Expecting to be at best ignored, abused — or at worst, physically attacked — Isabel had come home fully prepared to play the meek penitent. She was somewhat disconcerted to find there was no need. On the morning following her arrival, discovering her father still in the breakfast room, she was about to creep away again when he spoke to her. ‘Where is the child?’ he enquired.
‘In the nursery.’ Quaking in her little satin slippers, bravely Isabel met his gaze. ‘M–Mrs Stemp is dressing her now.’
‘When she is ready, bring her to my study.’ Mr Graham sniffed, then snorted, then blew his nose hard. ‘I have something to say to her there.’
In her father's study, Isabel found a parcel addressed to her daughter, containing three dolls, several other baby's toys, and some exquisite embroidered gowns. While Isabel unpacked these gifts, the squire took Honor on his lap, let her pull his whiskers, listen to the tick of his gold watch, and dribble all over his lapels.
Isabel was relieved — of course she was — but as the week wore on she became irritable. Bored. Sitting with her mother in Mrs Graham's little sitting room, there was nothing to do but observe the summer rain slide down the panes. No one came to call. In this house, the servants saw to everything, so there wasn't even any household managing to be done.
Sighing, Isabel rose to her feet and prowled around the room. ‘Mama?’ she hazarded.
Mrs Graham glanced up from her petit point. ‘Yes, my dear?’ she murmured, absently. She'd lost count of her stitches now, and would be obliged to begin her calculations all over again. ‘What is it?’
‘May John Groom take a note to Owen?’
‘Well, my dear — ’
‘Please, Mama!’
‘Mr Morgan is not welcome here. You know that.’
‘I don't propose to invite him!’ Isabel plumped herself down at her mother's elegant rosewood desk. ‘I mean to write to him. Surely I may? Mama, I must have something to do!’
* * * *
Owen scanned Isabel's note, and frowned. Then he stuffed it into his pocket, and sighed.
‘Honor is well, I hope?’ demanded Maria, carefully. ‘Isabel, too?’
‘They're perfectly well, I thank you. But Isabel is bored.’ Moodily, Owen shrugged. ‘She says she has no one to talk to and nothing to do. She looks forward to hearing how I am occupying my time, in this dreary, Godforsaken corner of nowhere.’
‘Poor Isabel. She misses you.’ Maria shook her head. ‘I dare say Honor pines for you, too.’
‘What can I do about that? If I call on them, Mr Graham will set the dogs on me.’
‘Invite them here, then.’
‘To stay?’
‘Well, perhaps not to stay.’ Maria smoothed the folds of her new silk gown. ‘But they are welcome to visit on a daily basis, and to take their meals with us.’
* * * *
Isabel glanced through Owen's reply. When she came to Maria's qualified invitation, she pursed her lips. Well, she supposed, it was one degree better than being completely scorned.
‘I am the pariah of the neighbourhood,’ she complained, when at last she and Owen sat down together in Maria's private study, while Maria herself went to scold the cook. ‘We see nobody. Hear nothing. We pay no visits, and Mama will invite no one to call on us. Lest I infect them with my wickedness, I suppose.’
‘Do you not go to church?’
‘Of course we do. Papa insists on that. But last Sunday, at Evensong, I was ignored completely. Even the tenants would not acknowledge me.’ Isabel dabbed at her eyes. ‘Good Christians all, are they not? No doubt they felt I defiled their holy place.’
‘Poor Isabel.’
‘Poor Honor, too.’ Isabel began to cry. ‘Oh God!’ she sniffed, ‘I do wish — ’
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘That you had never left him?’
‘I wish it had not come to this! Owen?’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you build me a new house? One with large, light casements and a gracious staircase? May we have damask hangings, and modern silver plate?’
‘Certainly we may. If your father will give me the money to buy these things.’
‘Owen, you're rich!’ Isabel pouted. ‘You're positively coining money these days!’
‘The profits from the ironworks must be ploughed back into the business,’ said Owen, decisively. ‘No one needs cannon and shot any more, so I need to develop new lines in domestic goods, for export overseas. Otherwise, Isabel, we will all starve.’
‘You're such a skinflint.’ Isabel stood up. ‘I'm going to find Honor,’ she muttered. ‘She needs to have her tea.’
The baby had been left with one of Maria's servants, an old woman who had nursed all the Darrow infants and regarded herself as family. She was therefore very free with her tongue. Leaving Maria's room, Isabel walked along the passage towards the salon, where she found the nurse and Honor alone, save for a footman and a girl cleaning the grate.
Unobserved by them all, Isabel came close enough to hear her daughter referred to as her young ladyship's mistake. To hear the housemaid snigger, and see the footman grin. They were unbashed even when they became aware of Isabel herself, silently standing there.
* * * *
By the end of the week, Owen himself had begun to tire of the sneers and smirks of the servants, the coarse remarks of Charles Harding, and the fact that he had nothing to do. But most of all he was fatigued by the querulousness of Isabel herself.
Why did she complain so much? Why did she need to grumble about everybody and everything, why was she never, ever content?
As his irritability increased, her grumbling intensified. Did she actually want a quarrel, he wondered. Very well then, he didn't mind, she could have one. As she sat in Maria's room that rainy Wednesday morning, carrying on, her voice as shrill as a magpie's and her face inflamed, perfectly mottled with anger, he told her to shut up.
‘What did you say?’ she demanded, amazed.
‘I told you to be quiet.’
‘But what if I do not choose to be dumb?’
‘You will nevertheless oblige me.’
‘But who are you?’ Isabel's face had become as red as her hair. ‘Pray, sir, who are you, that you suppose you may give your orders to me?’
Owen met her eyes. ‘I am a fornicator,’ he replied. ‘You are my whore. Accordingly, I — ’
‘How dare you!’ Isabel was on her feet now. ‘I am a lady!’ she screeched. ‘I am a gentleman's daughter, born and bred! But you — you're nothing but a peasant! A stupid Welsh peasant. The son of some ditch–digger, and his pox–faced drab!’
‘My father was a landowner! My mother was a lady, of ancient lineage, great personal beauty, and perfect respectability.’ Owen glared. ‘I would not sully their dear names by mentioning either in the same breath as yours.’
‘I hate you!’ Isabel glared back. ‘I hate you like poison, you dirty barbarian, you filthy libertine, you — ’
‘You harlot, you trollop, you slut.’ Owen turned away. ‘As you see, I can bandy insults as readily as any whore. But I — ’
He got no further. Isabel attacked him. Nails clawed at his face, sharp pointed boots kicked at his shins. He let her exhaust herself, then pushed her into a chair.
She went down with a thump. Still enraged, she scowled at him balefully.
‘I'm going out,’ said Owen.
‘To walk by the lake, I hope.’ Isabel glared daggers. ‘Oblige me by drowning yourself there.’
* * * *
Owen strode out of the house. He walked for some distance through the park. Then, reaching the first of the open fields, he sat on a stile and thought. He could not let Jane marry Michael Atkins! Yes, Mr Atkins might be a good man. He might even deserve her, might make her happy. God knew, she deserved some happiness.
But all the same...
Observing a labouring man coming along the lane, Owen stopped him. ‘Could you take a note up to the
house?’ he enquired, as the man wished him a good day.
‘Certainly, Mr Morgan.’ The man grinned. How well Owen had come to know that particular kind of grin! ‘Would your message be for Mrs Darrow, sir?’
‘For Mrs Harding.’ Owen opened his pocket book. Taking out a scrap of paper and scribbled rapidly. He gave the man a sixpence. If the fellow hadn't grinned, it would have been a two shilling piece.
The message for Maria was to the effect that urgent business called him back to South Wales. Walking into Warwick, he took the evening coach to Birmingham, then the fast post service to Swansea.
As the dawn came up the following day, he was on the road to Oxwich. As the sun broke through the morning mist, Owen gazed this way and that across the ever–changing vistas of the Gower pensinsula, where he had been born.
But upon which he had not set eyes since he was seven years old.
Chapter 18
‘Good morning, sir!’ As Owen trudged along the badly– metalled road, a farmer's cart swayed level with him. Unfortunately, it was going in the opposite direction. ‘Looks set to be a fine one, don't it?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Owen nodded to the driver, but not very cheerily, because he was tired, he was hungry, and his back ached quite atrociously.
Overnight, as the coach had lurched and bumped over pot–holed roads, as the horses were changed and watered, as bad–tempered grooms and postboys cursed and complained, he'd wondered if he had gone mad indeed. Why else would he be tearing down to South Wales on what was nothing but a wild goose chase? Why else would he have picked a pointless quarrel with a woman by whom he had a child, who was to all intents and purposes his wife, and whom — he supposed — he loved?
But then, as the sun climbed higher, and he strode ever westwards, he began to feel better. Happy, even. Something inside him knew he was going home. That it was right to be going home. Then, he was remembering things he had thought lost forever. These greens and commons, these leafy lanes of English Gower, seemed as dearly familiar as the lanes of Warwickshire. Back there had been a village he could have sworn he had passed through once before, a long time ago.
But where had the Morgans come from? Where had Owen himself lived? He reached a crossroads. To the south was Pennard. To the west, Oxwich, Reynoldston and Llangennith. This last was the English version, surely, of a very Welsh name?
Names, names, names. He rolled them off his tongue. Bethan Davies, William Parry, Mary Gethyn. Rhosili, Port Eynon, Penrhyn Gwyr. Long forgotten, these were suddenly as familiar as his own right hand. His spirits soared.
Soon, he reached another crossroads, but this time there was no signpost. Stopping to consider, he noticed a couple of women coming across a field. Simply clad in grey cotton gowns and rough woollen mantuas, the elder wore a high–crowned black bonnet, while the younger sported a checked red scarf, which covered her shoulders but left her head bare. ‘Good morning,’ he began, as they approached.
The elder grinned. ‘Good morning to you,’ she countered, boldly. Then, behind her hand, she whispered to her companion. ‘Seisnig,’ she hissed. ‘Jiawl du!’
Owen was about to retort that he was no dirty devil of a Saxon. No indeed. But then he decided to hold his tongue. Although he was dark, he reflected, he was so tall and slim that he probably didn't look Welsh at all. ‘I need to get to Oxwich,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘Do I take the left fork here, or the right?’
‘The left, master.’ The younger woman smiled. ‘So who are you looking for there, then?’
‘A Mr Michael Atkins. I believe he has a house in the village. Perhaps you know it?’
‘Yes, I know it.’ But now, the elder woman frowned. ‘I know it very well.’
‘Too well.’ Her friend grimaced. ‘You go down there, look,’ she said, pointing. ‘It's about half an hour's walk. No more.’
They scurried away, leaving Owen somewhat mystified, staring after them.
* * * *
Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the house. Gazing up at the steep gables and the landscape of red roofs above them, on which doves strutted, preened and cooed in the morning sunshine, he knew for certain he had never been here before. He rang the bell.
A neat but very solemn little servant girl promptly answered the door. Greeting her with a smile, Owen presented his card. ‘Will you please to wait a moment, sir?’ she murmured. Then she tripped away into the darkness of the house.
She soon returned. ‘Will you be so kind as to step this way?’ she enquired. All smiles now, she led him down a wide, sunlit passage towards a panelled oak door. Tapping lightly, she opened it, then ushered him inside.
‘Owen, my boy!’ Turning from the window, Michael Atkins beamed in welcome. He shook Owen by the hand, then motioned him towards a comfortable, chintz–covered chair. Puzzled by the younger man's sudden appearance here, but inclined to be hospitable nonetheless, he stopped the maidservant at the door and ordered tea, coffee, chocolate and fresh rolls, to be brought in without delay.
Some polite chit–chat about the weather, the beauty of the season, and the state of the nation occupied the next few minutes. Then, the maid came in, bringing what her master had ordered. Neatly, she began to set out the china and glass.
‘So, my dear fellow. Is there something wrong at the works?’ Sitting down at his desk, Michael Atkins gave the maid such a sharp stare that she seized her tray and practically ran out of the room. ‘You have a problem with the new furnace, perhaps? Well, if that is indeed the case, don't be unduly concerned on my account. I'm quite prepared to wait for my castings and spare parts.’
‘It's nothing like that.’
‘No? Then what is the matter?’
‘Well, the fact is — ’
But then, Owen stalled. He had not rehearsed this conversation at all. So now, what should he do? Come straight out with it? Say, “Mr Atkins, as I understand it, you have lately become engaged to my cousin. But you may not marry her, for she is still engaged to me.”
No. That was impossible! ‘I had no idea you had a house on Gower,’ he muttered lamely, as he played for time and searched feverishly for the right thing to say. If there was a right thing. ‘But this place is charming. Delightful, in fact. Do you manage to come here very often?’
‘Not as often as I might wish.’ Idly toying with a silver paper knife, Michael Atkins shook his head and smiled. ‘I have been here almost three weeks. Business and duty call, but I have been unable to drag myself away. Like Ulysses, I have tasted lotus, and am most unwilling to return to the world of commerce, industry and care. So now, Owen — ’
Owen decided to plunge straight in. That would undoubtedly be best, at any rate in the long run. But, as he opened his mouth to speak, Blanchette nosed open the door of the study and wriggled through the gap she had made. Feathery tail wagging, she scampered over to her former master and laid her head in his lap.
Michael Atkins stroked her muzzle. ‘Good girl,’ he murmured. ‘Good creature. Well now, does your mistress come?’
It seemed she did. Out in the passageway, a woman's light tread bounced off the polished boards and echoed all around. The door of the study swung open wide. His heart thudding against his aching ribs, Owen turned to see Jane and Rayner, dressed for walking, standing there.
‘My God!’ Narrowing his eyes, Rayner gaped, glared, grimaced — then turned away.
Jane simply stared.
Michael Atkins looked from brother to sister, then to their cousin, then back again. ‘Well,’ he began, coolly, ‘since it is clear you are all acquainted, perhaps you will allow me to learn how my friend and business associate Owen Morgan happens to know — and appears to be very well known by — my summer guests?’
‘To be sure.’ Recovering, Jane scooped Blanchette into her embrace, then went to stand by her lover's side. ‘Michael, your friend comes to wish us joy. He has heard of our engagement and now intends to congratulate us in person. I hope, most heartily.’
‘But how did he hear? Who to
ld him?’
‘My sister Maria, I imagine. Just recently, he has been staying with her.’ Jane looked up, met her lover's eyes, and smiled. ‘Mr Morgan and I are closely related,’ she explained. ‘He is my cousin.’
‘Your cousin?’ Michael Atkins's face was a mask. ‘But how — ’
‘It's quite simple.’ Jane shrugged. ‘Strangely enough, Mr Morgan's family came from this part of the world. But his parents died when he was very young. He became homeless, so my father and mother took him in.
‘He was brought up by my parents, on their estate in Warwickshire. A few years ago, however, there were some differences of opinion between them, which it proved impossible to resolve. So Mr Morgan returned to South Wales, where he has family connections still. Michael, my dear? Why do you stare so? Michael?’
But Michael Atkins simply stared on. For now, the log jam shifted. The torrent flowed. Everything began to tumble downstream, and be swept into place.
Why Ellis Darrow, a Warwickshire landowner, had ever taken it upon himself to care what went on in the wilds of South Wales, to spend his presumably valuable time and money bringing an obscure part–time smuggler to justice, had always been a mystery to Michael. Certainly, he had possessed the box. But, try as he might, he had never been able to find the key.
But here it was at last. Owen Morgan! Of course! Well, there must be a thousand Owen Morgans in Wales. Several hundred, probably, in Glamorgan alone.
All the same...
Michael's light blue eyes grew flinty, but he said nothing. Instead, it was Rayner who broke the awkward silence. ‘Well?’ he muttered, all the while favouring his cousin with a look of the most withering scorn, ‘why, precisely, have you come here?’
Owen drew a deep breath. ‘I took Isabel to visit her parents,’ he began. That was a mistake, for at the sound of his wife's name, Rayner flushed an angry red. ‘I was not welcome in her father's house, of course, so I stayed with Maria. She had just received a letter from Jane, announcing her engagement to Mr Atkins here.’
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