The Ash Grove

by Margaret James

  ‘No doubt she spoke at length of my cousin's valour? Of his bravery, nobility and unflinching self–sacrifice?’

  ‘To be sure, but she also — ’

  ‘I, of course, did nothing. Mr Morgan, on the other hand, is the hero of the hour.’

  ‘Yes.’ Isabel nodded agreement. ‘My dear Rayner, you must admit that Owen appears to have acted most courageously.’

  ‘Of course he did. My sister prates of his heroism constantly, and sings his praises all day long.’ Rayner glanced towards where his sister sat, playing with her little friend. ‘She is reluctant to leave him even for a moment. In fact, I'm surprised she has spared these few precious seconds in order to greet you.’

  ‘Oh, Rayner! I — ’

  ‘I should warn you, he's not very pretty just now. But I'm sure he'll be delighted to see his mistress once more.’

  Isabel, however, did not take her cue. Instead, it was Jane who now excused herself, and was heard to run lightly upstairs.

  Rayner reached for his newspaper. ‘The maid will show you and Honor up,’ he muttered. ‘The bell is there, on the desk. Be so good as to use it.’

  ‘Rayner, I wish to speak to you.’ Moving to the sofa, Isabel called Honor to her side. ‘I came — ’

  ‘To visit your paramour.’

  ‘No, Rayner. Owen and I have nothing to say to each other. Nothing at all.’ Isabel bit her lip. ‘I came to show you your child.’

  ‘My bastard, you should say. Or shall we be even more correct, and refer instead to my legitimate incumbrance, got upon my wife by another man?’

  ‘No, Rayner. We shall refer to your own dear daughter. To your child and mine.’

  ‘Then, we shall be talking the most deliberate nonsense ever heard.’ Now, Rayner turned away. Now, bitterness drew lines on his face which would not appear of their own accord for another ten years or more. ‘Isabel, you're a drab. I am a cuckold. Do but accept these sordid facts. Cease to persist in this ridiculous lie forthwith.’

  ‘My dear, it is not a lie. I speak the simple truth.’ Isabel edged closer to her husband. ‘My dear Rayner, will you not even look at me?’

  Rayner would not. Could not. It hurt him beyond endurance to recall their time together. To remember how much he'd loved her, once.

  So Isabel talked on. ‘My dear,’ she continued, ‘do you recall the fact that your mother had a birthmark? A little mole shaped like a half moon, just above her left eyebrow?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Maria remembers her saying it was something which had run in her family for generations. Your grandmother Searle had it, and doubtless her mother bore it, too. Honor, my dear?’

  The baby, who had been earnestly sucking a stick of barley sugar, looked up. Sure enough, the mark was there, plain for all to see.

  ‘I thought she had scratched herself,’ continued Isabel. ‘Then, when the place did not heal, I realised I was seeing one of those — strawberry marks, I believe they are called — which are not present at birth, but which appear when the baby is five or six weeks old.

  ‘I thought no more of it until Owen took us to visit Maria, and I entrusted Honor to the care of a nurse who had formerly worked for your family. She remarked on it at once. She called it a witch mark, and said it was a sign Honor will be gifted with the second sight.’

  ‘What foolish nonsense.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ But now, somehow encouraged, Isabel dared to lay her white hand upon her husband's cuff. ‘Rayner,’ she cried, shaking him, ‘look at her! She's dark, it's true, but look at her eyes! Her grandmother Darrow's were shaped exactly thus — large and round, long–lashed and heavy–lidded, just like these. Her mouth, her nose, her high cheekbones, all are your own poor mother's. Rayner, my dear, this child is yours.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Rayner shrugged. ‘But the fact that she is — or might be — mine, does not excuse her mother's disgraceful conduct. Not in the least.’

  ‘No.’ Justly rebuked, Isabel hung her head. ‘But Rayner, consider. You are not guiltless yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, husband, that you were often unfaithful to me. Do not deny it, for I am certain it is so. You and Charles Harding — ’

  ‘I did not bring my harlots home! I did not expose you to ridicule and infamy, I did not hurt — ’

  ‘True. But you encouraged other disreputables to visit you. My house was a sanctuary for all the card sharps, strolling vagabonds and miscellaneous spongers in the Midlands!’

  ‘May a man not have friends?’

  ‘My dear Rayner, your actresses were more than friends.’

  ‘Isabel, such talk does not become a woman.’

  ‘Rayner, such conduct does not become a man!’

  ‘How dare you! I never once compromised you, nor did I — ’

  ‘Please.’ Isabel looked down at her finger nails. ‘Please, Rayner, let us not quarrel in front of the child, and in a stranger's house.’

  ‘You are the one who seeks to quarrel. Not I.’

  ‘You are mistaken. I seek a reconciliation. But I do not come here in the spirit of one who must supplicate. I do not grovel, begging bowl in hand.’

  ‘You intend to live on fresh air, I suppose? Or has your father relented? Has he forgiven your trespasses indeed, and made his will in your favour once again?’

  ‘Neither.’ Isabel shrugged. ‘But eighteen months ago, an aunt of mine — a spinster lady, living in Virginia — was taken ill and died. She left me a little competence, entrusted and disposed in such a way that my husband — if I should chance to have one — could make no use of it. After my death, anything that remains becomes my daughter's own.

  ‘Rayner, the income I shall derive from this inheritance is very modest. But since you and I parted company, I have learned the value of money, and come to understand what it can and cannot buy. I could live on an amount which I would have considered mere pin money before.’

  ‘Indeed? That gown you are wearing today was not cheaply bought.’

  ‘It was a present on my birthday, from my mother. I have no others like it. Rayner, do you understand what I'm telling you? Even if my family were to cast me off again, and my father should decide I must pay for my errors for the rest of my life, I shall not starve to death.

  ‘So, if you will not take me back as your wife, nor accept Honor as your daughter, I shall find myself a little house to rent, somewhere in the countryside. I shall give out that I am a widow, and try to bring up my child as her father would have wished. Rayner, my dear, may we walk together a little? The rain has given over, and I feel the need of some air. The girl here will mind Honor, I dare say.’

  So Rayner and Isabel went into Mr Grandison's garden.

  * * * *

  ‘I suppose we may try. Merely to see how we go on, you understand.’ For Rayner was by no means ready to forgive, nor to forget.

  But he was still was fond of his wife. He could see she was penitent. More to the point, he accepted that her daughter must be his child.

  They had walked all round the rather sooty rose garden and were coming back towards the shrubbery, when they noticed a servant looking this way and that.

  ‘Mr Darrow, sir! My master wishes to speak with you.’ The man was excited. In fact, he was fairly bubbling over. Impatiently, he hurried Rayner and Isabel towards the house.

  ‘What's the matter?’ Never one to run where he could walk, Rayner puffed along. He caught at the servant's sleeve. ‘Well, man?’

  ‘Sir, they are apprehended!’ The man grinned, hugely. ‘My master had word by special messenger, not half an hour since! It seems Mr Atkins and two of his followers were taken in Holyhead, whilst trying to arrange passage on a ship to Ireland. Also, the body of the man Dennis has been found.’

  ‘The body?’ Rayner frowned. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘It seems he was in hiding for a few days, but then his friends became anxious to be rid of him. So they launched a boat from Port Eynon P
oint.

  ‘A storm blew up in the night, and he was capsized. Then battered to death on the rocks of Penrhyn Gwyr. Oh, sir! Good news, is it not?’

  ‘Excellent news indeed.’ Rayner himself grinned then. For now, he hoped, the nightmares would cease. But even if they did not, from tonight he would at least have someone in bed with him. Someone to hold on to. Someone warm and soft and human, someone whose simple presence alone must surely help to frighten the demons of his imagination away...

  * * * *

  As soon as Michael Atkins was known to be safely behind bars, the gossips’ tongues began to wag in earnest. Everyone from Swansea to Rhosili Bay, Welsh or English, had a story to tell against him or his family, hinging on their rapacity, their cruelty, their arrogance, or their greed. This was strange, for at the trial of his father hardly anyone, from Gower or Swansea or anywhere else, had been prevailed upon to testify against the old man.

  Owen and Jane heard the news from the woman who made the beds and emptied the commodes. When they were told, they nodded their satisfaction, but declined to learn any further details. So the servant went away shaking her head, reflecting that she'd never seen anything like it in her life. Mr Morgan and Miss Darrow were interested in nothing and no one — save one another. They were missing the sensation of the decade!

  As the woman collected her basket of cleaning things and prepared to go on her way, Jane began to tidy the medicines, the ointments, the balms — all paraphernalia of the sick room, in fact.

  ‘The sun is actually shining today,’ she observed. drawing back the curtains and pulling up the blinds. ‘Owen? Do you see?’

  ‘I see.’ Narrowing his eyes, Owen winced. ‘Don't look at me!’ he cried, covering his face. ‘I'm hideous enough in the dusk. I shall hardly repay scrutiny by the light of day.’

  ‘Indeed you will not.’ Looking at him anyway, Jane laughed. ‘I remember when you fell out of the great oak at the end of the drive, back at Easton Hall. You looked terrible for a fortnight then.’

  ‘Not as terrible as I do now, I'll be bound.’

  ‘Dear Owen, you will mend.’

  ‘Slowly.’

  ‘But surely.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Don't fret.’ Jane smoothed the covers on the bed. ‘Be glad you are alive. Be grateful no permanent damage was done. Rest, and allow nature to take its course.’

  That was all Owen could do. His broken ribs made breathing painful and exertion impossible. He was sore all over, in fact, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

  His wrists and ankles were scarred and crusted with weeping sores. His face was still a mess of purples, yellows and blues. His chipped or missing teeth, broken nose and puffy eyelids ensured that these days he resembled nothing so much as a gargoyle. One of the water spouts which adorned the gable ends at Easton Hall.

  ‘I had a letter this morning,’ said Jane, sitting down on the edge of his bed. ‘It was from my sister. She says my house is ready at last.’

  ‘Your house, Jane?’ demanded Owen. ‘Do you actually own a house?’

  ‘I do. It is called The Ash Grove.’ Recollecting, Jane smiled. ‘It is very secluded, very small, but extremely neat and pretty. It has a charming garden, where I mean to grow raspberries and currants, tend roses, and keep a row of hives.’

  ‘Indeed? That sounds extremely dull.’

  ‘Does it? My dear Owen, dullness is exactly what I need these days!’ Jane shook her head. ‘I have had enough adventure. From now on, I seek a quiet existence.’

  ‘A rural idyll, free from care?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Jane agreed. ‘You'll see, I shall play the part of village gossip brilliantly. I shall positively rejoice in the title of old maid.’

  ‘But you can't be an old maid!’

  ‘Can I not?’

  ‘No! You must marry me.’

  ‘Marry a monster?’ Jane shook her head. ‘Marry a creature so hideous that he could frighten a little child into a fit, or cause its mother to miscarry? My poor Owen, one glance from you would curdle milk at once, and send the dairymaids fleeing in panic, to sanctuary!’

  ‘I dare say.’ Wincing, Owen laughed. ‘We would be beauty and the beast indeed. All the same — ’

  ‘Owen, before you ask me to marry you again, tell me just one thing.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Do you still love Isabel?’

  ‘I — ’

  ‘Don't dissemble.’

  ‘I shan't.’ Owen looked into Jane's eyes. ‘So here is the truth. You'll hate me for it, I know. But, the fact is, from the moment I saw her again, I wanted her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, she was — is — so beautiful! So lovely. When she made a play for me, I was overwhelmed. Flattered out of my senses, in fact. I imagined myself desperately in love. So much so that I simply didn't care if I hurt you.

  ‘There. Now you know. Now, you'll despise me forever.’

  ‘No.’ Jane stroked his hair away from his battered forehead. ‘She is beautiful. Had I been a man, I think it likely that I myself would not have been proof against her charm. Thank you for being so honest with me.’

  ‘Now tell me you hate me.’

  ‘I don't hate you at all. I never have. Even when you — when you and Isabel — ’

  ‘Don't say it.’ Reaching for her hands, Owen took them in his own. ‘Jane, listen to me. As far as I am concerned, you are the only woman in the world. I love you, certainly. But I also like you. I admire you and respect you, too.

  ‘You say Isabel is beautiful. But so are you! Admittedly in a less obvious, quieter way.’

  ‘I am too quiet.’

  ‘No! You are serenity personified. You — ’

  ‘I mean, I did not understand.’ Jane bit her lip. ‘I should have seduced you myself, before Isabel even thought of it.’

  ‘Jane!’ Owen was shocked. ‘My dear cousin, a respectable woman does not even consider — ’

  ‘Oh, don't talk such stuff! We were engaged to be married! We had been lovers at least in the abstract sense for years. But I would never open even my mouth for you. Let alone my legs.’

  ‘What?’ Astonished, Owen stared at her. Had she taken leave of her senses? ‘Jane, my dearest,’ he began gently, ‘I don't think you're well. Those coarse expressions, that language of the gutter hardly becomes — ’

  ‘Please, Owen! Let your tongue rest.’ Jane looked away. ‘I was so afraid you would think I was forward,’ she muttered. ‘I was so jealous of my good name! But now, when I recall those polite little kisses in the rose garden, those timid embraces on the terrace, I feel such a fool I could weep for shame.’

  ‘Jane, please — ’

  ‘But you were a fool, too! Dear God! How delicate you were! How careful, lest you might frighten or upset me, lest you should inflame my virgin's cheeks with a blush! You never touched my breasts. You never once stroked my hair.

  ‘For, I was the squire's daughter. I was your elder sister, in everyday custom if not in fact. In a word, you were in awe of me.’

  ‘No, Jane. I — ’

  ‘So, I should have taken the initiative. But I was too staid and prim. Too much the simpering hypocrite to let you begin to understand how much I needed you.’

  ‘Don't!’ Owen could keep silent no longer. ‘You conducted yourself like a decent, respectable, modest woman. You — ’

  ‘I conducted myself like a tease and a flirt. Like a coy, precious, ignorant simpleton, who pretended she had no desires, no longings — nay, no feelings, even — of her own.’

  ‘I'll never accept that,’ said Owen. ‘Jane — dearest Jane — I don't expect you to say you'll be my wife. Not today, anyway. But please, give me a little time. Let me learn how to deserve you!’

  ‘You will need nursing for several weeks yet.’ Leaning towards the invalid, Jane kissed his cheek. ‘I'll write to Maria and ask her to make the necessary arrangements.

  ‘So, you shall have the best bedroom.
We'll have Charles Harding's Ferguson to valet you, and borrow Maria's own Mrs Bradley, to sit with you when I can't be there.

  ‘Oh, darling! Please hurry up and get well, or at least fit to travel! Then we can go home.’

  ‘To Warwickshire?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jane kissed him again. ‘The Ash Grove is waiting for us. Maria has been in to look things over. But I am still anxious lest the maids should not have scoured the kitchen, and aired all the beds properly.’

  Copyright © 1997 by Margaret James

  Originally published by Magna [UK] (ISBN 0750510870)

  Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.