The Ash Grove

by Margaret James

  * * * *

  As Jane lay in bed that soft summer evening, with Blanchette snuggled under the counterpane snuffling and snorting contentedly, she thought about what her brother had said.

  Of course, Rayner was being both presumptuous and precipitate. He was meddling where he had no business either to give his opinions, or to interfere.

  But — she did like Mr Atkins! He was polite, he was pleasant, he was generous, he was kind. The more she thought about him, the more she was inclined to prefer him to almost any young, foolish, necessarily fickle man. She looked foward to Wednesday quite composedly.

  As it turned out, however, she did not have to wait anything like that long before she saw Mr Atkins. For at eleven the following morning, he waited on Mr Lloyd again.

  Mr Lloyd took the card from the salver, and sighed. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Darrow,’ he said, getting up from the breakfast table, where he had been tarrying with his guest. ‘I interrupt our conversation with the greatest regret, of that you may be sure. But as you see, duty calls. Duty calls!’

  The old man shuffled out of the breakfast room. Shrugging on his coat, he began to make his way to his office at the back of the house. Half way there, he came across Jane, who had breakfasted in her bedchamber and was now in the drawing room, playing with Blanchette. ‘My dear young lady!’ The Welshman's face creased into a smile.

  But then, suddenly, his eyes filled with tears. Rummaging for his pocket handkerchief, he applied it to his wrinkled cheeks. ‘My dear Miss Darrow,’ he murmured, ‘do please pardon me! But for just one moment, I thought I saw your poor mother, standing there.’

  ‘I'm told I much resemble her.’ Concerned for him, Jane crossed the room. ‘Mr Lloyd?’ she went on, anxiously. ‘Are you not well?’

  ‘I need a moment or two to compose myself, that's all. I shall be quite better by and by.’ Mr Lloyd glanced at the little dog. ‘You have a charming playmate there,’ he observed.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Her mother's master comes here on business today.’ Mr Lloyd blew his nose hard. Then he put his handkerchief away. ‘Miss Darrow, correct me if I'm mistaken — but since your dear mother died, I understand that you have directed the affairs of your family's factories and warehouses in Birmingham?’

  ‘Yes, that's right. My brother, you see, has so many cares and duties on the estate, that I felt it only proper I should assist him, where and whenever I could.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so.’ Mr Lloyd nodded wisely. ‘Well, now,’ he continued, ‘I have an idea. Since you are a knowledgeable young lady, I wonder if you might like to take an improving jaunt this morning? Mr Atkins and I go to Abersychan, to look over a small ironworks there, which we think may be able to supply us both with a particular type of machine tool. Should you be interested in coming with us?’

  Jane blushed scarlet. For some unaccountable reason, the mere mention of the name had brought the hot blood rushing to her cheeks. Her heart beat frantically against her ribs, and her breathing grew harsh. Mr Atkins was going to Abersychan with Mr Lloyd, and she was invited, too. She liked the idea more than anything!

  ‘May Blanchette come with us?’ she enquired, desperately trying to sound as if it were all the same to her, whether she went or not. ‘She is so little, you see, and so recently parted from her mother, that I hate the thought of leaving her alone. So if she would be an inconvenience, I feel I must decline — ’

  ‘But of course! Bring the dear creature, by all means.’ Mr Lloyd grinned. ‘I shall go and fetch our travelling companion. Who, I am sure, will be delighted to welcome two such charming additions to our party today!’

  * * * *

  The outing to Abersychan was a great success. The mild summer weather made travelling pleasant, and Jane's companions were unreservedly agreeable, including her in every conversation and constantly asking her opinions on almost everything. They were so kind to her, in fact, that she felt that this morning she was being treated by two favourite uncles, on some kind of special day.

  Except that she did not wish to think of Mr Atkins as an uncle. Not at all. She blushed again as she realised she would have liked the relationship to be very much closer than that...

  ‘I see you are a connoisseur, Miss Darrow,’ smiled Mr Atkins, as the party bowled home again, their inspection completed and orders duly placed. Still smiling, he shook his head. ‘I never thought to meet any young lady with an interest in the metal trades. Let alone one with so much good sense, and complete familiarity with everything!’

  ‘No, indeed.’ Evan Lloyd nodded sagely. ‘But then, my dear sir, you never met this young lady's mother. Beauty, native wit, a vastly improved understanding — all were there, in one charming person combined.’

  ‘I cannot believe any woman could be more charming or quick–witted than Miss Darrow here,’ observed Mr Atkins, chivalrously.

  ‘Well, Miss Darrow does her mother credit, I agree.’ Sniffing, Mr Lloyd dabbed his eyes. ‘But Mrs Darrow, sir — there was a woman! A creature so wonderful, so astonishing, that the unicorn itself is not more rare.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mr Atkins continued to smile at Jane. ‘I suspect, Evan, that you were more than a little in love with the late Mrs Darrow.’

  ‘You think so?’ Evan Lloyd shrugged. ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed.

  ‘Poor fellow.’ Patting the old man's shoulder, Mr Atkins clucked in sympathy. ‘But now,’ he declared, ‘we must be of good cheer. We have Mrs Darrow's lovely daughter here today, and it's disrespectful to her to be sad.’

  * * * *

  When Mr Atkins took his leave of Jane and Mr Lloyd, he once more held her hand for much longer than he needed to. Jane thought — indeed, wished — he might raise it to his lips. But then, she reflected, he was far too polite, too much the gentleman born and bred, even to think of taking any liberties like that.

  All the same, the sparkle in his light blue eyes, and the smile which touched the corners of his well–shaped mouth whenever he chanced to look at her, assured Jane that he continued to find her highly interesting. He thought her company just as delightful as she found his.

  ‘Do you ride, Miss Darrow?’ he enquired, as he mounted his own black mare, and took the whip from the stable boy's hand.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Jane smiled up at him. ‘At home, I have my own sorrel gelding. I also keep a little grey pony, of whom I am extremely fond.’

  ‘I have such a creature in my stables just now!’ Mr Atkins returned Jane's smile, but with interest. ‘If you like, I could have the boy bring both the grey, and a horse for your brother, over here tomorrow. Then you and Mr Darrow could explore the countryside round about, while we old men pore over our ledgers and cast up accounts.’

  ‘That's very kind.’ Jane blushed. ‘But I couldn't possibly think of troubling you — ’

  ‘It's no trouble!’ Mr Atkins positively beamed. ‘It would be my pleasure, to provide some for you. Might eight o'clock be about the time you would wish to begin?’

  ‘That would be splendid.’ Jane shook her head. Eight o'clock! Rayner never willingly left his bed until well past ten.

  * * * *

  The grey pony turned out to be a pretty, docile little thing, exactly suited in both size and temperament to be a lady's mount. As she stepped lightly off the block, Jane noticed a scrap of paper tucked behind the bridle. Intrigued, she twisted it out.

  ‘My dear Miss Darrow,’ ran the note, ‘I hope you will have the most pleasant day out on Perdita here. She is quiet and gentle, very sweet–natured — but also, I'm afraid, rather prone to shy. Do have a care of that. I should hate you to take a tumble on my account!

  ‘Rest assured, my dear young lady, that I look forward to seeing you here this Wednesday afternoon most impatiently. In the meantime, please accept my very best wishes and respects.

  ‘Michael Atkins.’

  ‘What's that?’ demanded Rayner, observing his sister smile, and begin to read her letter all over again.

  ‘A note from Mr Atki
ns.’ Jane passed it across to him. ‘Do you wish to see?’

  ‘My dear sister, far be it from me to spy upon your intrigues, or demand to inspect your billets doux.’ Rayner grinned. ‘Upon my soul — you have made the most tremendous conquest there!’

  ‘My dear Rayner, how can you be so foolish?’

  ‘My dearest Jane, how can you be so false and coy?’ Rayner's grin broadened. ‘You like the man excessively. Don't deny it! Whenever his name is mentioned, you blush. As you read his memorandum just now, your cheeks seemed to catch fire. So don't pretend with me!’

  In response, Jane touched her pony's flank and moved off smartly, leaving Rayner to smirk and cackle all by himself.

  * * * *

  Mr Lloyd always insisted on punctuality, so the dinner guests arrived at Mr Atkins's house with time to spare.

  Jane had dressed very carefully that day. A pale lilac gown, rather low–necked, but modestly embellished with a mauve silk scarf, flattered her pale skin and set off her fair hair to perfection. The short sleeves showed off her slender arms, the tight bodice lifted her breasts, and the softly–draped silk of the skirt lent grace to her every movement.

  Mr Lloyd told her she looked quite lovely. ‘I'm sure our host will think so too,’ he added slyly, as he bent to pat Blanchette, thus considerately sparing the lady's blush.

  On arrival, the host presented Jane with an armful of flowers and a pretty, tooled leather collar for Blanchette. Then he invited her to stroll in the garden, pointedly observing to Rayner and Mr Lloyd that they would find a bottle of very fine madeira in the study, where it awaited their appraisal most anxiously.

  Rayner was about to demurr, to insist that he would prefer a stroll in the garden to anything. But then, catching Michael Atkins's eye, he saw such a steely, determined glint there that he understood all argument would be a waste of time. There seemed nothing for it but to do as the master said.

  ‘Where did you live before you came to Pontypool?’ asked Jane, as she and her host walked among the apple trees in the little orchard close by the house.

  ‘In the Vale,’ Mr Atkins replied. ‘I managed a tin plate works near Cefn Llywd, and also owned a part share in an ironworks there.’

  ‘But you did not always live in Glamorganshire?’

  ‘No, indeed.’ Offering Jane his arm, Michael Atkins smiled. ‘As I think I may have mentioned once before, my childhood home is near Swansea. At Oxwich, to be precise, on Gower.

  ‘It's a pleasant old house, on a headland. It overlooks hanging woods in one direction, and the wide open sea to the other side. A distant cousin keeps house for me there, and I myself visit every summer. If I can find the time, I also take parties of friends down for shooting or hunting, at other seasons of the year.’

  ‘It sounds most delightful,’ murmured Jane.

  ‘It is,’ Mr Atkins agreed. ‘Miss Darrow, do you mean to see much of South Wales?’

  ‘Alas, no. My brother intends to cross the Severn at Newport, then explore Somerset and Devon.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Sighing, Mr Atkins shook his head. Indeed, he looked so hangdog and disappointed that Jane felt wretched.

  How could she make him smile again? Almost without thinking, she increased the pressure of her hand on his arm. Encouragingly, she smiled up at him.

  * * * *

  They went into the house. At a nod from Mr Atkins, dinner was placed on the table. Now, the host lost no time in engaging Jane's brother in conversation.

  Having already consumed the best part of a bottle of madeira, and meaning to get equally well acquainted with the claret, Rayner was relaxed and genial. He was disposed to be chatty, and listen with quiet indulgence to anything his host might have to say. He was even inclined to grant favours. If any were asked...

  ‘I think I shall take some holiday myself shortly,’ observed Mr Atkins, as Rayner remarked that the weather this summer was so fine that he pitied the poor fellows shut up in factories, or labouring down mines. ‘I shall spend a few weeks at my house on Gower. Mr Darrow, I wonder — might you and your sister do me the honour of visiting me there? At Oxwich Bay?’

  ‘That's a rather splendid notion.’ Tipsily, Rayner grinned. ‘When do you intend to set out?’

  ‘Next Monday. But if I am to take a party with me, I should let my people know as soon as possible. Then, suitable rooms can be prepared.’

  ‘To be sure.’ Rayner glanced blearily at Jane. ‘Well, my dear sister?’ he gargled. Imagining he was unobserved by the rest of the company, he actually winked. ‘Should we accept Mr Atkins's kind invitation?’

  ‘I think we must.’ Embarrassed by Rayner's foolish behaviour, Jane blushed. Her cheeks still scarlet, she turned to her host. ‘Mr Atkins, we are most honoured to be invited to your house. We look forward to staying there very much indeed.’

  The guests lingered for the rest of the afternoon, then agreed to sit down to supper, during which Michael Atkins, pretending an astonishing degree of interest in the welfare of Blanchette, remained much too close to Jane.

  He kissed her hand that evening. He took it between his own, held it for a long, long moment — then raised it to his lips. The impression of them remained, an invisible scorch mark on Jane's white skin, long after she, Rayner and Mr Lloyd had taken their leave and driven off into the moonlit summer night.

  * * * *

  From his front step, Michael Atkins watched the carriage lights gleam, then flicker, then fade, then disappear. He strode back into the house. Then, and only then, did he permit himself to laugh out loud. At last, at last, the minnows had swum into his net.

  It had taken so long! First, he had had to bribe and corrupt the right people. To persuade them to sell him the most basic information. It had been exorbitantly expensive even to learn the instigator's name.

  This person had turned out to be not the chairman of the Swansea bench — as might have been expected — but an obscure landowner in the Midland shires.

  Puzzling indeed.

  But still, he had watched and waited. Indeed, he had waited so long that nowadays he hardly expected the opportunity for revenge ever to arise. But now, at last, it had.

  Sitting down at his desk, he poured himself the remainder of the madeira. He reviewed the situation. Well, one thing was perfectly obvious. The man was a fool. Fat, lazy, and stupidly complacent, he both looked and smelled like a woman, and would no doubt squeal like one, too. When the time came.

  His sister had rather more about her. But that was all to the good, for it meant she would prove more entertaining. There was little pleasure to be had in snapping straws or breaking reeds. Jane Darrow, however, seemed to be a strong, deep–rooted sapling of a girl. She would endure much, and suffer long.

  ‘Has she been jilted?’ he wondered, aloud. ‘Or did her lover die?’ For, that gloomy cast of countenance, that dejected droop, seemed to indicate more than mere grieving for her parents. She nursed some deeper, rather more personal sorrow. He was almost sure of that.

  In any case, one thing was perfectly clear. She wanted a man. As he'd looked at her today, as he'd searched her face and seen that blush rise from bosom to temples, he had congratulated himself in earnest. When he'd first met her, she had been buttoned up to the chin, encased in worsted from neck to wrists to ankles. But today, those few yards of taffeta had left so little to the imagination that it was a wonder her brother had allowed her to go out so lightly clad. It was as if the merchandise had been deliberately set out, for the inspection and approval of anyone who might care to buy.

  Michael Atkins shook his head. She might be a landowner's daughter, a well–bred, elegant lady, all of that – but her dilated pupils and the urgent pulse in her neck had told him all he needed to know about Miss Jane Darrow, spinster, of Easton Hall in the county of Warwickshire.

  Getting up, he walked over to the window and gazed down the valley. It was a pity the father was dead, for it was his interference and meddling where he had no business to pry at all that had spoile
d everything.

  No matter. His children could be tormented in his stead. They would come down to Oxwich the following Tuesday. That was time enough to prepare the banquet. To spread the feast.

  Chapter 16

  Owen had taken to carrying Jane's letter everywhere. Creased and folded, it lived like a precious talisman deep in an inside pocket, next to his heart.

  He knew it by heart, too. Down to the last stop and comma, in fact. Also, he had done as she asked. His conversations with his Creator, such as they were, always began and ended with an earnest prayer for Jane's present preservation, and future happiness.

  But, as time went by, he found that praying for her was not enough. Day and night, he thought of her. Time did not heal. Every passing hour of every day, he missed her more and more.

  If Isabel noticed Owen's occasional absent– mindedness and bouts of introspection, she never remarked on them. For, while he had leisure to think and reflect, she was fully occupied, managing her household and raising Honor.

  Her chief concern was that the child should learn to speak pure, fluent English — which seemed increasingly unlikely, when all around her the baby heard nothing but the Celtic tongue. Honor's nursemaid would jabber away in Welsh for hours together, the other servants willingly spoke nothing else, and even Owen hung over the child's crib and called her his cariad, his dear little dwt. The poor infant was in a fair way to growing up a complete barbarian.

  Not that Owen was at home very much these days. If he were not at the ironworks, it was ten to one he was visiting David Morgan at home.

  ‘He loves that foolish old man far more than he ever loved me,’ Isabel told her daughter. Whose response was a steady burble of what sounded suspiciously like the most debased sort of Saxonised Welsh ever heard.

  * * * *

  ‘What's the matter this morning, then?’ demanded the apothecary, who today was carefully blending some expensive essential oils, and who did not particularly want his nephew fidgeting around his shop.

  More than fidgeting. For Owen was tearing up bits of paper, leaves or flowers, picking things up and putting them down again in the wrong places, and generally distracting David from his work. ‘Do you have problems at the foundry?’ he enquired, patiently.