The Ash Grove

by Margaret James

  ‘So you and Mr Atkins set all this up between you?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Thomas grinned, too. ‘Nowadays, he's doing so well that he needs far more castings than I can produce. That is, unless I supply his factories only — which I wouldn't wish to do. It's the eggs–in–one–basket notion, you see. I always fight shy of that. So then I thought, why not divide the pickings between us? Why don't we both grow rich?’

  * * * *

  The contracts were signed. The deal was done. So now, needing somewhere convenient to live, Owen took out a lease on a substantial, stone–built, plain but perfectly adequate house, not far from the ironworks themselves.

  Neither large nor spacious, Cwm Dhu was nevetheless quite big enough for a bachelor and two or three servants. In many ways, moreover, it reminded Owen of his childhood home, with its painted mortar floors and stencilled plasterwork, its lofty gables and its dark little rooms, each leading in and out of the other.

  ‘Do you think you'll be happy here?’ asked David, as he gazed all round the bare, stone–flagged kitchen, and shook his head very dubiously indeed.

  ‘Why should I not?’ Owen shrugged. ‘This place is snug enough. It's weatherproof. I agree it's small, and rather bleak. But it's all I need.’

  ‘Is it?’ David sucked his teeth. ‘I wonder. I had you down for a family man. A husband and father, with children playing round you, and a babe on each knee.’

  ‘Oh.’ Again, Owen shrugged. ‘I doubt if I'll even marry,’ he murmured. ‘Let alone father children. I've been a bachelor too long, to desire any changes nowadays.’

  As Michael Atkins had promised, as soon as it was known Heatherwood was back in business, the orders came rolling in. So, the buildings were repaired. The first furnace was put into blast. The day this was tapped and a lazy stream of molten iron came snaking out, flowing smoothly into the sand moulds which lay ready and waiting, was the day Owen realised that for once in his life he had got something completely right. This business was for him. He was an ironmaster!

  ‘A beautiful sight.’ A workman from the casthouse stood at Owen's side. He shielded his eyes from the heat and glare. ‘Eh, master?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ Owen agreed.

  Having decided that as master he would take an active part in running the place, Owen dispensed with the services of a manager. Instead, he appointed his foremen, they found hindsmen, and everyone got on with the job in hand.

  Country–bred and gently–reared though Owen had been, he found that once he got used to them, neither the nostril– searing heat, the constant dancing smuts, the dirt nor the stench of iron–founding appalled him in the least. Instead, he was fascinated by the whole magical process of turning ore and limestone into fat, dormant pigs, or gleaming metal bars. In fact, he was like a child with an enormous, enchanting new toy.

  The workforce — men, women and children alike — had a good opinion of him from the start. For Owen was one of them. He even spoke their own language, albeit with a strange, peculiar inflection which they put down to his having spent time among the heathen in foreign climes. The hot Indian sun had obviously addled his brain. But at least he was not an incomer. A Saxon who would milk their country dry, then leave its indigenous population to rot.

  * * * *

  Owen visited his uncle regularly. These days, David was hoarser and croakier than ever. But, in spite of this, he would not give up his pipe of tobacco, even though the smoke made him wheeze and choke like a dying frog.

  One evening, as nephew and uncle sat together, a tap on the door was followed by the manservant entering the snug little sitting room, where there was always the best fire. ‘It's a woman,’ said the servant, without preamble. ‘She's asking to see Mr Morgan, at once.’

  ‘Tell her to step into the shop, then.’ It was very late, and David was tired. Resignedly, he sighed. ‘I'll be out directly.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir — but it's Mr Owen Morgan she wishes to see.’ The servant sniffed his distaste. ‘She's so ragged, unkempt and dirty that I told her if it was relief she needed, she should take herself off to the poorhouse. But she would not be denied.’

  ‘I'll see her.’ Owen rose to his feet. ‘After all, she may have travelled a very long way. Perhaps one of my men is sick, and she's a wife or daughter come to seek my aid.’

  Chapter 11

  When she saw Owen, Isabel broke down, bursting into tears of both exhaustion and relief. ‘Oh, God!’ Gulping and sobbing, she threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh, great God in heaven! I thought I would never find you! But now I have, I don't think I can even bear to look at you, in case you — ’

  But then her sobs choked her, and for a few minutes speech was an impossibility.

  The servant had said she was ragged and dirty. Now, Owen realised, she was starving too. Her shoulders were bony, her arms like sticks, and her lovely face quite gaunt with need. While not exactly in tatters — for no one of any sense or education would have mistaken Isabel Darrow for a beggar, or a tramp — her shoes were down at heel, her shawl dirty, and her gown torn.

  As she clung to Owen and wept, David Morgan came into the shop. Having heard Isabel's scream, he confidently expected to find a patient in extremis, desperate for his aid. But instead, he found his nephew being half–strangled by a lunatic in a shabby silk gown. At a loss, he stared. ‘Well, then? What ails the girl?’ he demanded, irritably.

  With some difficulty, Owen extricated himself from Isabel's embrace. ‘This lady is not a patient,’ he began. But then, he bit his lip. Some kind of explanation was necessary. But what? ‘She's an old acquaintance of mine,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ Not in the least impressed, David sniffed. ‘May I know when and where you were introduced?’

  ‘This is Mrs Darrow,’ muttered Owen. ‘She is my cousin Rayner's wife.’

  ‘Your cousin's wife.’ Glancing again at Isabel, who was still weeping and whose face was stained with dirt and the tracks of previous tears, he shook his head. ‘Oh. I see.’

  Owen frowned. ‘What do you mean, you see?’

  ‘I mean, I understand perfectly now. It all makes sense. Your sudden departure from Warwickshire. Your arrival here, with straw in your hair and your linen not changed for a week. Your wedding not to take place after all. Then, your dear aunt dead of a seizure, but you yourself not permitted to stand by her grave.’

  Grimacing, David shook his head. ‘Everything awry,’ he muttered. ‘The family at Easton suddenly incommunicado. You behaving like a dog that's been whipped for stealing the mutton, from the kitchen spit.’

  ‘Uncle, I — ’

  ‘Save your breath, child. Whatever the explanation, I don't wish to hear it. Not this evening, at any rate.’ David touched Isabel's shoulder. ‘Well, young lady,’ he continued, ‘you had better come into the parlour. I'll have the abigail make up a poultice for your feet, and I myself will fetch you a cordial. While I do that, you can explain yourself to your friend here. After he's locked up, that is.’

  Isabel was most unwilling to let Owen out of her sight, even for a moment. But, when he promised that after he had locked up the shop, he would join her in the parlour straight away, she consented to be led into that snug little room, and to sit by the fire there.

  A minute later, Owen was sitting down himself. ‘Well, Isabel?’ he began.

  ‘Don't look unkindly at me! I can't bear it!’ Her tears having temporarily abated, Isabel began to cry again. ‘Oh, God!’ she sobbed. ‘God and all the saints in heaven, I wish I were dead!’

  ‘Come, Isabel. You must speak to me. What on earth has happened?’

  ‘Can't you guess?’ wept Isabel. But then, she made some attempt to control her tears. ‘Very well,’ she muttered. ‘I'll attempt to enlighten you. I'll begin at the beginning, shall I?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘You remember that after we had — after you'd told them you had changed your mind about marrying Jane, the squire ordered Rayner to take me home?’


  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, as soon as we arrived there, he told my maid I'd had an accident, and to put me straight to bed. You may imagine how I passed that night! The following morning, my husband came to see me. He sat down on a hard chair, and read me a lecture on sin.’ Isabel's soft mouth twisted angrily. ‘God,’ she hissed, ‘he's so like his father! Such a cold, unforgiving, self–righteous, Puritan saint! Ever preaching the desirability of sobriety, chastity and moral rectitude. But ogling my breasts the while!’

  ‘What exactly did Rayner say?’

  ‘He told me I had behaved abominably. I had forfeited any right to the society of decent people, and I would be an outcast for the rest of my days. Then he asked if I intended to repent.

  ‘Cant, I thought.’ Viciously, Isabel gnawed her lower lip. ‘So much cant! I know he visits brothels! I've smelled them on him! So anyway, I told him that although he might call me a whore, he was nothing but a hog. As for his sister, she was a nun. Which was hardly surprising, coming as she did from a holy pair like the Darrows, who no doubt suffered nothing so impure as carnal knowledge to pollute their wedded bliss! Whose children were conceived by the Holy Ghost. Born of the virgin Rebecca —

  ‘He slapped me hard then, across the face. I think I must have fainted. Later that morning he was sent for, and I learned his mother had died during the night. The shock had killed her, they supposed. Owen, I know how tenderly you loved your aunt. I'm sorry to give you pain.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘He shut me up in the house. He locked me in my bedchamber, in fact. I suppose I wasn't a prisoner, not exactly — but I was forbidden visitors. Not that I'd have had to turn them away, for by then everyone knew what had happened, and no respectable matron would have come near me, for I would have polluted her by my very presence. My maid brought me all the news. Of course, the servants’ tongues never stopped wagging, of that you may be sure.

  ‘Even my mother would not see me. In fact, my parents let it be known that they disowned me. Rayner could cast me out, and I might die in a ditch for all they cared. I was no child of theirs.’

  ‘Oh, Isabel! That's terrible.’ In spite of himself, Owen was moved. Insofar as he'd considered the matter at all, he had expected Rayner to forgive his wife. He'd assumed things in Warwickshire would soon get back to normal. Jane would forget him, and eventually marry a better man than he. ‘Isabel,’ he began gently, ‘what do you mean to do now?’

  ‘I don't know!’ Isabel's tears were ready to flow again. ‘I just wanted — ’

  ‘How did you manage to get away from Rayner?’

  ‘I bribed my maid to leave my door ajar. I gave her my silver needle–case, with the laudanum bottle secreted in the lid. She'd always coveted it, you see. I had a few guineas in my escritoire.

  ‘I travelled post, then when my money ran out I begged my passage. I hailed wagons, farmers’ carts, tradesmen's drays — anything. Oh God! It was horrible!’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I knew your uncle was an apothecary. Maria happened to mention his circumstances once, and astonishingly enough I had remembered the facts. So when I was set down in the market place, I enquired at the inn, and was directed here.’

  Now, David himself entered the little parlour. He brought with him a jug of something flavoured with sweet herbs, camomile, and honey. Pouring a glass, he handed it to his guest. ‘Drink it all,’ he said.

  Meekly, Isabel accepted the glass. She began to sip. Then, David's maidservant, Sarah Hughes — who frequently assisted at those minor operations and surgical procedures which, as a licensed apothecary, David Morgan was legally permitted to perform — removed Isabel's ragged shoes, and washed her feet. Carefully, she treated all the blisters and scrapes which disfigured Isabel's soft, white skin.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Isabel, when the maid had finished. ‘You're very kind.’

  Sarah smiled in acknowledgement. She stood up. ‘Will you have something to eat, ma'am?’ she enquired.

  ‘I'm not hungry.’ Isabel stifled a yawn. ‘But I'm so weary, I could sleep for a week.’

  ‘Where may she sleep?’ asked Owen.

  ‘She must have the maid's room,’ replied David, decisively.

  ‘What about Sarah?’

  ‘She and Bronwen will share a bed in the scullery.’ David reached for the candle. ‘Come along, young lady. I'll light you upstairs.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Morgan.’ Isabel struggled to her feet. Then, reddening, she hung her head. ‘But before I go to bed,’ she murmured, ‘I have something of a rather delicate nature to say to your nephew here. I — ’

  ‘Very well.’ David handed the candle to Owen. ‘My nephew shall light your way.’

  The maid's room was small, but clean and warm. To Isabel, who had spent a week on the open road, it looked like a bedchamber in a palace.

  ‘I'll leave you, then,’ said Owen. He placed the candlestick on the washstand. ‘Sarah will bring your tea, about seven. But if you need anything in the night, do please — ’

  ‘Owen?’

  ‘Yes?

  ‘Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for taking me in, and for giving me a roof above my head tonight.’

  Owen shrugged. ‘I feel responsible for you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I believe you do.’ But then, Isabel grimaced, as if in pain. ‘All the same — our just and charitable society being what it is, no one would have blamed you if you'd felt no concern at all. If I had been found dead in the gutter a stone's throw from your door, nobody would have called you to account.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I should have reproached myself.’

  ‘That is because you're a good man.’ Isabel reached for his hand. ‘Stay a moment longer. Close the door.’

  ‘Isabel, I don't think — ’

  ‘I need to say just two words.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Touch me.’ Taking his right hand, Isabel placed the palm against her stomach. ‘Don't you feel him quicken?’

  ‘Quicken?’ Owen stared at her. ‘Isabel, what are you saying?’

  ‘He kicks and bucks like a baby antelope! My dear Owen, I'm carrying your son.’

  * * * *

  There was nothing for it but to take her to the little house near the ironworks and introduce her to the two servants there as Mrs Morgan, their master's wife. Of course, David's own servants’ chatter made the circumstances of the alleged Mrs Owen Morgan's arrival in South Wales, torn and bleeding and looking for all the world like a tinker born and bred under a hedgerow, except that she wore a grubby silk gown, general currency for miles round about. Everyone agreed that it was a rum business.

  Very rum indeed.

  For a while, Isabel was happy. Relief that she was not to be turned out — for indeed, Owen now had a spare bedchamber fitted up specially for her, and engaged a maid to look after her — and gratitude that she was allowed to take his name, so could therefore meet the gapes of local people with a bold, level stare of her own, made her tractable and pleasant.

  For a time.

  But then, she began to fret. She had nothing to do all day, and was consequently extremely bored. Recovering from her ordeal on the highways and byways of England and Wales, she found she had plenty of energy, but nothing to expend it on.

  ‘Go walking,’ suggested Owen, when she grumbled that she had spent all one particular afternoon watching sooty raindrops slide down the window panes, and almost died of boredom as a result, ‘take some exercise. In the fresh air.’

  ‘What fresh air?’ Contemptuously, Isabel sniffed. ‘If I so much as poke my head outside the front door, I begin to sneeze. My bonnet is covered in smuts in an instant.’

  ‘But if you go just a little further down the valley, you'll find the air is clear.’

  ‘If I go down the valley, I shall then be obliged to climb the mountain. If I have a mind to come home again, that is. In any case, I am presently in no condition to scramble about amidst rocks and scree.’


  Isabel pouted for a few moments longer. But then, she smiled. Going over to where Owen sat, she wound her white arms around his shoulders. She kissed his face.

  ‘Don't do that,’ he murmured.

  ‘Why?’ Isabel kissed him again. ‘You do need me,’ she whispered. She ran her long, thin fingers through his hair. ‘Why pretend to hate me, when you know you love me still?’

  Owen merely sighed.

  So, encouraged, Isabel slid her fingers under the neckband of his shirt. She shook off her cap. Strands of her coppery hair stroked Owen's face.

  * * * *

  Pregnancy had not diminished Isabel's appetite for sex in the slightest. Indeed, if anything, this had increased. So, after a token resistance, Owen allowed her into his bed. He let her seduce and beguile him all over again.

  She was determined to bewitch him, and she did. Now, she even had an ally, for inside her the unborn baby wriggled and squirmed and demanded attention as imperiously as ever his mother did. Owen watched fascinated as little elbows, fists and knees pummelled and punched and kicked, lying safe beneath the soft blanket of Isabel's milk–white skin.

  Tracing the child's ghostly outlines, watching the baby twist and turn and then, as if exhausted, come to rest, Owen realised he was still mad. He was still in love with his cousin's wife. But, more than that, he was beginning to love her for herself. She had been so brave. So selfless. She had given up everything to be with him...

  She was also generous, and kind. Sated herself, she was always careful to make sure he was completely satisfied, too. One evening, realising he was still awake, she touched his arm.

  ‘What is it?’ he murmured.

  ‘You're very restless,’ she said.

  ‘I was thinking.’ Wearily, he rubbed his tired eyes. ‘There's a problem at the works. We can't get one of the furnaces properly into blast. There's something wrong with the big steam engine, too — but I don't know what it can be.’

  ‘Well, you need your sleep.’ Isabel took his hand in hers. ‘I could relax you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Could you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Sitting up, she slipped out of her nightdress. She pushed the bedclothes aside.