Honey's Farm (41 page)

Calvin left her side to get a drink and Eline turned, glancing round the room with covert curiosity. Most of the women were dressed in rich silks, with gems blazing at wrist and throat. There must have been a fortune there in emeralds, diamonds, pearls and sapphires, Eline thought ruefully; enough money to set up clinics all over town for children like little Jessie Kennedy.

Suddenly, Eline froze as she caught sight of a tall figure coming through the crowd towards her. The sight of him brought the blood pumping through her veins; her head pounded as her heart-beats quickened and her mouth was suddenly dry.

‘Will!' She breathed the name and then he was standing beside her, and it was as if they were the only two people in the room.

‘Eline,' he said, ‘I can't get you out of my mind, not since that day . . . it seems so long ago.' His voice trailed away and he glanced around him anxiously, careful not to be overheard.

‘Eline, I can't stand being parted from you like this! God, I want you so much, it's like a constant pain that just will not go away.'

‘Hush, Will,' she said quickly. ‘We can't talk, not here.' She put her hand on his arm just as Calvin returned to her side.

‘What's this?' he asked. ‘Making overtures to my wife, are you?' He was teasing, but there was an edge of anger in his voice that Eline was not slow to notice.

‘It's me,' she said, forcing a laugh. ‘I was begging some advice from Will. I have this little customer, Jessie, she has a wasted leg, I want so much to help her.'

‘This is not the time or the place for talking about work,' Calvin admonished. ‘Come along, Eline, we have to find time for my friends too, you know.'

He drew her away and moved easily into another group, joining the conversation about politics and the state of the government with ease born of long practice.

Eline was afraid to glance back at Will. Calvin did not hesitate to speak his mind, and she was lucky that he had accepted her explanation so readily.

The gong sounded for supper, and groups of people began to drift into the long dining-room. Eline found herself seated between Emily Miller and Craig Grenfell, and she breathed a sigh of relief. At least with her two supper companions she had something in common; they were as involved in the shoemaking business as she was.

But still it proved to be a long and trying evening. Eline studiously kept her eyes turned away from Will, while all the time she knew he was silently begging her to look at him. There was a respite when the women withdrew to the drawing-room, but Eline found the general gossip trivial to the point of boredom.

When the men joined the ladies, Eline found Will beside her once again, his eyes drawing hers irresistibly.

‘I love you.' He mouthed the words, his head turned so that only she could see, and the tell-tale colour rose to her cheeks.

She became aware of a hand gripping her arm firmly. ‘I would appreciate it' – Calvin's voice was low but had an edge of hardness to it that chilled Eline – ‘if you would keep away from my wife. I won't tell you again.'

He drew her away and Eline, fearing a scene, kept her eyes firmly on the carpeted floor.

It was a relief when Calvin announced that it was time to take his wife home. ‘I must look after her, you know,' he said softly to Hari, but clearly enough for his words to carry to where Will was standing nearby. ‘She doesn't realize quite what a delicate condition she is in.'

As if on cue to his words, Eline felt herself awaying as a whirling darkness pressed down upon her. She was aware of Calvin leading her to a chair and of Hari brushing the hair back from her forehead.

‘You see, my darling, you need me to look after you.' Calvin's voice seemed to come from afar, and Eline made an effort to pull her thoughts together.

‘I'm all right, really I am.' She was aware of faces staring in her direction and a hot colour suffused her face; now everyone knew that she was with child. She looked across the room to where Will stood alone, suddenly still, like a graven image, his face pale with shock.

She longed to run to him, to throw herself into his arms, to ease the pain that etched his mouth with deep lines. But it was too late for that; Calvin was helping her to rise and was leading her towards the door. They were outside then, and in the splash of light thrown across the driveway he was taking her in his arms, kissing her mouth.

‘This, my dear Eline,' he said softly, ‘is the proudest moment of my life.' She knew then that she couldn't speak out, couldn't tell Calvin of her awful doubts.

She sank into the carriage that was taking her towards home, towards all the silk and luxury that suddenly seemed little more than a golden cage. And somewhere there, back in the house that was rapidly fading into the distance, was the man she loved with all her heart, the man whose dreams had just been shattered.

They were having their first real row. Fon faced Jamie, her hands gripped to her sides, her mind reeling with the anger that washed through her.

‘Didn't you want me to take care of April, then?' she demanded. ‘Was I supposed to tell Mrs Jones to take the girl away, and damn the consequences?'

‘There is no need to swear.' Jamie's eyes rested on her as though she was a stranger who had suddenly come into his home. He ran his hands through the dark curls and stared down at Fon, a strange expression on his face.

‘Can't you see,' he said, ‘I don't want you and me to be simply substitute parents. We should have children of our own.
I
at least want children of my own, a healthy family of boys and girls filling the house with their noise.'

He paused and moved to look through the window. ‘I need children who will take over the place after me; a farm needs a big family living on it.'

Fon felt a pain within her. ‘You have Patrick, remember,' she said, her voice low now. ‘He will take over after you. Only one son can inherit the farm, so why do you want more?'

She couldn't tell him that she didn't want children. The feeling had crystallized in her of late, in spite of the brave words she had used when talking to Jamie about having sons. The truth was, she was afraid of childbirth, afraid of becoming like her mother.

Fon had stood on the sidelines and watched as Nina had conceived children by two different men. Nina had gone through enough pain and suffering to try the strength of a lesser woman. Fon had suffered with her, borne the shame of seeing her mother walk about the streets of Oystermouth with her swollen stomach and no husband to call her own. But worst of all was Gwyneth's death; her sister, who was still young and beautiful, she had spent agonizing hours in labour only to lose her child after all her pain. Gwyneth had survived her baby by hours, slipping away from life, at last beaten and defeated.

‘Look, Jamie,' she said, ‘I'm young yet. There's plenty of time for children of our own.' She put her hand on his shoulder, but he did not respond; he might have been made of stone for all the notice he took.

‘All right, then!' She was angry again. ‘Behave like a big child yourself, but remember, I can't help it if I can't conceive, can I?'

‘No, but you needn't be so
happy
about it.' He left her then, without another word, and she sank down at the kitchen table, biting back her tears. She felt a hard anger towards Jamie; he was selfish, he wasn't thinking of anyone but himself and what
he
wanted. Well, he would just have to put up with it; she couldn't help it if babies didn't come along, could she? Anyway, she was still young, there was time enough for her and Jamie to have a family. But in her heart she felt sick and afraid. All her protests were excuses, and she knew it.

It was quiet in the kitchen, and Fon was thankful that the children were playing in the fields. April had buttered some fresh bread and cut a piece of cheese and wrapped them, along with a bottle of water, in a cloth which she slung over her shoulder like a traveller. Clutching Patrick's hand, she had gone off across the fields, her bare brown legs deliberately adopting a slow pace so that the boy could keep up with her.

Fon rose from the chair. It was time she began her chores; there was a great deal to do before she went out to the fields and did an honest day's work on the land.

She looked round at the neat kitchen, the well-stoked fire, the big pan of scrubbed potatoes ready for boiling. Why wasn't Jamie content with what they had?

Abruptly, she drew her thoughts into order. She must get on. She had to stuff the fresh-killed chicken and put it in to roast; the beds must be made; the sheets washed; then and only then could she go out into the fields.

Fon sighed heavily. Life was hard enough, goodness knows, without a brood of children round her skirts. ‘Forget it!' she told herself harshly, and yet a tinge of guilt continued to tug at the corners of her mind.

She supposed, in all fairness, she was not being a good wife to Jamie; a good wife would
want
her husband's child. Was she, by deliberately setting her mind against the idea, preventing the very thing that her husband most desired?

‘To hell with Jamie's desires!' she said, and then she laughed suddenly at the sound of her own voice filling the empty kitchen.

In bed that night, Fon lay awake waiting for Jamie to come upstairs. For the first time since she'd been at Honey's Farm, she had not stayed to help him with the books. She was tired; her back ached from bending over the grass that had doggedly refused to be cut. And yet the men, even Eddie, with his damaged shoulder, had wielded the scythe with ease leaving a swath of neat grass behind them as they moved steadily forward.

She tensed as she heard Jamie's footsteps on the stairs. He came into the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind him. She watched him remove his clothes and stand for a moment naked, the pale light from the moon revealing his readiness to make love to her.

He slid into bed beside her, his hand, as always, cupping her breast as he drew her back towards him. Fon, instead of turning to him with her usual eagerness, remained still, not drawing away but unresponsive to his caressing fingers.

‘Fon, my lovely,' he said, ‘sure and there's daft we were to quarrel.'

She didn't reply. Jamie kissed the back of her neck, pushing aside the heavy plait of her hair, his mouth warm. Undeterred, his hands slid down her back and round to her thigh.

She held herself rigid, anger pouring through her like wine; he wanted her, and so he was being kind just to achieve his desire. Well, she could not get over their differences that quickly; she was not to be humoured by his overtures that were driven by need rather than by any wish to make up their quarrel.

‘What's wrong?' He leant on his elbow and looked down at her.

Fon hunched her shoulders against him. ‘I don't want to . . .' Her voice trailed away, and she heard Jamie's sharp breath with a feeling of triumph.

‘You mean you are refusing me?' He could scarcely believe it; she who was always so ready to please him was turning away from him. Well, she was not in the mood to please him right now; he must learn that he could not always have his own way.

He was shaking. He fell back on to the pillow, and, startled, Fon looked over her shoulder to where her husband lay against the pillows. His face was contorted, his shoulders shaking. With a shock of amazement and anger, Fon realized he was laughing.

She sat up abruptly. ‘What's so funny?' she demanded.

Jamie turned his face into the pillow to stifle the gales of laughter, but his shoulders continued to shake.

Angrily, Fon climbed out of bed. ‘How dare you laugh at me?' she said, and, grasping the quilt, pulled it from over his shoulders. She threw it down on the floor and wrapped herself up in it, trying not to hear his laughter.

She forced her eyes shut, knowing her face was red with humiliation; she had refused her husband, and he found it all highly amusing.

Fon heard the creak of his feet against the bare boards of the floor and then he was kneeling beside her, tugging at the quilt, drawing it away from her.

‘Fon!' He cradled her in his arms. ‘You funny little thing, if you don't want me to make love to you, then I won't; there's no need to give up your soft bed for a place on the floor.'

She felt foolish, as though it was she who had been acting as a spoiled child, not him. He lifted her in his arms and held her close to his bare chest, and her face was in the warmth of his neck.

Suddenly, against all reason, she desired him, with a fierce need that shook her.

But when she was in bed once more, Jamie turned his back and, tucking his arm beneath the pillow, was quickly asleep. Beside him, Fon listened to his even breathing and felt the silk of his back against her body and knew that she had been a fool. She had, as her mother would have put it, cut off her nose to spite her face.

She wound her arms around Jamie's waist, her hands smoothing the flat of his stomach, feeling beneath her fingertips the strength of his thighs and the hardness of him that even in his sleep showed his arousal.

He turned to her quite suddenly and then, without warning, he was within her, his arms encircling her, his lips fierce against hers.

‘Jamie!' She fought her mouth free of his and stared up at him, trying to see his expression in the darkness. ‘You weren't asleep at all, were you?'

He didn't answer. He moved slowly at first, and she gasped, wanting him to take and plunder and make her lose her senses in a welter of sensation as he always did.

‘You are my slave, aren't you, Fon?' His body teased hers; he withdrew from her, and she clasped him, drawing him close once more. ‘Say it, my colleen' – his voice was thick with emotion – ‘say you are my slave.'

‘I am,' she gasped, joining in the game of love that Jamie played so skilfully. ‘I am your slave, Jamie, now and for always!'