Longing (29 page)

“Fach,”
Emrys said, “those whips hurt. You saw Iestyn's back. Raw it was for days, and all he got was ten strokes. They usually give twenty. They spread you on the ground and tie your hands and feet to stakes. They bare your back.”

Gwynneth moaned.

The terror was back on Siân, cold in her nostrils, attacking her breathing. She counted again—one, two, three in, one, two, three out.

“Did you hear what they said?” she asked. “‘Acknowledge your guilt,' they said, ‘and atone for it by doing as you are told.' If I stop teaching and stay home here, I will be admitting that I told the Marquess of Craille about the meeting on the mountain. I did not tell him. I am not an informer. If I do as they demand, it will be only out of fear. I will not be controlled by fear.”

“It is to avoid the whips, Siân,” her grandmother said between sobs. “You will do it to avoid them,
fach.
And soon you will be married and leaving that old job anyway.”

“No,” Siân said. “If I once let fear dictate how I live my life, Gran, soon I will not be living it for myself at all. And I will not be able to live with myself either.”

“There is brave you are, little niece,” Emrys said, grudging admiration in his voice. “And there is foolish. Maybe Owen will use that hand even before you are married and save you from yourself.”

Hywel got up without a word, leaving behind a cup of tea he had hardly touched, and went upstairs.

Gwynneth cried quietly.

Siân doggedly drank her tea to the dregs, even though she had trouble swallowing each mouthful. She dared not let her mind dwell on three nights hence. She would talk to Owen. He knew she was innocent. He trusted her. He would save her.

“Right,” Emrys said when she was finished. “Upstairs with you, then, and to bed in my room.”

“There is no need,” she said.

“Siân.” He got to his feet and looked sternly down at her. “There is little enough either Dada or I will be able to do for you, girl, if you continue stubborn, no matter how tough we talk. If they come for you, they will take you even if we put up a fight. At least let me do this for you. Let me at least make them have to fight their way past me.”

She stood up and kissed him on the cheek. “All right,” she said. “Thank you, Uncle Emrys.”

“Foolish, brave girl,” he said. “I could shake the living daylights out of you. But it would do no good, would it?”

She shook her head.

“Up you go, then,” he said. “And you, Mam. Dry the eyes and blow the nose, is it? And console yourself with knowing that you have a granddaughter with more courage than sense. One of those warrior women she should have been, the ones I read about once in Sunday School when I was a lad, though why it was not the Bible I was reading I cannot remember. Amazons. That was them. Our Siân should have been an Amazon.”

Siân went upstairs and climbed into her uncle's rumpled bed. She burrowed beneath the blankets and lay still, wrestling with her demons for an hour or more before falling asleep.

*   *   *

Josiah
Barnes did not know why the Scotch Cattle had been out, he assured Alex when summoned the next morning. Someone had not wanted to go on strike, perhaps, though everyone had for the few hours it had lasted. Or perhaps someone did not want to join the Chartists in their next planned action. Barnes's informer had told him about the demonstration—but not the reason the Cattle had been out last night. Everyone was too terrified of the Cattle to inform against them, he explained to Alex.

Owen Parry did not know, either. He had not even heard the Cattle. He was apparently a deep sleeper. Had they really been out last night? He had heard nothing about it. Alex, who had summoned him, asked him only once. He knew by now that there was no getting anything out of Parry that the man did not choose to disclose.

“I don't want anyone hurt,” Alex said. “Especially in such a useless cause. A demonstration like the one planned by John Frost is doomed to failure. Perhaps to worse than failure. In the meantime, we have important matters to deal with here in Cwmbran. When may I meet with you and the other representatives of the workers?”

“We are not interested,” Owen said.

Alex stared at him in exasperation. “What is that supposed to
mean?” he asked. “How can you not be interested in the well-being of your own people? You are their leader and work to assert their rights, don't you?”

“We are not interested in charity or in walking into the traps you set,” Owen said. “We will win equality and our rights in our own way. We will not be beholden to you.”

It was an answer so unexpected that Alex was quite unprepared to deal with it. “Do you speak for yourself?” he asked. “Or for everyone?”

“For everyone.” Owen looked at him steadily. “I am the leader, remember? I speak for my people.”

“Damn you,” Alex said. “What have you said to turn them against me? Have I not demonstrated goodwill enough? Is it not worth at least talking?”

Owen said nothing.

Alex nodded curtly. “It will have to be done another way, then,” he said. “Thank you, Parry. That will be all. Except for one thing. I believe I once told you that if the Scotch Cattle harmed my people again, I would hunt them down and deal out a like treatment. I meant what I said. I trust you will pass on the message.”

“I don't know any Scotch Cattle,” Owen said. “No one does.”

Alex dismissed him with a nod.

What he should do, he thought, was have his bags packed and Verity's and leave for the familiar world of his estates in England without delay. How could he keep trying to convince himself that he loved this valley and these people when hell could not be worse than living here? The lives of the people were almost intolerable, and yet they would do nothing to try to improve conditions. They hated him without reason—merely because he was English and the owner of Cwmbran, and it was ingrained in them to hate the owners.

But he knew he would not leave. There was a stubborn streak in him that he had not been fully aware of before coming here. Besides, he could not leave.

He sent up to the nursery to invite Siân to luncheon.

She knew, he thought, as soon as she joined him in the dining
room later and he seated her at the table. Her face was pale and set and there were shadows beneath her eyes. She sat stiff and straight-backed on her chair. She had not once looked fully at him. She knew, all right.

He waited for the soup to be served and then dismissed the servants, telling them that he and Mrs. Jones would help themselves to the other courses from the sideboard.

He took her hand in his as soon as they were alone. It was as cold as a block of ice. He raised it to his lips. “Three days has been too long a time,” he said. “Did you resent the invitation?”

She looked at him for the first time and shook her head.

He talked about Verity and their home in England. He talked about London and Brighton. He talked about his boyhood and university days. He spoke monologues. She looked as if she needed a good meal. He would not talk about anything that might take away her appetite. Not until the meal was done. Even so she ate precious little, he noticed.

“Siân,” he asked at last, “on whom did they call last night?”

Her eyes looked back into his, and it was almost as if a curtain dropped behind them. “Pardon me?” she said.

“The Scotch Cattle,” he said. “On whom did they call?”

She shook her head. A hint of fear in her eyes was immediately masked. “I don't know,” she said. “Were they out last night?”

He sat back in his chair and regarded her steadily. “Your brother-in-law again?” he asked. “Is that it? Poor Siân.” He reached out to cover her hand with his.

“No.” She shook her head. “If they had called on Iestyn, I would have heard. It was not him. It was someone else.”

“But you don't know who?”

She shook her head quickly, her eyes on her plate.

“Siân.” He curled his fingers beneath hers. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I do.” Her voice was very low.

“Tell me, then,” he said. “I want to help. I want to put an end to it—to the terror. I want to catch them at it.”

“You don't understand,” she said. “Scotch Cattle are enforcers.
They enforce what the vast majority believes in. People may be terrified of them, but most people approve of what they do. They would not take kindly to your interfering.”

“Wouldn't they?” He had not thought of that, either. Interference. Not help, but interference.

“No,” she said.

“And you?” He watched her closely. “Wouldn't you like me to stop them, Siân?”

She hesitated for a long time. She licked her lips. “No,” she said. “You would only make it worse.”

“How?” he frowned.

“If you came to the rescue of a man being punished,” she said, “it might be thought that he had appealed to you, that he was your friend. Perhaps your informer. It would go the worse with him.”

“Informer?” His voice was angry, though it was not against her his anger was directed. “Am I so much the enemy, Siân, that anyone who speaks to me or tells me anything is an informer?”

“Please.” She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for a few moments. “If they were out last night, it must have been to give a warning. If they come back again in a few nights' time to punish, don't interfere. Don't go out there. Please? Promise me?”

“Siân,” he said, “it is my duty to protect my people. How can I—”

“Please.” She was on her feet and was gazing down at him. “You must promise me. You must. Please.”

My God, he thought, throwing down his napkin and getting to his feet to draw her firmly into his arms, what was this all about? What did she know? What were the Scotch Cattle up to that had made her so frightened? It was someone she knew. But who? The brother-in-law again? He could believe that she would be frantic with worry if she thought the boy was going to have to endure another of those whippings. And doubtless this time he would have to take the full number of strokes.

But how could he promise her what she asked? It went entirely against the grain. But there was so little he could give her. And he loved her.

“Please?” She raised her face to his. Her eyes were large and luminous.

“I promise,” he said, and watched in some dismay as she bit at her upper lip, lost control of her facial muscles, and began to cry.

“What is it?” He drew her face against his cravat and rocked her. “What is it, my love? Tell me.” She was as cold as ice.

“No,” she wailed. “It is nothing.”

He lifted her face after a while and dried her eyes with his handkerchief before handing it to her so that she could blow her nose.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't often do that. I must be getting back to the nursery.”

“Not until the redness has gone from your eyes,” he said, setting the handkerchief on the table and drawing her back into his arms. “I see that it is something you cannot tell me. We will leave it at that, then. But never feel that you cannot come to me, Siân. I am always here. Kiss me?”

She nodded.

He kissed her until he felt warmth flow back into her body. And then he kissed her some more. And realized something that had been nagging at his consciousness for days. This would not do. This having her but not having her simply would not do at all.

He could not live without her, he thought.

It was not just that he was in love with her. He loved her. She was the air he breathed.

He would not live without her. But she would not be his mistress. That left only . . .

But that was an impossibility. He was the Marquess of Craille. She was the illegitimate child of a baronet and an ironworker's daughter.

It was an impossibility.

But so was living without her.

“I must go back to the nursery,” she said.

“I'll send word that you will be another hour,” he said. “Come to bed with me, Siân. Come and make love with me.”

She shook her head. “It would be sordid,” she said.

Yes, it would. Dammit, it would.

He kissed her once more and released her. “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean disrespect.”

“Thank you,” she said, “for luncheon.” And she was gone.

No, he thought, walking to the window and glazing sightlessly out, he could not live without her. But neither could he live with her like this. She was right. The snatched and very occasional lovemakings that they could doubtless enjoy over the coming months or years would be sordid. Up on the mountain or in his own house—with Verity beneath the same roof. It had not been sordid that first time because it had been spontaneous. It had been beautiful. But that could not be repeated.

What did she know? His thoughts returned to the mystery that had been gnawing at him all morning. Why was she so frightened? He cursed himself for promising to stay away if and when the Scotch Cattle returned to mete out punishment in a few nights' time.

*   *   *

Angharad
was sniveling as she dusted. She cuffed ineffectually at her eyes when Josiah Barnes entered the house, and turned her face away.

“What is the matter with you?” He frowned, her misery breaking in on his more than good mood.

“Siân Jones is going to be whipped by Scotch Cattle,” she said, sobbing and gulping in the middle of the sentence, “and it is all my fault.”

“How so?” he asked, pulling off his boots. “Don't talk nonsense, woman.”

“Someone has been putting about the rumor that she told the marquess about the meeting,” she said. “But it was you, Mr. Barnes, and I am the one who told you. If I had not told you, he would not have known and no one would have thought it was Siân who told.”

“If people believe stupid rumors,” Barnes said, “it is not your fault, Angharad. And there is no stopping Scotch Cattle once they get something into their heads. It is unfortunate for Siân Jones, but that is the way things go. She could avoid the punishment. I hear she was warned not to continue her job.”