The Ash Grove

by Margaret James

  ‘Never again,’ wept Isabel, as her daughter came into the world, as the midwife cleaned her up and muttered to the lady's maid that she'd never known such a carry–on. Never, in all her born days. This birth had been an easy one!

  * * * *

  ‘She has your eyes.’ Later in the day, Isabel had become calmer. Taking the baby from its cradle, she held her daughter close. ‘Dear Owen, do look! They're yours absolutely. In colour, shape, and set! Isn't it astonishing?’

  ‘Astonishing,’ Owen agreed, privately reflecting that this child was most certainly a Darrow. From which side of the family, however, he would not care to speculate.

  But at least Isabel was happy now. ‘Look at her little hands,’ she was murmuring, as she counted the fingers, and examined each tiny pink pearl from one to ten. ‘She's perfect.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Owen smiled. He stroked the baby's cheek. The great rush of protective love which he felt for this tiny, helpless scrap of humanity had taken him completely unawares.

  When Isabel's milk came in, she neither groaned nor complained, nor did she demand that the midwife bind her breasts in order that they might not stretch or sag. Instead, she bore the discomfort with cheerful fortitude. ‘Of course I shall feed her,’ she insisted, as she and her daughter tried to get the hang of the thing. ‘It's becoming quite the fashion nowadays.’

  ‘Oh, well. If it's the fashion!’ Owen ruffled her hair. He glanced at the baby. ‘She seems to know what to do, at any rate.’

  A girl from the village in the valley came in to help with the baby. Having eight brothers and sisters of her own, she was quietly expert at changing linen and cleaning up mess. In fact, she understood all those mysteries which a fine lady like Isabel could not possibly be expected to comprehend.

  Invited to visit and stand godfather, David took his niece in his arms and talked to her. ‘Of course she's beautiful!’ he murmured. ‘What do you say, my precious? Oh, certainly! Of course you're clever. Charming, too.’

  Then he glanced towards the child's parents. ‘What will you call her?’ he enquired.

  ‘Honor.’ Owen shrugged. ‘It's Isabel's choice. I favoured Sarah. Or Elizabeth.’

  ‘We'll have her baptised Honor Elizabeth, then.’ Complacently, Isabel smiled. ‘Will you stay a week longer?’ she asked David. ‘It's so comfortable and pleasant, when you are here.’

  * * * *

  It was as well David did stay. A slight fever, which Isabel had been running for a day or two, worsened that night. Soon, the new mother lay delirious, by turns burning hot, then freezing cold, and totally incoherent all the time.

  ‘Don't despair.’ Mixing a cordial, which he would then try to dribble down his patient's parched throat, David gave Owen's hand a comforting squeeze. ‘She'll get the better of this, I'm sure. So don't you make yourself ill, fretting needlessly.’

  ‘What shall we do about Honor?’

  ‘Find her a nurse, of course. That's something you could see to now.’

  So, a wet nurse was duly found, and Honor was properly nourished. Soon she became so chubby that Owen called her his little air balloon, insisting that if a careless pin pricked her, she would pop.

  Isabel, on the other hand, was now painfully thin. Recovering from the fever, she remained so pale and transparent that Owen still feared for her life. ‘I think we should send for her mother,’ he said, as he and David sat at supper together that evening. ‘I shall write to Mrs Graham tonight.’

  ‘Well, child — as you think best.’ David sighed. ‘But do you imagine her mother will come?’

  ‘She might.’ Owen shrugged. ‘Mr Graham is hard and unfeeling, it's true. But his wife is neither unforgiving nor unkind. She would wish to see her child and grand– daughter, I'm sure.’

  * * * *

  Mrs Graham came. On her arrival, she went straight upstairs to Isabel's room. When she came down again, Owen understood that she had forgiven her daughter unconditionally. She had probably done so long ago. As far as her husband was concerned, his erring child was dead and buried. But to her mother, the daughter was as dear as ever she'd been.

  ‘You should take her away from this place.’ Sitting down to dinner with Owen and his uncle, Mrs Graham looked from one to the other. ‘The air here is so foul, and the situation so unhealthy, that I fear for Isabel's safety if she remains here indefinitely.’

  ‘Could you leave the works to its own devices for a month or so?’ asked David. For he agreed with Mrs Graham. ‘I know your livelihood is here, but Isabel is surely more precious to you than cold castings and insensate iron bars?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’ Owen nodded. ‘I'll take her to Brighton,’ he declared. ‘She would like that.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Mrs Graham brightened visibly. ‘There, she will breathe pure air. Feel a clean breeze against her cheeks. A little sea bathing would set her up for ever, I'm certain of it.’

  * * * *

  Owen found he liked Isabel's mother. ‘Will it be difficult for you, going home?’ he asked, as they strolled through the scrubby little garden surrounding the house, one Sunday morning in late June.

  ‘My husband thinks I am in Bristol, visiting friends.’ Mrs Graham sighed. ‘Well, of course he thinks nothing of the kind. But this is the fiction with which I chose to present him, and which he chose to accept.’

  ‘I see. Forgive me for asking, but is Mr Graham a kind husband to you?’

  ‘Kind enough.’ Sighing again, Mrs Graham shook her head. ‘Mr Morgan, I was born into a relatively impoverished family. My father worked hard, but he was on the whole unsuccessful in life. He died a bankrupt, and was buried in a pauper's grave.

  ‘Poor white trash — that's what I was called by Richmond society, when Mr Samuel Heathcote Graham's son took a fancy to me, and married me in defiance of both his family and his friends.’

  ‘But you were happy together?’

  ‘Yes, at first. You see, I was a strong, healthy creature then. Confident I could produce any number of fine, strapping sons. But after Isabel was born, I became very ill. The doctor told my husband that there could be no more children. That if he valued me at all, we should sleep apart for the rest of our days.

  ‘I have no fortune, talents or skills of my own. So, if my husband were to cast me out, where would I go? Abandoned by him, I would simply walk the streets until I found a convenient gutter in which to starve.’

  * * * *

  Compared with the dirt and squalor of industrial Wales, Sussex was the Garden of Eden. A paradise on earth. Brighton itself was perfectly beautiful. Clean, white, impossibly elegant architecture delighted the eye. The sun sparkled on the playful blue waves, and the pretty gardens which stretched all along the sea front invited the visitor to linger and inspect at leisure.

  Growing stronger every day, Isabel was happy there. Her baby was contented and thriving. A little sea bathing, together with daily visits to the warm brine bath, had done the new mother a world of good. Her lodgings, situated in the most fashionable part of town, were comfortable, spacious and clean.

  Every day, the little family walked on the Steyne, where they watched detachments of Guards in scarlet uniforms on elaborate manoeuvres, or smartly parading up and down. Observing these casually elegant displays of military might – mere playing at toy soldiers, or so it seemed to the untutored eye — no one would have guessed that just across the Channel lay a great army, patiently waiting to invade. To subdue the island race for ever.

  But then again, there was no real cause for anxiety – for, as every red–blooded Englishman was well aware, he was the equal of at least fifty foreigners, who were all cringing, frog–eating, Papist slaves.

  Isabel loved driving, so every other day Owen hired a barouche or a chaise, then took her and Honor for a ride along the strand, or across the Downs.

  ‘Do you ever wish you had gone for a soldier?’ enquired Isabel one fine morning, as she and her little family bowled along in a smart, new barouche, letting the sun kiss their fa
ces and the wind tangle their hair. ‘Do you see yourself in a scarlet coat, with epaulettes of gold?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Driving past a military encampment, where serried rows of tents stretched into the distance for as far as the eye could see, Owen shook his head. ‘I'm a coward,’ he explained. ‘Those brave fellows yonder laugh at sword–thrusts. They go into battle with their heads held high, and bear their injuries with a fortitude I could never summon to my aid! You see, I don't like pain.’

  * * * *

  Owen and his family arrived back in South Wales relaxed and contented, well pleased with the world and one another. Owen had benefited from a much–needed rest, and Honor had enjoyed having the undivided attention of two people instead of just one. Isabel had gained some weight, her face had recovered its peachy bloom, so when she looked in a glass she could remark with satisfaction that she was, once again, a very beautiful woman.

  She was a happy woman, too. Looking round the little house, which she could see would not seem half so poky if redecorated in plain, pale colours, Isabel declared her intention of putting the past firmly behind her. From now on, she would be a model wife and perfect mother. She would learn to bake, brew and darn stockings, she would keep poultry, and she would salt her own pork, beef and bacon. She would love and care for Honor and Owen for the rest of their days.

  Owen was both relieved and a little annoyed to learn that in his absence the furnaces had been in blast, the foundry on song and everything else on full steam ahead — that while he was away his workers had, on the whole, got on quite well, without either his guiding hand or his pastoral care.

  But there was bound to be a pile of correspondence in his little office, which would certainly be needing his attention — so he left Isabel unpacking while he walked over to the counting house. There, he found his clerks had dealt with all routine enquiries and orders, but there were still a few matters outstanding which needed his personal yea or nay.

  ‘Now then, Mr Morgan, I'm sorry about this,’ began his chief clerk, as he laid a sheaf of papers requiring his signature upon his master's desk. ‘Since this was directed to the works, we opened it. But when I came to glance over it later, I discovered it was a private letter to you.’

  ‘No matter, Henry.’ Owen took the letter in question from his clerk's hesitant hand.

  As he looked at it, he felt hot, then cold, then hot again. Indeed, he thought he might faint away. For, the handwriting was so familiar, and the consequent associations so dear, that his heart contracted at the sight of it.

  * * * *

  ‘What is it?’ asked Isabel, gently. For Owen had returned from the foundry not bright–eyed and garrulous, as she'd expected, but silent and abstracted. Indeed, he seemed to be on the very edge of tears. ‘Owen, my dear?’

  He handed her the letter. ‘It's from Warwickshire,’ he said.

  ‘Is it bad news?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘Very well. Let me sit down. Then I'll read.’

  ‘My dear Owen,’ began Jane. ‘You will, I am sure, wish to be informed of a melancholy event which took place here recently, for it concerns one of your nearest relations – although not one dear to you.

  ‘On Friday evening last, my father was taken ill, with chest pains and breathing difficulties. For three days he insisted that at his age, such little indispositions were only to be expected. That these symptoms meant nothing, and would soon pass.

  ‘On Tuesday he was no better, however, so I called in his physician. He prescribed drops, blisters and hourly cupping. But by then, the illness had taken a firm hold on your uncle's constitution. On Thursday morning, he died.

  ‘I have lost the best friend I ever had, or expect to have, in the whole of this wide world. I fear my grief is insupportable. I doubt my tears will ever cease to flow. Indeed, I am so desolate that I think my heart must break.

  ‘My dearest cousin, I have known you from a little child. You have a kind heart and your nature is generosity itself. Nowadays, you have many claims upon your charity. But, all the same, I hope you will find some time to think of me, and remember me when you pray.’

  She signed herself Eleanor Jane Darrow. Merely that. Looking at his cousin's signature, Owen realised he had never known Jane was actually her second name.

  He felt sick with misery. To receive such a letter containing such news was bad enough. But the gentle tone of the writer, innocent of all reproach or bitterness, somehow made it worse.

  He wanted so much to go to her! To kiss and comfort her, to hold her in his arms and shut out all the world. But then, he remembered, she had her sister and brother to keep her company. In fact, she would be surrounded by kind people who all loved her dearly. She would hardly miss him.

  ‘Do you wish to go and see her?’ asked Isabel, who just recently could often read his mind.

  ‘If I did, would you be upset?’

  ‘I should not be very happy about it. But I understand that it is something you might need to do.’

  ‘Yes.’ Owen looked at her. She held his daughter in her arms. Poor Isabel, he thought, she had no one but the baby and himself. He knew he could not go to Warwickshire.

  * * * *

  Owen tried to put the whole business out of his mind. Determinedly cheerful, he kept himself busy. He threw himself into the further development and expansion of the ironworks. He played with the baby, and strove manfully to be a kind, affectionate husband to Isabel.

  But his heart was not in South Wales. Three days after he'd received it, Isabel found the letter under his pillow. Stained with tears, it had obviously been read and re–read, then read again.

  Sensibly, she left it where she'd found it, and never mentioned it to Owen at all. Instead, she tried to be a perfect mother and a good wife. For these days, she understood just how much Owen had given up, for her sake.

  Chapter 13

  That autumn of 1813 faded into winter. The year turned. Soon enough, the snow and sleet of January and February gave place to milder weather conditions, and the greys and browns of winter were gradually replaced by the fresh greens of early spring.

  One sunny Friday morning in March, as he and she walked in the knot garden at Easton Hall, Rayner looked at his elder sister critically. He did not like what he saw. She looked so tired! Pale, listless and wan, she wore her weariness like a garment, a heavy, shapeless shroud of dull, black worsted, which weighed her down, and made her every step drag almost painfully.

  But she refused to rest, saying she wanted — indeed, needed — to be kept busy. Rayner feared that far from merely keeping busy, she was literally wearing herself out.

  For, after the death of her mother, she had virtually taken over the management of the Birmingham factories, going into town three days a week to speak to their managers, to discuss new projects, and to find yet more ways to increase profitability.

  After her father died, however, she began to spend six days a week there, breathing in the smoke and fumes of the great industrial city, and suffering its extremes of heat and cold, its near–deafening clangor by day, and its lonely silence in the watches of the night. Rayner feared for her health, and said so.

  She heard him patiently, then shook her head. ‘Don't ask me to slow down,’ she said. ‘I must keep myself occupied.’

  ‘All the same, you could take some time off. You might enjoy just a little recreation, now and then.’

  ‘No.’ Jane turned away. ‘If I'm idle, I start thinking. If I think too much, I fear I may run mad.’

  ‘Did you ever write to him?’ enquired Rayner a few days later, as he and Jane sat together in the dining room at Easton Hall, lingering over a gloomy supper, and all alone save for one other.

  ‘Yes.’ Jane shrugged. ‘I scribbled a short note.’

  ‘How did you know where to direct it?’

  ‘Mrs Graham's maid mentioned to my Sarah that her mistress had been to visit them. After Isabel was confined, you understand, she became very ill. Owen sent for h
er mother. I simply asked Mrs Graham where they lived.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But that reminds me. My dear Rayner, I've been meaning to ask you this for a long time. Now you are Squire of Easton, where do you intend to live?’

  ‘I don't really know.’ Looking up from his cheese and fruit, Rayner let his gaze wander all around the dark, panelled dining room. Lit by at least three dozen large, white candles, it still seemed dismal, and gravely forbidding. ‘I haven't thought about it much.’

  He reached for his sister's hand. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Do you wish to stay here at Easton Hall? Or would you consider coming to live in my house, to keep me company?’

  ‘I think I should prefer to stay here. For the time being, anyway. If you don't mind.’

  ‘Stay as long as you please. Look — if you wish, I'll make the old barn over to you. Lock, stock and barrel. How about that?’

  ‘You are the squire, Rayner!’ The reproach in Jane's voice was gentle, but unmistakeable. ‘Surely, your place is here?’

  Perhaps. But, as he rode home through the damp twilight, Rayner decided there was no way he could go back to live in that old mausoleum. Even to oblige his beloved sister Jane. He had never liked Easton Hall, which was an old–fashioned, Tudor manor house not at all to his modern taste.

  After a disastrous fire, it had been rebuilt using up–to–date methods of construction and draughtproofing, but it was still a gloomy place, full of shadows and ghosts. So, although it was admittedly much warmer in winter than many a newer house, Rayner had long since decided he preferred his own home, with its large windows, light and airy rooms, and lofty plastered ceilings, which reflected rather than absorbed the candle light.

  * * * *

  ‘Rayner? What's the matter?’ asked Jane. It was Lady Day, the beginning of the financial and legal year, and she had called on her brother expressly, to seek his permission to buy a piece of land adjacent to one of the factories. Here, she thought, they might build some houses for the foremen and their families. ‘I know we will need to mortgage a farm,’ she'd continued. ‘But when I spoke to Mr Harris about it, he told me that would be a small price to pay. These days, land in Birmingham doubles in value every couple of months. The time to buy is now.’