despair.
‘But enough of that. I write today both to thank you from the bottom of my heart, and to inform you that I myself, although not a rich man by any means, am certainly prosperous enough. An apothecary by trade, I am in a comfortable way of business in the town here. I have my own hearth, my own home, and am in debt to no man.
‘Believe me when I say my heart is open — more than open — to the child. Might you therefore permit him to visit me? I would of course pay his travelling expenses, and furnish him with all necessities during his stay here.
‘I hope to hear from again you very soon. In the meantime I remain, my very dear sir,
‘David James Morgan.’
Looking up again, Owen blinked owlishly. It was as if he couldn't quite believe the evidence of his own eyes. ‘But, sir — how did you come to find Mr Morgan?’ he enquired, eventually. ‘How did you learn — ’
‘Quite by chance.’ Having had tim
e to think about it, Ellis now decided Owen need not be told everything. He need not, for example, know that David Morgan had been mentioned to the squire by Bethan Davies herself — mentioned on several occasions in fact — but since Bethan had no idea where the man was to be found, Ellis had told her not to speak of him to Owen.
So it was several years of diligent detective work, aided by Ellis's fellow magistrates in South Wales, which had finally tracked him down. Or at any rate, had located a David Morgan, apothecary, of Cardiff, who was the right age and apparently came from North Gower.
Further discreet enquiries suggested that David Morgan was a respectable man, having no criminal connections, and certainly no record of felony on his own account.
‘Well, Owen,’ continued the squire, ‘as you see, Mr Morgan is anxious to make your acquaintance. I therefore intend to write and suggest you go on a visit. If this is acceptable to you.’
‘Indeed it is, sir.’ Owen was still somewhat bewildered, and presently he blinked again. He could not even begin to stammer his excitement. Or, for that matter, his thanks.
But Rayner could. Enchanted by the romance of it all, he now wondered if he too might have undiscovered relations lurking in distant shires, who might one day invite him for a surprise holiday. ‘Well done, sir,’ he said, beaming. ‘Very well done indeed!’
‘Thank you, child.’ Ellis almost smiled. Almost. His conscience smote him cruelly now. For, he had traced Mr Morgan not with a view to enriching Owen's existence, but to getting rid of him altogether.
For the boy was growing so like his mother, Lalage! Much taller, slimmer and better–looking than Rayner would ever be, Owen's regularly handsome features, his graceful carriage, his everyday demeanour — even his facial expressions, especially the be–damned–to–you look in his large, dark eyes — were his mother's own, so much so that Ellis felt sick at the sight of him. If only David Morgan would take a fancy to the boy, and propose to play a part in his upbringing, this would be deliverance indeed. The answer to Ellis Darrow's most fervent prayer.
* * * *
By late June, the final preparations had been made. It had been agreed that Owen should spend two months in Cardiff, returning to Warwickshire in the middle of September, in order that he and Rayner might travel together when they went off to Harrow later that fall.
Jane and Maria, not to mention their dear friend Isabel Graham, had been as thrilled as Rayner to discover that Owen had a long–lost uncle whom he was now going to visit — travelling post, and all alone, as if he were quite grown up — in the wilds of darkest Wales.
‘Dear Owen! How excited you must be!’ Watching her cousin sorting books and clothes, and offering plenty of good advice as he packed then re–packed his couple of valises, Jane finally slid from her perch on the window–seat and went over to help him fold his shirts properly.
As they finished, and both straightened up, she measured herself against him. ‘What a great, stout fellow you're becoming!’ she exclaimed, teasing him. ‘You're almost as tall as I am these days.’
‘Not quite.’ Turning her round, Owen stood against her, back to back. ‘Look in the glass.’ He nodded towards the fireplace. ‘I've some way to go yet.’
‘Nonsense. There's only an inch or so in it.’ Jane turned back to him. Shaking her head, she sighed. ‘My dear little cousin,’ she whispered, ‘how pretty you were once! How charming, how sweet! But nowadays, you grow lantern– jawed and hideous. Indeed, you're almost a man.’
‘Well, you're already a woman.’ Owen smiled at her. ‘Soon, you'll be married. You'll have children in the nursery, servants to scold, a husband to please — every care in the world, in fact. You'll have no time for little cousins at all.’
‘I shall always have time for you.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘It's true!’ Charmingly, Jane pouted. ‘Anyway — I shan't be married for years yet. My father is too jealous to allow it.’
This, unfortunately, was no more than the simple truth. At seventeen years of age, Jane Darrow was a good– looking, fair–haired girl who was regularly talked of as a possible bride for Squire This or Sir Somebody That — but who also had a father as possessive as a Turk and as fearsome as a wounded grizzly bear. Recently out, she was invited to a far greater number of balls, routs and assemblies than her parents were either able or willing to attend, she received much more than her fair share of attention and admiration, but she had not yet been made any offers of matrimony.
Not that she cared. She was enjoying herself far too much to worry about that. For these days, she was learning to be enchanting. To be bewitching. In short, to flirt. At every opportunity, she practised the arts of seduction and coquetry — and now, fluttering her eyelashes prettily, she smiled at Owen. ‘Write to me,’ she said.
‘Write to you?’ Surprised, her cousin stared. ‘But — what shall I say?’
‘Oh, I don't know! Yes, I do. Just tell me everything!’ She laughed at him. ‘I do so love to receive letters!’ she cried, shaking her curls. ‘Look — I'll make my father frank some covers for you. Then, you'll have no postage to pay. I'll furnish you with paper, a set of pens — and a penknife, and some powder to make ink!’
‘It's not the expense of postage which concerns me,’ said Owen. ‘I don't begrudge that at all. But I shall bore you, I'm sure.’
‘Nonsense,’ smiled Jane. ‘Now, my dear Owen, listen to me. I wish to know everything. No matter how trivial a circumstance seems to you, rest assured that the details of it will be perfectly fascinating to me. So — describe your uncle, his home, his profession, his servants, his patients. Everything!
‘As for your good self, leaving your home here in Warwickshire — or should I say, returning from exile in a foreign land to your own native heath — what a great adventure that will be! How interesting everything will prove! How novel, and how strange!
‘Indeed, I am positively consumed with envy. My dear little cousin, you must let me know how you get on.’
Now, realising she was getting somewhat carried away, Jane paused for breath. But still her eyes sparkled like sapphires in the snow. Still, her complexion glowed. Owen looked at her. ‘I'll write to you,’ he promised.
Then, taking her by the shoulders, he pulled her towards him. Impulsively, he kissed her cheek. ‘Will you write to me?’ he asked, looking into her eyes, darkness meeting light.
‘Of course I shall,’ Jane replied.
* * * *
Owen's journey through the green heart of England was uneventful, not to say disappointingly dull. Although their way lay through deep, dark forests, no desperate highwayman appeared from among the oak trees to demand the passengers’ valuables and gold. The horses were unsporting beasts who never bolted once.
So, sitting in a jolting, malodorous stagecoach, a fat widow's umbrella handle sticking into his side, and a farmer breathing beer fumes into his face, while a dissenting clergyman prosily addressed his captive audience on the flaws in the doctrine of original sin, Owen had plenty of time to reflect on the romance of his mission, and feel thoroughly homesick for Warwickshire.
Very soon, travelling post in the company of disagreeable people became a way of life. He slept for much of the way. But then, on the fourth day of his journey, he woke to find himself in the market place in Cardiff. The widow had already climbed out, and a short, stocky, dark– haired man in gold–rimmed spectacles was peering anxiously into the darkness of the vehicle. As Owen gaped at him groggily, the man took the child's hands in his.
‘Owen Morgan? I knew you at once!’ Now, the man positively beamed at the child. ‘Oh, God,’ he cried, ‘dear God, you're so like your mother, it's as if she was born again!’
Owen blinked once, twice, then made as if to climb out of the coach. The man helped him totter down the steps. Then, standing the boy in the sunshine, David Morgan stepped back and gazed. ‘Such a woman,’ he whispered, as the tears came into his eyes. ‘So tall, so straight, so beautiful! I tell you now,
I never saw her equal. Never, in all my born days. No wonder my poor brother lost his heart to her!
‘Well now, child — where's your luggage? These two pieces here?’ David Morgan glanced round. ‘Daniel? Can you manage those by yourself? Very well then, boy. Let's go.’ So, giving Owen no chance even to speak, let alone ask any questions, David Morgan talked on, leading the child to his house while his manservant Daniel brought up the rear.
The apothecary's house was only a short distance away, down a dark, shadowy alley which branched off the market square of the sleepy little town. The uncle, nephew and servant entered through the apothecary's shop, an Aladdin's cave of wonder in which laden shelves held a hundred or more glass bottles, each filled with a different– coloured liquid, each of which sparkled and shone — and where rows upon rows of ceramic pots proclaimed they held tincture of this or oil of that.
Upon a dark slab of counter lay pestles and mortars, balances and weights, razor–sharp blades and long–handled spoons, while the air was heavy with the scent of spices, herbs and floral essences of all kinds.
A confirmed bachelor, David Morgan was looked after by Daniel and Susannah Elias, a middle–aged married couple who had no children of their own and who tended to treat their somewhat absent–minded, kindly master as if he were the son they'd never had. So, they were as delighted as could be to have a real, live child to cosset. They made Owen as welcome as the dawn.
‘Here's your bedroom.’ Leading him up a narrow, winding staircase, Susannah showed Owen into a small, white– washed chamber which contained a bed upon which reposed layer upon layer of bright red Welsh blankets. There was also a large, black chest of drawers made from solid Welsh oak. ‘Now, if you're ever cold in here, just say. Daniel will make up a fire directly.’
Cold? In the middle of summer? Bemused, Owen shook his head. At Easton Hall, fires were lit from November to March only, unless somebody was ill.
* * * *
The visitor was made very welcome, and soon felt himself at home. For, among these people, there was no stiffness. No reserve. A few days after his arrival, as Owen sat with his uncle in the shop, watching while the apothecary prepared tincture of opium for general sale, he thought, yes. At last, he had screwed up enough courage to ask the question to which he'd wanted to know the answer for years. ‘Uncle?’ he began, ‘what became of my parents?’
The Ash Grove Page 4