Longing (3 page)

“Who are you?” She spoke to him in English, with a strongly lilting Welsh accent.

“It is a pity women are not invited to sign the Charter,” he said. “Would you have signed it and given them one more signature?”

She leaned her head back against the rock. Some of the terror had gone from her eyes, but she was breathing raggedly. “I don't know who you are,” she said. “You are English. A spy? Did Mr. Barnes bring you in?”

“Who was the man leading the meeting?” he asked. “The dark, well-built Welshman?”

Her lips clamped together.

“He is from Cwmbran?” he asked. “He works there, perhaps?”

“I didn't know him,” she said. “I don't know who he is. There are men from other valleys at the meeting. They are not all from Cwmbran.”

He nodded. He did not believe her for a moment. “And the
preacher?” he asked. “The one who opened the meeting with a long prayer? Who is he?”

Again the clamped lips. “I don't know him either,” she said when he waited for an answer.

“And I suppose,” he said, “you did not recognize any of the men at the meeting either. They were all from other valleys. They just happened to choose this site for their meeting.”

“I suppose so,” she said lamely after a while. But she lifted her chin. “Who are you? Have you come to make trouble? It was a peaceful meeting. There was no harm in it. It is merely a petition to be presented to Parliament.”

“‘There is power in numbers, my friends,'” he quoted softly. “The words can be made to sound almost seditious, can't they?”

“There is power,” she said, “in a number of signatures. That was what he meant. Who are you?” The fright was back in her eyes and in her voice suddenly. “What do you want with me?”

It must have been sudden fright over her realization of the fact that she was alone on the mountain with a stranger, he thought. She tried to step forward and around him, but he stood his ground so that for a moment, before she flattened herself against the rock again, her body pressed against his. Firm, generous breasts, warm thighs. He set one hand against the rock beside her head.

“And who are you?” he asked. “Are you from another valley too and don't know yourself?”

Her chin came up but she said nothing for a while. “I shall scream,” she said.

“Then I shall do this.” He leaned forward and set his mouth over hers. But it was not a wise move. Her mouth was warm and soft. And he too was suddenly aware of how very alone they were, surrounded by shadows and cool night air and the droning of insects. Seduction had not been on his mind when he had pursued her and was definitely unwise under the circumstances. He drew his head back a few inches.

Her eyes were wide with terror and indignation. But she was a woman of some courage, he realized. Her chin stayed up and her eyes remained steady on his and she got herself silently under control.

“My guess is that you would not be overeager, anyway, to make your presence on the mountain known to any of the men back there,” he said. “I have the feeling that they would be a trifle annoyed. Who are you?”

“Let me go,” she said. “Any one of them would pound you into the ground for touching me. But I'll not betray you if you will not betray me.”

“Ah,” he said, “an amicable bargain.” He took one step back from her. “So all those men would punish me for frightening you and stealing a kiss from you, would they? All those men you do not know.”

She ignored his last words. “I was not frightened,” she said.

He grinned at her and wished that circumstances were such that he could attempt seduction. It would be very sweet. He thought ruefully of how long it had been since he had had a woman. Too long. But now was not the time.

He stepped to one side so that she could make her escape. “If I were you,” he said, “I would stay off the mountains this late at night. There are too many dangers for a woman alone.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I shall remember that.”

“And I shall remember this night,” he said, “and some of the faces of the men at the Chartist meeting. Perhaps I will see those faces again one day—in the other valleys. I believe I may see yours a little closer than that.”

“Not if I can help it,” she said.

He grinned and gestured to the downward slope just beyond the shadows in which they stood. “Go,” he said, “before anyone else comes down and sees that you are out of your bed at this hour and in a place that no woman has any business being.”

He watched her make the effort not to bolt like a frightened rabbit. She lifted her shawl over her head again, her eyes on his, and then walked past him and out into the open, her back straight.

“Good night, maiden of Cwmbran,” he said softly.

She did not answer him. He noticed her pace quicken and her head come down as she hurried through the hollow and turned at its
end to take the steep slope down to the town. She did not look back though he could almost see that her back was bristling with panic lest he was following her and was about to pounce on her again.

And so he was no farther forward than he had been before he caught up to her. She was a woman who could keep her mouth shut. He just hoped that she would keep it shut concerning him too. He was not sure that he wanted it known that he had unwittingly come upon a Chartist meeting. He did not wish to become embroiled in local politics when he had set foot in Cwmbran for the first time only hours before.

He should not have stopped the woman or spoken to her, he thought now that it was too late to do differently. Or kissed her. He should certainly not have done that. A fine first impression it would give. He was thankful that she had been where she was not supposed to be and would therefore be reluctant to tell anyone of the experience—even when she knew who he was, which would surely happen soon.

But he should not have kissed her. Brief and unplanned and one-sided as it had been, it had aroused needs in him that he normally kept well under control. Only two long-term mistresses in the almost six years since his wife's death, and none at all since his engagement to Lorraine a year ago—an engagement they had broken off only the month before.

Strange! He had kissed Lorraine several times, usually at greater length than he had kissed the unknown Welshwoman. But never once had he become as aroused physically as he had now.

It was just as well, he thought ruefully, striding with unwise speed across the hill in the direction of Glanrhyd Castle, that he had some distance to walk and that the air was now distinctly cool.

Robert Mitchell. Chartists.
There is power in numbers, my friends. Everyone will sign the Charter.
Hell! What had he walked into? He had come to Wales for some peace and quiet after a broken engagement. Had he walked unwittingly into a nest of hornets?

*   *   *

Siân
Jones held the corners of her shawl tightly in each hand and tried not to run as she hurried down the slope to the town. It took
every ounce of willpower not to do so and not to look over her shoulder. Her back crawled with panic. Every moment she expected to feel his hand again, clamping down on her shoulder or over her mouth.

Who was he? Whoever was he?

At first, foolishly, she had thought he was the devil. There had been the large, strong hand over her mouth, the swirl of a dark cloak, the largeness of his body, which he had placed between her and freedom. But a strange devil who had looked like an angel when she had finally seen his face. Even in the shadows his hair had shone very blond. And his eyes were light—blue or gray. She guessed they were blue. And he spoke with a very refined English accent.

Who on earth was he? Some spy? The country was full of them. And full of soldiers too. He might be a soldier, though he had not been wearing a uniform. He had been sent to spy on the meeting. And he had seen it. He had seen them all there—Owen, Emrys, Huw, Iestyn, Grandad—oh, dear Lord, Grandad. And the Reverend Llewellyn. He did not know their names. She had told him nothing. But it would not take him long to find out. Owen most of all. Owen was the first one he had asked about. Oh, dear Lord, Owen had led the meeting. The spy would have had a good look at him even in the darkness.

She was almost running despite herself by the time she reached the valley and turned to hurry along one of the streets and to let herself quietly into one of the darkened houses. No one would catch her. Gran slept upstairs and would not come down even if she was awake. Grandad and Emrys would not be home for a while. Siân undressed hastily in the kitchen and drew on her nightdress before diving into the cupboard bed that had been hers when she first came to Grandad's at the age of seventeen and that had been hers again since Gwyn's death and the death of their son.

She lay shaking beneath the covers, waiting for her grandfather and her uncle to come safely home. Though there was nothing safe now about home. Tomorrow perhaps they would all be rounded up. What would happen to them? They could not all be taken off to jail, surely. And they could not all be dismissed from their jobs. There
would be no one left to work except the women. All the men had gone up the mountain to the meeting, even those who disapproved of the Charter. They had all gone up to hear the famous Mr. Mitchell.

And she had gone up out of fear and curiosity—she always seemed to have more of the latter than any other women she knew. She had wanted to know what it was all about and if there was any basis to the hostility the owners and the government felt toward what was apparently a peaceful and lawful movement. But she remembered the blond Englishman repeating something Mr. Mitchell had said—
there is power in numbers, my friends
. Of course, when he repeated that to whoever had sent him, it would sound seditious enough, as he had said.

And Owen. Siân remembered what Owen had said and shivered.
Everyone will sign the Charter. Those who do not sign tonight or pay their pennies tonight will be asked why tomorrow.

Oh, Owen, Owen. He surely would be thrown out of work tomorrow. He surely would be arrested and clapped in jail. He would be hauled off to Newport or to Monmouth for trial—trial by those who would interpret his words and Mr. Mitchell's as constituting treason.

The English spy had seen Owen's face clearly. Perhaps he would be unable to identify Grandad or the others who had been in the crowd, but Owen he had both seen and heard. And the Reverend Llewellyn, who did not even approve of the Charter.

The door latch lifted quietly and two dark figures tiptoed inside.

“Grandad?” Siân whispered. “You have come safely home?”

“Safe,
fach,
me and Emrys both,” he whispered back. “No danger at all. Just an old meeting it was.”

“Go to sleep, Siân,” her uncle Emrys said, not bothering to whisper. “Stayed awake worrying about us, did you? There is silly you are, girl. The morning shift comes early. To sleep with you now.”

“Good night,” she whispered.

She could not tell them about the very real danger there was.
The danger that would surely break over their heads in the morning. Or over Owen's anyway. She listened to their footsteps on the stairs as they tiptoed up to bed so as not to disturb Gran, and felt physically sick.

And then she remembered that he had kissed her. She could remember the blind terror she had felt at the largeness of his body—he was very tall and had appeared dauntingly strong and well muscled. He might well be a soldier. And the terror and fright she had felt when his mouth had covered hers. His lips had been parted. She had thought—she had fully expected—that he was going to rape her.

He would be able to identify her too. He had said so.

Siân pulled the blanket over her head and burrowed underneath it, her knees drawn up, as if by doing so she could hide from the menacing Englishman, half devil, half angel, who had stolen a kiss from her and had it in his power to have Owen thrown into jail. Perhaps even hanged for treason.

Dear Lord. Oh, dear Lord, she prayed fervently.

J
OSIAH
Barnes was a short, balding man with a large stomach that proclaimed he drank too much beer. He was an unmarried Englishman who lived in the stone lodge cottage inside the gates of Glanrhyd Park. He kept very much to himself, associating with the owners of the other ironworks and mines at the heads of the valleys on terms of a type of junior partnership. They respected him as an excellent agent who in a dozen years had made Cwmbran as efficient and prosperous as any of their own works.

Alex was a little in awe of his knowledge. He felt his own terrible ignorance of both business and industry during his first full day at Cwmbran, when Barnes showed him around the ironworks. It all looked bewilderingly strange to the eyes of an English aristocrat, who had spent almost all of his twenty-nine years on a large country estate or in London. He was listening carefully to what Barnes said, trying to absorb at least some of what he was saying.

Alex was unable to converse with any of the workers, though he nodded affably to them. They spoke to each other in Welsh—though of course he knew for a fact that they understood English.

Alex found himself distracted somewhat from what his agent was telling him by his curiosity about the workers. He looked keenly at each of them, trying to recognize faces. It was hopeless, of course. He was almost convinced, though, that one of the puddlers—they were the most highly skilled and prized of the ironworkers, according to Barnes—was last night's chairman. The man was bared to the waist now, his upper body and arms glistening with sweat. He looked
rather like a prize-fighter. But Alex was not sure he would be able to swear in a court of law that he had been the man.

Look as he would, he could not see his maiden of Cwmbran among the women workers. He would certainly have recognized her. He would have enjoyed seeing her too—and he would have enjoyed watching her reaction to seeing him.

“That was all extremely interesting,” he said to his agent at the end of the afternoon. It was a rather lame remark, he realized, and one that might well invite contempt from the man who had made his works so prosperous. “The coal mine tomorrow, then? I shall want to know too about the human factor—numbers employed, hours worked, wage levels, extra benefits, and anything else there is to know.”

“I shall have the books in your office by tomorrow morning, my lord,” Barnes said.

“And about workers' organizations,” Alex said carefully. “Are there any?”

“Some Friendly Societies,” his agent said. “Some workers pay into them and then have benefits in times of sickness or such. But no unions if that is what you mean, my lord. Any known members of unions are immediately dismissed. All the other works do likewise. Unions are disruptive. The running of the works is best left in the hands of men who understand all that is involved. We do not need to be told what to do by ignorant workers and held to ransom by united action.”

It was as Alex had thought, then. “Is there any interest in Chartism in this part of the world?” he asked. “It is quite strong in the industrial cities of the Midlands and the North, I have heard.”

“They are prowling around here,” Barnes said, “trying to work the men up into a fever against the government and against law and order. The men know that anyone who attends their meetings will be sacked instantly. We don't need that nonsense here, my lord.”

Alex dismissed him for the day and hurried homeward so that he could take tea with his daughter. He hated to leave her alone all day in a strange place, with only an elderly nurse for company. Poor
Verity. He should have forced himself to remarry long ago. He should have married Lorraine soon after their betrothal instead of hesitating and procrastinating until she suggested breaking it off.

So mass meetings were strictly forbidden—or any united action that might spell trouble to those in authority. The men of Cwmbran had risked a great deal in gathering on the mountain last night. And they had somehow kept it a secret from Barnes. There must be a great deal of trust and self-discipline among them—and no informers.

He did not know why he had not told Barnes about last night's Chartist meeting. He was rather amused by the thought that if Barnes's rule was to be enforced there would be almost no one to run the works or hew the coal from the mine today. And yet he ought not to be feeling amusement. Those men had definitely been doing what they knew was strictly forbidden at Cwmbran, or anywhere in the Welsh valleys. And the Welsh leader—one of his puddlers if he was not very much mistaken—had actually told the men that unanimity was essential, that those who did not sign or join the Chartist organization would be asked why today.

Alex wondered how exactly the men were to be asked. Politely and verbally? Or in some other way?

And yet he had said nothing to Barnes. Perhaps it was that he was new to Cwmbran, he thought, and had no desire to stir up trouble yet. Not until he had got his bearings and knew what was what, anyway. Or perhaps it was that he was sympathetic to the aims of Chartism. The six demands of the Charter seemed quite reasonable to him. They should at least be negotiable. And there was nothing seditious about presenting a petition to Parliament. There was nothing in it to make all law-abiding men fear a repetition in England of the revolution that had destroyed France just fifty years before.

Whatever the reason, he was keeping mute about something that might well lead to trouble.

He took the stairs up to the nursery two at a time when he was inside the house, pushed open the door, and swept up his shrieking daughter into his arms to twirl her about.

“How is my favorite girl?” he asked her. “Have you missed Papa?”

*   *   *

Siân
was drying dishes after the evening meal although her grandmother had protested. Siân had been working a long shift underground all day and was weary from the backbreaking task of dragging coal carts from the seams where the miners cut the coal to the shaft, up which it would be hauled. All day she wore a harness around her waist so that she could more easily drag the load. Sometimes, in the lower tunnels, she had to go down on all fours. The darkness and the heat and dust did not help.

But she was drying dishes anyway. Her grandmother had not exactly been idle all day long. The house was clean and tidy, as it always was, the dirty work clothes from the day before had all been washed and dried and folded and put away—washed with water that had had to be hauled a pail at a time from a distant pump and heated over the kitchen fire. And warm bathwater had been waiting for her when she came home—and had been waiting for Grandad and Emrys when they came home before her from the iron furnaces. And of course Gran had cooked the meal for them.

Perhaps, Siân thought, she would have been more tempted to sit down to rest her feet, as Gran urged, if she did not feel it necessary to occupy her hands. They were talking about the Marquess of Craille, absentee owner of Cwmbran, who had come on an unexpected visit of inspection. He had spent much of the day at the ironworks.

“A proper Englishman,” Emrys said, seated at one side of the dying fire, his legs stretched out, almost touching those of his father, who was seated at the other side. “Wasn't he, Dada? You should have seen him, Mam. Strutting about the works like a prize turkey, nodding about at all of us just as if he was really interested in us instead of just in the money he makes off our sweat. I almost spit at his back, but Barnes was watching like a hawk.”

Does he have blond hair?
Siân wanted to ask. But she just rubbed hard at a plate that was already dry. She would bet a week's wages
that he was blond. And tall. The man who had been up on the mountain. The man who had kissed her.

“Now, now, Emrys,” Gwynneth Rhys said to her son. “We have not heard any bad of him have we, now? And the fact that he is English is not his fault, poor man. We will have a little respect for your employer in this house, if you please.”

“We do not know any bad of him?” Emrys looked at his mother incredulously. “When he and his uncle before him have been bleeding us dry all our lives, Mam, and hiding behind the coattails of Barnes? When we work like dogs just to feed ourselves and keep a roof over our heads and are threatened with the sack if we try to get together to improve our lot? I'll give him bloody marquess and English airs.”

“Emrys!” His father's frown was thunderous. “You will apologize to Mam and to Siân for using such language in this house. You may be thirty-five years old, but I am not too old and feeble to take you out the back and blacken both your eyes.”

“Sorry, Mam, Siân,” Emrys said sheepishly.

“Perhaps he is not a bad man,” Hywel Rhys said. “Perhaps there will be some changes around here once he has seen for himself and assessed the situation.”

Emrys snorted. “There is stupid you are sometimes, Dada,” he said. “Nothing will ever change. We exist to make the rich richer, more is the pity. That is why the Charter is our only hope.”

“I think,” Gwynneth said, squeezing out the cloth over the bowl of water as if to wring every last drop out of it, “Dada had better blacken those eyes for you after all, Emrys. There is disrespectful you are, calling your own father stupid.”

“It is what comes of stopping going to chapel,” Hywel said. “Emrys has become godless.”

Emrys had given up on God, Siân thought sadly, when his wife and infant son had died in a cholera outbreak ten years ago—and two years before Siân came to Cwmbran to live. Apparently he had taken exception to the Reverend Llewellyn's preaching at the funeral that such was the will of God and that the bereaved husband must
give praise that the two of them were in heaven where they were needed more.

Emrys had stood up in chapel in front of most of the people of Cwmbran and sworn profanely before pushing his way out of the front pew and past the coffins of his wife and son out of the chapel, never to return.

There were those in Cwmbran who still looked at him as if they expected to see horns sprouting from his head.

“I get tired of listening to fools,” Emrys said now. “Though the Reverend Llewellyn did go up the mountain last night, to give him his due. And prayed long enough that I expected to see dawn in the sky before he had finished.”

His mother clucked her tongue but said nothing.

They were going to talk about the meeting, Siân thought. And blank terror gripped her again. She could not understand why the whole day had gone by and nothing had happened. But something surely would happen. It was the Marquess of Craille himself who had witnessed the meeting and who had had a good look at least at Owen and at the Reverend Llewellyn. And he would recognize her. He would perhaps think himself able to squeeze more names out of her.

Perhaps he was waiting for some special constables to arrive, she thought. Or a company of soldiers. Perhaps the arrests would not be made until tomorrow. Or perhaps they would come tonight. She was sorry suddenly that she was on her feet. There was a buzzing in her head.

“Four hundred and fifty-seven signatures,” Emrys was saying. “It was a good night. Of course there were at least five hundred there. Some men came up from the other valleys, Mam.”

“I do not want to hear it,” Gwynneth said, tight-lipped. “I do not want to have to visit my men in jail. And I won't do it, either. There is shameful it would be for chapel people, Hywel.”

“Silly, Mam,” Emrys said, getting to his feet to set an arm about her shoulders. She shrugged them but did not push him away. “How can they put us all in jail? There would be no one left to work. And no one to guard us.” He grinned at Siân and winked.

“They will put who they can in jail,” his mother said. “Beginning with those with the biggest mouths, Emrys Rhys.”

He chuckled and kissed her cheek. “No one knew about the meeting except those who were meant to, Mam,” he said. “You are very quiet, Siân.”

She folded the towel deliberately and hung it up to dry. “I am afraid too,” she said. But she could not say more. How could she warn them that the meeting had been watched last night—by someone who was not meant to. Doing so would be to reveal that she too had watched it. Besides, what was the use of a warning? It was too late. “I am afraid for Owen.”

“Owen can look after himself,
fach,
” Emrys said. “You don't have to be afraid for him.”

“I walked home from work with Iestyn,” she said. “He signed the Charter but would not join the Association, he told me. He believes in the six points but is not willing to organize to enforce them. But he told me that those who will not join are going to have pressure put on them. Is that right?”

“Iestyn Jones should have been a girl,” Emrys said scornfully. “How old is he, Siân? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen,” she said. “He works as hard as everyone else, Emrys. The fact that he is sweet-natured and that he would love nothing more than to study and be a preacher does not make him into a—girl, as you put it.”