Daughters of Rebecca (29 page)

‘My son?' Her voice was strained. ‘You've seen Lloyd?'

‘He talked to me. He's a very wise young man,' Dafydd said. ‘He begged me not to ruin your life and I tried to listen but seeing you now, well, I don't care about anything, not honour, not even the plight of the poor. Without you my life is meaningless.'

She clung to him, burying her head in his shoulder. ‘I know, my love, I know.' So what if Lloyd knew? The boy had to learn about life sooner or later. She loved her son, she loved Joe, but she wanted to be with Dafydd.

‘Come home with me now, please!' His voice
was urgent. ‘You can't run away from me, Llinos, you just can't.'

‘I'll come with you,' she said, ‘but first I must tell Graves to take Hortense safely home.' As he led her out of the store Llinos clung to his arm, weak with the need of him.

Graves was waiting at the roadside and Llinos gave him instructions to fetch Mrs Dundee from the store and take her home. Then, holding Dafydd's hand, she allowed him to lead her to his own coach and pair at the back of Bagshaw's Emporium.

She leaned against his broad shoulder as the coach jerked into motion and closed her eyes. She was mad, out of her mind. She was leaving Joe, leaving her son, running away with her young lover. But she could not help herself.

He tilted her face up to his. ‘I love you so much, Llinos, my lovely.' He kissed her tenderly. ‘I've missed you, my darling. I thought I'd lost you for ever.'

‘That night,' she said, ‘I just couldn't get away. I wanted you so much but I just couldn't come to you. I'm sorry, Dafydd, but I just . . .'

He stopped her words with his lips, kissing her passionately, rousing feelings of happiness and hot desire. Llinos clung to him, wanting to tell him what she had done but words failed her. ‘I'm sorry, so sorry,' she said.

‘Never mind, we're together now, and I'm never going to let you go again. I love you with all my heart and soul, Llinos. I'd give up everything if I could marry you.'

‘And I love you, Dafydd.' She did love him but
she loved Joe too. All she knew now, all she could sort out from her tangled thoughts, was that she had to be with Dafydd.

Hortense looked at the large clock on the wall and knew in her heart that Mrs Mainwaring was not going to return. She sighed. Poor torn woman. The look in her eyes when she saw Dafydd Buchan had spoken volumes.

She left the store and stood outside on the pavement. She recognized Graves the coachman, who bowed politely before speaking to her. ‘Mrs Mainwaring says I'm to take you home.'

‘Oh, thank you, Graves. I thought I had been abandoned.' She allowed him to help her into the coach, wondering what on earth Llinos was up to. She stared out of the window as the broad streets narrowed into hedgebound lanes. What would she say to Binnie, to Joe? It was going to be difficult to explain why she had returned alone. Should she lie and say she had become parted from Llinos in the crowds? But was Llinos ever going to come home? Somehow Hortense doubted it.

When she alighted from the coach, Joe was waiting on the doorstep. He helped her down and looked at her with his deep blue eyes. ‘She's gone to him, hasn't she?' he said, without preamble.

Hortense nodded, her throat taut. ‘I'm sorry, Joe. I couldn't do anything to stop her.'

‘It's not your fault.' He led her indoors. ‘Come and tell me what happened.' The drawing room was empty. Hortense looked round, as if hoping Binnie would come to her rescue.

‘Binnie and Lloyd have stayed at the park.' Joe had read her mind. Hortense sank into a chair, feeling desperate. ‘We are alone so just tell me exactly what happened.'

‘Well, I only saw them leave the room,' she said, ‘and after a time I realized that Llinos was not coming back. When I left the store the coach was waiting for me.' She shrugged. ‘That's all I know, Joe, but I don't think she'll be coming back. I'm so sorry.'

Hortense felt Joe's pain. His eyes were clouded, his shoulders hunched, as if he had been dealt a physical blow.

‘Was their meeting arranged?' He could hardly speak.

‘No, I don't think so.' Hortense cleared her throat. ‘There was a sign in the window of Bagshaw's saying the Llanelli pottery owner was in the store. I think it shook Llinos to the core when she saw him.'

‘So, she's chosen him above me, then.' Joe sat down abruptly, his head in his hands. ‘How could she?'

Hortense was silent. How quick men were to blame and how blind they were to their own faults.

‘It's not only you who has been hurt, though, Joe, is it?' Hortense said at last. ‘How do you think your wife felt when you were visiting another woman in America?'

Joe looked up. ‘I suppose you have a point.' He got to his feet. ‘Will you excuse me, Hortense?'

As he left the room she wondered where he was going but she was helpless to do anything. She
was a visitor in a strange world, and suddenly what Hortense wanted more than anything in the world was to board a ship and sail back across the Atlantic to her home.

‘May I come in?' Watt could smell baking, and the aroma of fresh bread was mouthwatering. He had been seeing quite a lot of Rosie lately and felt she was warming to him. Maybe one day she would believe he loved her. He had told her so often enough.

‘Of course you can.' Rosie was looking beautiful, her face flushed, eyes bright, and Watt's heart leaped with hope. Could it be that she was happy to see him? He felt instinctively that she was, but he knew better than to rush things. He sat quietly at the polished table in the parlour and waited as she washed the flour from her hands.

‘Any gossip?' Rosie pushed the heavy kettle on to the fire, not looking at him. Some of the water spilled from the blackened spout and hissed against the hot coals.

‘You shouldn't be lifting that thing,' Watt said. ‘Couldn't you find a smaller kettle?'

Rosie bustled into the pantry, bringing milk from the cold slab and cups from the hooks on the shelves. ‘It was here,' she said. ‘It was left by the previous owner, I suppose, and it seems a waste not to use it.' She smiled. ‘Old habits are hard to forget.'

‘But you are not poor now, Rosie, you are a woman of means, you don't need to penny-pinch any more.' Watt sighed. ‘And perhaps that is the problem.'

As the kettle began to sing on the fire, Watt rose and took the brown teapot from Rosie's trembling hands. ‘Sit down,' he said quietly. ‘Let me make the tea. I'm well used to it, you know.'

She did know. Watt had cared for her brothers for a long time, nurtured them until they were old enough to fend for themselves. He had been wonderful to her entire family and she should be grateful to him.

He made the tea and she watched his strong hands replace the kettle on the side of the hob. He was a handsome man, perhaps more handsome now than when she had first married him.

‘I know you're well off now but I'm not without money myself,' Watt said. ‘Now that your brothers are working and independent I have nothing to spend my wages on.'

‘Look, Watt,' Rosie said, ‘none of this is to do with money, you must know that.' She studied his face. He was a strong-featured man, a man who had worked hard all his life, a man who had suffered. He was a man any woman would be proud to call her husband. But how could she be sure that he loved her?

She drank some of her tea, uncertain of herself and her feelings. She and Watt were married; he was bound to her by law. Perhaps he simply thought it easier to live with her than to form a new relationship.

Still, it was pleasant sitting opposite him in the small, bright kitchen with the fire crackling merrily, the warm flames leaping upwards. The little house was fine during the daytime and when the sun shone, but when night came
and the winds roared down the chimney she felt lonely.

She still loved Watt, she was sure of that. She had never stopped loving him, not for one minute. But she had been hurt and perhaps the pain would linger and blight their marriage, even if she did take him back.

She looked up. He was watching her face as if trying to read her thoughts. She sighed heavily. ‘It's about love, Watt.'

‘But I do love you, Rosie.' He spoke urgently. ‘Just give me a chance to persuade you of that.'

She pushed back her chair and got to her feet. ‘And how can you prove it?' She was suddenly angry. ‘You can speak the words until you are exhausted but that is not proof.'

‘Rosie!' He sounded wounded.

‘Don't Rosie me!' she exclaimed. ‘I was so in love with you and you threw that love in my face.'

She wrapped her arms around her body. ‘You can never go back, Watt, don't you realize that? Nothing will make me the innocent, loving girl I once was. I have grown up. There are no stars dazzling my eyes, not any more. Any naïve worship I had for you died when I found out that you had never loved me.'

She stood with her back to him. ‘Just go. I can't think straight, not with you sitting staring at me like some sick animal.'

She heard him rise, heard his footsteps cross the small space to the door and then he was gone. She looked around. His tea was untasted. She remembered how he had held the heavy kettle and
poured the steaming water into the teapot. How protective he was of her.

But why did he do things for her when all she wanted was for him to take her in his arms, to beg her forgiveness, to kiss her and promise that he would never desert her? Well, if Watt could not humble himself enough to find the words perhaps it was better for them to remain apart.

The rapid knock on the door made her heart leap with hope. Had Watt come back? She hurriedly lifted the latch and stepped away from the door, the words of welcome dying half formed. It was not Watt but a stranger who stood at her door.

‘Excuse me coming here like this, Mrs Bevan.' The man was clearly a farmer: he wore muddy trews and his boots looked as if they had never been cleaned. He smelt of sheep and grass and the open air, and Rosie found herself smiling at him.

‘I know we haven't been introduced,' he said awkwardly. ‘I'm your neighbour, Iori Thomas. That there behind us is my farm.' He gestured across the fields. ‘I am no tenant, I own my land and my folks have farmed here for many a long year.'

‘Oh, Mr Thomas, how good of you to call,' Rosie said, bewildered by the visit. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?'

‘Well, no. I know you live alone with only a girl coming in to help, and I saw a stranger come up here and wondered if the man was bothering you.'

‘No, of course not,' Rosie said. ‘Please, Mr Thomas, come inside. There's a pot of tea on the hob, fresh and hot, perhaps you would like some?'

He glanced down at his muddy clothes. ‘I don't know 'bout that,' he said. ‘I saw that man here before and I wondered,' he shrugged, ‘well, as I said, if he was bothering you.'

‘No, he was not bothering me at all. Be easy in your mind about that, Mr Thomas, and never mind the boots, just come in.' She held the door wide and smiled, liking the open, honest face of the farmer.

‘My wife said I should have come over before this to pay our respects, like, but I didn't want to be a bother.'

Mr Thomas was a man of few words and limited vocabulary but he meant well, Rosie had no doubt about that. ‘Well, perhaps you and your wife would like to come over for tea on Sunday,' she said warmly. ‘I'm sure you'd be most welcome.'

‘That's very kind, Mrs Bevan.' He sat awkwardly on the kitchen chair, and stared longingly at the pot.

Rosie brought a clean cup and poured the tea. ‘You know my name, then?'

He smiled slowly. ‘Oh, yes, we all knows your name, missus. We know most things about you.'

‘Oh, do you now?' Rosie said. ‘And what do you know?'

‘In a small place like this news travels like fire. We all know you're a well-to-do widow.' He frowned. ‘And there are some wicked men about.'

‘It's very kind of you to worry about me, Mr Thomas, but I—'

He held up his hand. ‘Call me Iori, I'm not
used to being Mr Thomas.' He drank his tea in one swallow. ‘Best get back to my wife, then.'

At the door he stopped, his hand on the latch. ‘But we're here, girl. We're neighbours, right?'

‘Thank you, Mr . . . Iori.' Rosie stood on the step and waved as the farmer plodded out of the garden and along the grassy bank. ‘'Bye, Iori!' Rosie smiled. It was good to be treated like a little girl. She had become so used to being grown-up, in charge of her own destiny, and Alice's, too, that she had forgotten what it was like to be carefree, young. And she was young. She felt the breeze in her face, smelt the softness of the evening air and suddenly felt good.

It was then that she saw Watt. He was standing a little way off in the shelter of the trees. He stared at her for a long moment, and Rosie realized how Iori Thomas's visit must look to her husband.

Watt shook his head, turned and walked swiftly away.

‘
WELL, JOE, THINGS
are not looking too good for you, then?' Binnie was seated opposite Joe in the gentlemen's lounge of the Castle Hotel. Joe looked thinner, worry lines were etched around his eyes, and Binnie felt sorry for him.

‘You've taken a bit of a beating lately, what with your native woman and the baby dying like that, and now Llinos walking out on you.' He wondered if he was making things worse for Joe by talking about his troubles but once started he felt he could not stop mid-flow. ‘Terrible thing that plague killing off those Indians like that. Just to be on the safe side we went away to the coast, took the boys with us, though the three of them protested they were all grown and didn't need us to look out for them.'

Joe stared across the room as if he did not even hear him. Binnie picked up his glass of whisky. He had developed a taste for it in West Troy and now thought it rather girlish to drink port. Not that Joe could ever be accused of being feminine; he was more man than anyone Binnie knew.