The Ash Grove

by Margaret James

  * * * *

  Until he had carnal knowledge of Isabel, Owen had assumed that English ladies of her class and breeding were delicate, fastidious creatures. A wife tolerated her husband's lust simply because it was expected of her. If she meant to be a mother, sexual congress a tribulation she was obliged to bear. Only the lower orders and professional whores understood the giving and receiving of pleasure for its own sake.

  But then, he reasoned, Isabel wasn't English anyway. Although her ancestors had lived for generations in the green heart of Warwickshire, Isabel was an American by birth. Perhaps that accounted for it? The hot sun of Virginia had warmed her cold Anglo–Saxon blood.

  So now, he lay supine, letting her hands and mouth work their magic on him.

  ‘How do you know about these things?’ he asked later when, good for nothing, his problems at the ironworks completely forgotten, he lay exhausted by her side.

  ‘My nurse taught me,’ she replied.

  ‘Your nurse?’ Owen was astonished. ‘But how — ’

  ‘Don't look so shocked. It wasn't like that.’ Tossing back her copper ringlets, Isabel smiled. ‘My nurse was a passionate woman. She was very desirable, too. She had at least seven children, two or three of them my father's own. But her other lovers came from all over the estate.

  ‘Her duties as my nurse were not burdensome, so she had plenty of opportunity to amuse and divert herself. To divert others, too! She visited all over the plantation, in fact. Whenever she paid a call, she would sit me in a corner of the cabin with my dolls, throw off her shift, then go to work.

  ‘When we left Virginia, I forgot all about those interesting outings of mine. But when I was first married, something triggered memories of that time.’ Isabel shook her head. ‘I thought all grown–up women behaved thus. I imagined it was part of the contract, that a wife should give her husband pleasure. But Rayner did not agree. The first time I did, or began to do — for indeed, I was abruptly forestalled – what I have just done for you, my husband was disgusted. He said I was behaving like a harlot.’

  Bitterly, Isabel sighed. ‘He knows all about them, of course! As God is my witness, I do not traduce him in the slightest when I tell you he's had experience of dozens. If not scores!’

  ‘Has he?’ Owen was amazed. He had dismissed Isabel's earlier insistence that Rayner frequented brothels as demented raving. ‘Are you quite sure of that?’

  ‘Most certainly!’ Isabel replied.

  ‘But — Isabel, how did you learn of it? Surely he did not tell you to your face?’

  ‘Oh, the whole county knows! Rayner and Charles Harding are bywords in Easton, and the area round about. For a while, my maid was intimate with Mr Harding's manservant. That fellow has a mouth as wide as the entrance to Hades itself.

  ‘All the same, nobody speaks of it in public. Maria pretends she knows nothing about it, nothing at all. Owen?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You're so kind. So honest. Not a hypocrite, like Rayner and his friends. I was right to come to you.’

  ‘Yes, I think you were.’

  ‘We will be happy together, won't we?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Contentedly, Owen yawned. Now, he would certainly go to sleep.

  * * * *

  But with no calls to make, no friends to chat with and no occupation to keep her busy, for much of the time Isabel was not happy at all. She was too bored to be content.

  The servants did the routine housework, of course — but although in rural Wales, it was perfectly permissible for a mistress to take charge of her own kitchen, Isabel thought it beneath her even to enter the servants’ hall. All she would do was order meals. Lacking any skills in practical needlework, she could not make baby clothes, nor mend household linens. So she simply had nothing to do.

  As her girth increased, and she became clumsy and lumpish, her temper became uncertain in the extreme. The imperfections of the house, which she had once thought charming, were a constant irritation. Her bedchamber was too poky, the stairs were too steep, and the sitting room too dark.

  Her diet was unsatisfactory, too. ‘I am sick of mutton,’ she complained, as a hash of onions, potatoes and meat was placed before her, for the third day running. ‘Is there never any beef or pork to be had, in this Godforsaken place?’

  ‘The Welsh eat mutton.’ Owen was hungry, and not disposed to quarrel with his victuals, even if these were stodgy and badly dressed. He passed Isabel the pepper. ‘So, Isabel — if you are to live in Wales, you must learn to like it too.’

  Isabel scowled at him. Dropping her knife and fork on her plate, she called for some cheese and celery, instead. Then, having chewed a stalk or two, and rejected the cheese as maggotty, she announced she was going for a walk.

  * * * *

  But, whenever she went outside to take a breath of fresh air, she was never able to find any. Up on the mountainside or down in the valley, it made no difference. There were smuts, smoke and dust everywhere.

  Passing to and from the ironworks, the workmen and their sluttish wives stared at her. They never spoke, but merely nodded and grinned, like the simpletons they were. Not understanding their outlandish language, Isabel had no intention whatsoever of learning it, so it annoyed her extremely that Owen himself would jabber away to anybody and everybody in a tongue as foreign to Isabel as Ancient Greek. But his offer to teach her some Welsh was rejected with scorn.

  ‘You could go on a visit my uncle, if you like.’ Owen had had a busy day at work, and expected an even busier one tomorrow. A third furnace had been built and was to be put into blast, a new steam engine was to be installed, so he was as excited as a child with a new toy. ‘It's a long round trip, I agree. But you could stay overnight, couldn't you? If you spent a day or two in Cardiff, you could look out some linen for the child.’

  ‘There's none to be had in Cardiff,’ retorted Isabel, crossly. ‘I shall have to send to Manchester for all that.’

  ‘Then, sit and chat with my uncle.’

  ‘Your uncle!’ Isabel snorted her disdain. ‘Who in her right mind would wish to spend even an hour in the company of that foolish old man?’

  * * * *

  When Owen came home the following evening, grubby and tired but triumphant, Isabel's mood had not improved. ‘You look like an artisan in that filthy coat,’ she grumbled. ‘You smell quite disgusting. I hate the stink of engine oil and coal dust, and you reek of both.’

  ‘I'll go and wash, then.’ Owen was happy tonight. The new engine was working perfectly, the processes were on song, and since the war in Europe had intensified, orders were flooding in. ‘I'll do it now, while you make tea.’

  ‘Pray do.’ Isabel glared at him. ‘Whatever his faults, Rayner at least always looked the gentleman.’

  All that evening, it was the same. Prodding and goading, sneering and provoking, Isabel longed for a quarrel, but Owen was too tired to oblige her. She was still grumbling when he fell asleep in his chair.

  The following day, she was sullen from dawn to dusk. That evening, she wanted sex.

  ‘I do love you,’ mumbled Owen, as he turned over and attempted to go to sleep. ‘But I worry that we might hurt the child.’ He yawned. ‘Oh, darling! Let me sleep! I'm so tired tonight.’

  ‘Tired,’ pouted Isabel. Spitefully, she pinched his arm. ‘You cruel, unfeeling brute. What you mean is, you're tired of me.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Owen closed his eyes. But now, he found he was thinking of Jane. Dear Jane! The kind of woman a man would always be glad to come home to. The tranquil, soft– voiced creature any sensible man would be delighted to call wife.

  ‘You're thinking of her again.’ Isabel's rather shrill, sharp voice cut like a blade, right into the dream. ‘You're remembering your virgin nun.’

  Owen knew this was a guess — that she could not see into his heart or his mind — but still he started, a guilty thing surprised. ‘Don't, Isabel,’ he muttered. ‘You give me a headache when you go on so.’

  * * * *r />
  ‘I hate this place.’ It was breakfast time. Isabel had made tea, but she had forgotten to warm the pot, the water had not boiled, so now she passed Owen a scummy cupful of weak, greyish broth. ‘It's so poky,’ she grumbled. ‘So drab. When I remember my own house, how light and airy it was — ’

  On and on she went, and she was still complaining when Owen left for work.

  He returned home very tired. Having spent much of that day in the heat and dust of the casthouse, his head already ached, and when Isabel began to memorialise her fine linen sheets, her beautiful gowns, and her little lap dogs who would certainly be pining for their mistress, he found he could bear it no longer. ‘Why don't you go back to Warwickshire, then?’ he cried.

  ‘What?’ Startled, Isabel stalled in mid–grizzle. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard me.’ Owen closed his tired eyes. ‘Beg Rayner to have you back. Ask him to overlook the awkward fact that you're big with another man's child. There's a more than even chance he might.’

  ‘But Owen, I — ’

  ‘He's been schooled from childhood in the art of turning the other cheek. Of forgiving those who trespass against him. If you grovel enough, he might take you in.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ Her eyes wide, Isabel stared at him. ‘Do you actually — ’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Deliberately misunderstanding her, Owen ploughed on. ‘Rayner's not a vindictive man. So, if you abase yourself, if you lie in the dust and lick his boots, he'll probably raise you up and forgive you everything.’

  ‘Owen, do you honestly wish me to go back to Rayner?’

  ‘Do you wish it?’

  ‘Sometimes, I think I do.’ Isabel was sniffing hard. ‘When you haven't spoken to me properly for days together, when I long and long for some pleasant conversation, I do. Whatever his failings, Rayner was always sociable. He loved to chat.’

  ‘Well, I am an only child. My parents died when I was very young. I have spent long periods of my life in my own company, so it's only natural that I should be somewhat self–absorbed.’

  ‘I think you've grown to hate me.’

  ‘I've grown to hate the fact that you can be so tiresome!’ Owen was angry. Why couldn't Isabel leave him alone? Why did she need to be entertained all the time, night and day?

  For, there was more than an element of truth in what she said. He didn't actually hate her, he couldn't hate poor Isabel — but she did annoy him. Also, he didn't desire her. Not any more, not while she was so fat and ungainly, with the blue veins standing proud on her legs, her ankles swollen, and her once beautiful bosom bloated and heavy as lead.

  ‘He might take me,’ she was saying now. Miserably, she sniffed. ‘After all — there's a chance this could be Rayner's child.’

  ‘What?’ Owen came out of his reverie with a start. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, this baby could be Rayner's.’

  ‘Oh? But you told me he — ’

  ‘He was a boring, disagreeable lover. He gave me no pleasure in bed. But he was not incapable.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘What a mess it all is.’ Awkwardly, Isabel rose from the sofa. Collecting the tea things together, she sighed. ‘Do you still love her?’

  ‘I — ’

  ‘Of course you do. You think of her constantly. You even dream of her. You say her name in your sleep.’

  ‘Isabel, I have known her from a child. I have always loved her.’

  ‘More than you love me?’

  ‘Oh, Isabel!’

  ‘Answer me!’

  ‘I love her face. Her voice. Her manner. I love her quiet serenity, and I love her grace. Wherever she is, there is also peace.’

  ‘But where I am, there is discord.’

  ‘Those last words were yours, not mine.’ Owen met Isabel's great, green eyes. ‘You know I love you!’ he cried. ‘That I will always look after you. Yet you cannot leave me alone. You will not let me rest. Sometimes, Isabel, it's as if you want to goad me into saying I hate you. You drive me to distraction!’

  ‘I gave up everything for you.’ Isabel was weeping bitterly. ‘I abandoned my husband, who loved me dearly. For your sake, I became an outcast. A wanderer on the face of the earth.’

  ‘You're being perfectly ridiculous now.’

  ‘I offer you everything, and all I want in return is a little affection.’ Isabel went to stand beside him. She stroked his shoulder, then slid her hand inside his shirt. ‘Owen?’ she whispered.

  But Owen was not moved. Early the following morning, he had to see Mr Atkins. He would need a clear head if he was to talk business. Isabel, on the other hand, never left her bed until well past noon. ‘I'm going to bed now,’ he said. ‘I don't wish to disturb you with my muttering, so I shall sleep in the small dressing room.’

  ‘Then you turn your back on me? I am carrying your child. I need your company, yet you — ’

  ‘You told me yourself that the child might be Rayner's. Go to him, tell him so. Just think, Isabel. That boy could be the heir to half of Warwickshire.’

  ‘You're so cruel!’ Isabel clutched at the back of a chair. She swayed, then she fainted, and Owen was obliged to call her maid.

  Chapter 12

  ‘Please, Owen! Don't go!’

  ‘Isabel, I'm not needed here. I'm only getting in my uncle's way.’

  ‘But I'm so frightened!’ Isabel grabbed at Owen's hand. Pincer–like, her fingers dug into his flesh. So he was obliged to stay, although while the examination went on, he studiously looked the other way.

  * * * *

  When Isabel had fainted, Owen and her maid had sat her up, wafted her smelling salts under her nose, and waited patiently for her to come round. Then they'd put her to bed. Thinking it best to remain with her that night, Owen had lain down beside her, only to be woken at two in the morning by a woman convinced she was in labour.

  She wanted David Morgan now. Although she had previously dismissed him as a foolish old man, she both liked and trusted him, and had more or less obliged him to agree to be her midwife, when the time came.

  So, duly sent for, he came. Roused from his sleep by a boy on a donkey, he got up, dressed himself, then rode for miles along bad roads and across pathless heathland, reflecting that it was just as well the moon was bright.

  Concluding his examination of Isabel, he rolled down his shirt sleeves and reached for his coat. ‘Cover her now,’ he told Isabel's maid. ‘Make sure she's warm, and try to keep her quiet.’ He turned to his nephew, who stood sullen and awkward, as near to the door as he could possibly contrive to be. ‘Come downstairs,’ he said.

  David led Owen into the parlour. As they entered that cosy little room, the Dutch clock on the dresser was striking seven, and Owen picked up his jacket. ‘I must go,’ he began. ‘The men will be expecting me early today. We're taking delivery of — ’

  ‘Sit down.’ As he spoke, David himself sat down. Rummaging in his pocket for a notebook and pencil, he wrote out a prescription. ‘Have the housemaid make up a quart of this, in the proportions I've specified. It should calm her, at any rate.’

  ‘I sincerely hope it will.’

  ‘Do you?’ Glancing up at his nephew, David frowned. ‘You young fool,’ he muttered. ‘Don't you know anything?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Offended, Owen glared. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘Isabel,’ said David carefully, ‘is a woman.’

  ‘Yes, I had noticed.’

  ‘Don't be saucy with me, boy!’ But then, sighing, David folded his arms. ‘Women,’ he began, ‘pregnant women especially, are not like you or I. Poor things, even the best of them are blind to reason. Deaf to common sense. Sometimes, I think the Almighty was laughing in his sleeve when he created our mother Eve. He enjoys the joke still.

  ‘So, women cannot help their God–given natures. They must be hysterical. Do you understand me? The very word means pertaining to the womb — which, as even you must know, is the source of all the rid
iculous fancies and foolish notions every woman entertains.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Owen yawned. He hadn't time to listen to this apothecary's cant. ‘Mr Atkins will be waiting for me,’ he muttered. ‘I must — ’

  But David caught his wrist, and held him. ‘Isabel is near her time,’ he continued. ‘Her womb is stretched almost to bursting, and releasing evil humours into every part of her body. It's no wonder she's fidgety as a cat on a stove! Starting at her own shadow. Raging like a wounded tigress about nothing at all. So — ’

  ‘So I must let her abuse me? Sit patient and forbearing while she shrieks and scolds and calls me a brute?’

  ‘While she's with child, you must. Be compliant. For, after childbirth, you will see the flow of hysterical humours abate. The limited powers of understanding God gave her poor sex will be restored.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that.’ Sulkily, Owen shrugged. ‘I do try to be kind,’ he muttered, ‘even when she's being unpleasant to me. What more can she expect?’

  ‘You must be kinder still. Give her whatever she wants — within reason, that is.’ Ruefully, David smiled. ‘Do you take my meaning? It will be worth your while, believe you me. Afterwards, she'll be so docile and biddable that you won't even recognise the harridan who spoiled your comfort at dinner time.’

  ‘Oh.’ Owen sniffed. ‘Is there anything else?’ he enquired, sarcastically.

  ‘Don't argue with her. In her condition, it's a waste of breath. So, if she wants to abuse you, let her rant.’ David picked up his hat. ‘I would guess it will be another ten days or so. No more. I'll come back next week, and see how she goes on.’

  * * * *

  Isabel accepted the sleeping draught. After drinking it down, she fell into a deep slumber, and stayed in bed for the rest of the day. Curiously enough, but perhaps because she was quiet and rested, when Owen himself went to bed he found he did desire her.

  David had been right. Afterwards, she was calm and placid. Grateful, even. She kissed him and said she loved him dearly. That night, her labour began.

  There was no time to summon David, so a woman from nearby Cwm Mawr was called in, instead. Clean, efficient and knowledgeable, she calmly coached a terrified Isabel through an ordeal during which her patient screamed and howled and cursed her Creator to the ends of the earth, crying out that she wanted to die.