Best love. Owen did not doubt that Rebecca loved him, loved him dearly in fact, as much as she loved her own son. But Ellis? Well — he obligingly franked these fat, bulging letters, so that David did not have to pay the carriage costs. That was something, Owen supposed. Ellis also paid for his nephew's education, which was much appreciated, since Owen loved school.
Jane reported that Rayner, on the other hand, hated Harrow. Bored by lessons, and loathing all forms of physical activity or the organised sport in which the famous public school distinguished itself, he was frequently beaten, either for failing to hand in his preparation or for letting his side down. Those few letters Owen received from his cousin seemed to underline this lack of progress, if not the unhappiness of the person who had written them. For Rayner's handwriting would have disgraced a little child just learning pot–hooks, any ability to express himself fluently or amusingly was sadly lacking, and his spelling was a disaster area.
‘So much for a superior education,’ Owen would reflect, turning back to Jane's closely–written paragraphs. Although she had had no formal education at all...
One day, seeing the latest of her bulky manuscripts sticking out of Owen's school bag, Thomas Taliesin snatched it and began to read aloud, for the edification of the whole class. ‘No, let me,’ he begged, as Owen tried to grab it back. ‘It's damned intriguing. I want to know what happened next.’
So Owen let him read Jane's account of a very grand ball, during which her friend Martha Dennison had danced a whole two dances with a man she had afterwards learned was a notorious philanderer — nay, had risen from the bed of his latest mistress only an hour since, in order to attend that very ball! The mistress had arrived later, dressed to kill, and given poor Martha some very black looks.
Then, at tea, Jane had overheard some scandalous details of an affair between the county's most senior MP and the local magistrate's pock–marked but apparently highly desirable young wife. Then, best of all, a clergyman the worse for drink had poured his bowl of white soup into a lady's lap — whereupon the lady had violent hysterics and her husband knocked the parson down, to the delight and horror of the distinguished company.
‘Hand it back now,’ said Owen, as Thomas laughed heartily and pleaded to be allowed to go on. ‘The rest is private, so give it to me.’
But Thomas merely turned over the page. Then, of course, he saw the signature of the correspondent. ‘This is from a woman!’ he cried grinning, a mad baboon incarnate. ‘Morgan has a woman! She sends him her best love! She — ’
‘Does she, by God? What's her name?’ demanded John Friar, chortling delightedly.
‘It's Jane.’ Thomas Taliesin cackled like a demented hen. ‘She is Morgan's dearest Jane. She's his darling, precious — ’
‘She's my cousin!’ Snatching the letter, Owen glared. ‘She sends me news of home, that's all! She's not my precious, nor my darling — ’
‘How old is she?’ interrupted John Friar.
‘Seventeen. But — ’
‘Quite grown up! Is she pretty?’
‘Yes, she is. But I — ’
‘Morgan's blushing!’ Thomas Taliesin was beside himself with delight. ‘Look at him! He's bright red!’
‘Come along, Morgan.’ John Friar shook Owen by the shoulder. ‘Spill the beans. This cousin of yours — is she an heiress?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You must have. Is her father rich?’
‘Yes. But he also has a son. So his daughters may never be — ’
‘Are you going to marry her?’
‘Of course not. I told you — she's my cousin. Besides, she's much older than me.’
‘Cousins may marry.’ Thomas Taliesin looked wise. ‘Well now, boys — if I had a cousin, daughter of a rich man, who sent me her best love at the end of a nice long letter like this, I'd propose to her directly, let her be ten, twenty years older than me! I'd — ’
‘Shut up, Taliesin.’ Still red in the face, Owen glared. ‘Shut your mouth now, or I'll break all the teeth in it and push them down your throat.’
‘You and whose army?’
‘Taliesin, I'm warning you!’
‘Come on, then.’ Thomas Taliesin grinned. ‘Let's see who's the better man! Tell you what, Morgan — if I knock you out, will you permit me to make my addresses to your dear cousin Jane? After all, I'm not her near relation. I've no objection to mounting an old nag — provided her saddle bags are full of gold. I — ’
Owen lunged at him. The other boys pushed back the desks, and settled down to enjoy the fight.
* * * *
‘You were the victor, I hope?’ murmured David Morgan mildly, as he mixed calendula and orange flower water, in order to make a salve for Owen's split lip and blackened eyes.
‘I think so. But it was a close run thing.’ Easing off his torn and filthy jacket, Owen winced. ‘I'm afraid my shoulder may need strapping,’ he whispered. ‘It's very sore.’
‘Let's see, then.’ David examined the joint. ‘Ah, yes. Dislocated, it is. Hold still.’
As his uncle manipulated the bones and tendons, Owen's eyes filled with tears. One by one, they began to spill over. Soon they were trickling in dirty runnels, all down his face.
‘Be brave,’ adjured David, as he worked. Deftly, carefully, he eased the joint back into alignment. ‘There — it's done. Sleep on your back tonight.’
‘You don't wish to strap it up?’
‘No. At your age, the less interference with the flesh, the better.’ David met his nephew's mournful gaze. ‘So what was it all about?’
‘He insulted my cousin Jane. He called her an old nag, and said he wouldn't mind mounting her. He — ’
‘So you felt obliged to defend the lady's honour.’ David shook his head. ‘So for you, it will be women.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For your father, it was danger. For you, it will be the opposite sex.’ David sighed. ‘From now on, I suppose I shall be seeing this sort of mess regularly.’
‘I shan't get into fights.’ Slipping off his high stool, Owen winced again. ‘I had to hit him this time. But I don't enjoy getting hurt. I don't like pain.’
* * * *
Two years into the new century, the coming of peace with France meant that, for intrepid English travellers, Continental holidays were possible again. Jane wrote that the Darrow family hoped to spend that summer in Europe, touring France and perhaps moving on to Italy in the autumn.
Her parents and Maria were greatly looking forward to going abroad, but Rayner was being very awkward about the whole thing. ‘He protests he has no desire whatsoever to be among Frogs,’ continued Jane, ‘for he understands very little of their vile language, has no opinion of their much– vaunted cuisine — preferring roast rib of beef with a decent gravy to horrid foreign messes any day — and he despises their simpering manners entirely.’
In Rayner's juvenile opinion, moreover, the Peace of Amiens was a sham. England and France were natural enemies. As soon as the Darrows set foot on French soil, war would break out again. His parents and sisters would be arrested, imprisoned, and would end their days on the scaffold, as victims of Madame Guillotine.
Grinning, he'd added that he understood his father's policy. The poor squire was more or less obliged to snatch this chance to get the family abroad, for where else would he find husbands for his daughters? After all, Jane and Maria were so hideous that no sane Englishman would look at either.
‘Be assured, dear Owen,’ said Jane, ‘that I wish as much as ever Rayner does that he could stay at home. But my father is adamant. Travel is to broaden Rayner's mind. It must needs refine his coarse sensibilities, too. My dear Owen, travel would have more chance of refining a Berkshire hog than of improving my dear brother, who is — alas — grown up into a booby, and one of the most oafish, lumpen kind, dear to us though he is and ever will be.
‘But now, something occurs to me. I wonder if he could come and stay with you. Might your uncle a
llow it? Would you ask him? You would be doing everyone a favour — everyone except, perhaps, yourself! But you were always fond of Rayner, and he loves you dearly, so I'm sure he would be delighted to see you again.’
By the same post, David received a letter from Ellis Darrow. His daughter Jane, he wrote, had recently allowed him to glance over a specimen of his nephew's correspondence, and Ellis had been impressed by what he'd read. Now, he congratulated David on the boy's good sense, marked ability to express himself fluently, and excellent orthography. He must be attending a very good school.
While not mentioning his son's reluctance to join the family party to France, Ellis continued that he would like to ask David a favour. Would it be possible for Rayner to visit his cousin, and stay for a month or so? The boys had been close friends during childhood. As young men, they were surely curious to see each other again. Did David not think they might enjoy spending some time together?
Owen was all for it. So David wrote back by return, inviting Rayner Darrow to visit and stay for as long as he pleased.
* * * *
Rayner stepped out of the coach and gazed all round the market place. Then he saw them. Two tall, good–looking boys of about his own age, they were eyeing the naked ankles and calves of a girl who was setting out a fruit and vegetable stall. He walked up to them, then tapped one on the shoulder. ‘Owen?’ he hazarded.
The boy spun round. ‘Rayner!’ With a yell pleasure, Owen swept his cousin into the most crushing of bear hugs, then drew back to look at him, beaming all over his face. ‘Tom,’ he said then, to the boy lounging at his side, ‘this is Rayner. Rayner Darrow, my long–lost Saxon cousin from wildest Warwickshire!’
‘Indeed? You surprise me. Come now, Morgan — peas in a pod could hardly be more alike!’ Thomas Taliesin grinned. Extravagantly, he bowed. Then he held out his hand. ‘Thomas Taliesin, at your service,’ he said.
Rayner bowed too. ‘Rayner Darrow, at yours,’ he replied.
Owen hooted with laughter. ‘You two belong in Bath,’ he jeered. ‘In the Assembly Rooms, with the famous Mr Nash.’
‘So? He was a Welshman, exactly like you. Born and bred in Swansea.’ Tom threw an arm around Rayner's shoulders. ‘Well, man? Where's your luggage, then?’
‘They're unloading it now. That trunk and the three valises are mine.’
‘Very well. Leave them with the ostler here. Owen will send Daniel for them later.’
The three boys went to David's house, where Tom was always welcome, and where Rayner was made so straight away. Sitting at the kitchen table, planting their huge adolescent feet on the clean rush matting, they ate half of Susannah's weekly bake at a sitting, then went out again, to explore the town.
Rayner was well provided with cash, so his first stop was at the livery stables, where he hired a pony and trap, reserving these for his own exclusive use for the next fortnight, as he meant to see the district in style. If any of his proposed jaunts appealed to Owen or Tom, he added, they were welcome to join him. All their costs — meals, accomodation at inns, whatever — would be at Ellis Darrow's kind expense.
* * * *
By that evening, all three lads were firmly in each others’ confidence. As they lounged on settles in the local pot house, eyeing up the landlord's daughter, and trying to decide if she would be a worthwhile propostion, Rayner casually revealed that actually he'd already had his first woman.
‘Actually worth having, was she?’ demanded Thomas Taliesin, nonchalance incarnate.
‘What?’ Rayner dragged himself away from his study of the barmaid's charms to frown at Tom. He muttered that he supposed so. Although apart from the fact that it relieved congestion, there was nothing much else to recommend it. In short, boys, women were a waste of good drinking time. He beckoned the barmaid over once again.
‘Do you drink a vast deal?’ enquired Owen, as he raised his foaming tankard to his lips.
Rayner grinned. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘It's expected of me. At Harrow, you know, we have fellows who can down a bottle of port in three minutes flat — and still stand! I'm working towards that.’
‘When you leave school, what will you do next?’
‘The old fellow wants me to go to college.’ Rayner pulled a face. ‘We're going to have harsh words about that, I fear.’
‘Why don't you want to go? I would!’ Thomas grinned. ‘I know! You could take Owen along with you. He could be a sizar.’
‘A what?’
‘A scholarship man. Don't you Saxons know anything? Look, take Morgan here. Then at least you'd have some decent company.’
‘It's certainly a thought.’ Rayner considered the notion. ‘It might even be fun, if Owen were there too. But forget the charity boy idea. I'll speak to the old devil about paying Owen's fees. We'll see what he says to that.’
‘Please don't ask the squire.’ Owen frowned into his beer. ‘Your father doesn't like me,’ he muttered. ‘He never has, and he never will. I'll make my way in the world without his grudging aid.’
‘But you could pay him back,’ argued Thomas. ‘When you make your fortune, you could return his cash with interest.’
Owen laughed. ‘Tom here is going to be a rich man,’ he explained. ‘He's to become a great manufacturer, who will set the whole of South Wales afire.’
‘I shall indeed.’ Now, Thomas Taliesin looked crafty. He glanced towards Rayner. ‘Are your your sisters are well?’ he enquired.
‘They're in excellent health. In splendid spirits, too. They're quite beside themselves at the thought of going to Paris.’ Rayner grinned. ‘God, Owen — you should see Maria! These days, she's powdered, painted and bedizened like nothing on earth. She costs my father a fortune in silks and satins. She intends to catch a duke, you see. Or an earl, at least.’
‘What about Jane? Does she aspire to a coronet?’
‘I doubt it. She's certainly no fine lady.’ Rayner shrugged. ‘Oh, she's neat and pretty, I grant you that readily enough. But she isn't showy, you see. Not at all. My father expects to marry her off to an embryo bishop, or some such whey–faced fellow.
‘But if he could keep her in Warwickshire, I expect he'd settle for a mere country gentleman. Provided he had a steady six or seven thousand a year, of course.’
‘Oh.’ The idea of Jane married off made Owen feel most uneasy. ‘How is Isabel?’ he enquired.
‘She's exactly the same,’ replied Rayner. ‘Scrawny, ginger, freckled. No bosom before, no backside behind. As hideous a girl as you could expect to see, if you rode for a whole summer day. It's a good thing she'll be rich.’
* * * *
David Morgan's own childhood had been delightfully carefree. He had been allowed to ramble where he liked, do pretty much as he pleased, in fact — and now he saw no reason at all why three young lads of fifteen should not spend the summer roaming the countryside. Provided they didn't get up to too much mischief, of course.
There was security in numbers, he reasoned. Whereas he would have felt very uneasy about one boy of that age wandering off alone, surely three of them together would be safe enough?
So, that summer, Rayner, Owen and Thomas went roving. Whenever they came across an ironworks, a row of blast furnaces set into a scarred and pitted hillside, or any kind of manufactory, Thomas spied out opportunities and explained how, when he came into his inheritance or met a wealthy fool, he would make his fortune. He drew sketches and plans and daydreamed about getting rich.
Rayner looked out for women. For, in spite of his assertion that they were useful only in that they helped to relieve congestion in a man, he also appeared to enjoy their company. In fact, Owen realised later, his cousin wasn't particularly interested in taking girls to bed. Instead, he liked to have their attention. Their admiration. Their fawning adulation and fascinated regard, as they hung on every word he said.
He was not to be disappointed in South Wales, for he was of course the centre of attention, wherever they went. His dark good looks, aristocratic b
earing and expensive clothes made quite sure of that. The landlords of the inns where the boys put up often assumed Rayner's two companions were his servants, and one would sometimes draw Owen or Thomas aside to remark that there was a very handsome lady in the Green Chamber or the Rose Room this evening. Would their master like to make her acquaintance, perhaps?
At whatever kind of inn they chanced on of an evening, pot house or superior coaching establishment, it was never long before, well primed with porter or best ale, Rayner and Thomas began to show off, Thomas impressing the older men with his knowledge and ideas, and Rayner fascinating their wives and daughters. Usually, Owen merely listened to all this palaver, secretly laughing at them both. But sometimes he walked out into the cool summer night, to take a breath of cleaner, fresher air.
One evening, as he strolled back from a walk to a pretty little river near the inn, he noticed a girl taking some packages from a private coach. He'd seen her earlier, in fact. She was a lady's maid. Her mistress, a fat, middle– aged widow, looked very well off. Perhaps he should try to interest her in one of Thomas's lunatic schemes...
The girl nodded to him. ‘Good evening,’ she began, an attractive Welsh lilt lending additional charm to her low, rather husky voice.
Owen decided she must be a country girl. A native Welsh speaker, perhaps, too. So he replied in Welsh — and was delighted when she spoke to him again in his own native tongue.
‘You're with the young English gentleman, aren't you?’ she enquired. Sweetly, she smiled at him. ‘Are you his valet? Or his footman, maybe?’
‘That's right.’ By now, Owen was used to being mistaken for a servant. ‘I'm his valet and footman combined,’ he replied.
‘Then I hope he rewards you accordingly. Were you looking for someone just now?’
The Ash Grove Page 6