Longing (40 page)

But Alex did not dismiss him. The man had himself been whipped and had had all his furniture destroyed before his very eyes. And he had a wife and five children to support.

Alex sent him back to work with only one penance to perform. Gwilym Jenkins was to attend the meeting in the chapel, and he was to bring his wife with him if any of the children were old enough to look after the others.

And then there was Josiah Barnes to be dealt with. The man had worked hard for twelve years and made the Cwmbran mine and works efficient and profitable. If he had run the industry harshly, then so had every other owner in the surrounding valleys. And yet the man had done some dastardly things. He had allowed chagrin over the fact that Siân had refused to marry him seven years ago to fester in him and turn into vicious spite. And that spite had hurt her reputation and caused her anguish and terror and severe physical harm. In the Newport march it might have cost her her liberty or even her life—Alex frequently found himself waking up from sleep in a cold sweat, remembering how close she had been to Parry when the latter had been killed. The bullet might just as easily have taken her life.

Barnes just might have been a murderer.

And so Barnes was dismissed from his job. Alex forced himself to treat the matter in a dispassionate, professional manner, though his hands itched to deal out punishment as they had dealt it out to Owen Parry after the whipping. Barnes was summoned to the office, given a chance to defend himself, and dismissed when he could not do so. He was dismissed without a reference. Alex had agonized over that point, imagining what sort of a future he was dooming his former agent to. But he could not in all conscience vouch for the man's character and integrity to another prospective employer.

He gave Josiah Barnes three days to leave his cottage and Cwmbran.

“If I see you here after that time, I will physically remove you myself,” he said coldly, face-to-face with a furious, defiant Barnes. “If I ever hear of your being within a one-mile radius of Mrs. Jones, I will kill you. I will not ask if you understand. You are dismissed.”

“You will be bankrupt before spring,” Josiah Barnes said. “All
your workers will be starving and rioting. I will greet the news with all delight.”

Alex looked steadily and coldly at him until he turned and stalked from the room.

And there was another call to be made. Alex did not want to summon Angharad Lewis to the castle. He did not want to frighten her. He found out where her father lived and paid a call on her there.

She answered the door herself, half hiding in the shadow behind it. Alex looked, appalled, at bruised cheeks, a blackened eye, swollen closed, and a swollen lip. She disappeared completely behind the door when she saw him.

“Ah, Angharad,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door quietly. “Barnes?”

“He found out,” she said. “He guessed. But I don't care. Siân Jones came back alive.”

“Oh, my dear,” he said, “I am so sorry.” He closed his eyes briefly and remembered telling Gwilym Jenkins that he would be speaking with him on his return from Newport. Jenkins would have reported to Barnes, and Barnes would have drawn the obvious conclusion. And yet he, Alex, had promised her that no one would ever know who had told him. “Are there hidden bruises too?”

“It doesn't matter,” she said. But she blurted as he took her hands in his, “He took me over his knee. Just like a naughty child. It still hurts to sit down. I am glad he never married me. I would have seen him more clearly from the start if he was not rich and powerful, I suppose. There is wicked I was to want to move up in the world. I deserved what I got. That is what my dada says. I will be run out of chapel if the Reverend Llewellyn finds out.”

Alex squeezed her hands. “You have a good heart, Angharad,” he said. “You put yourself in danger and gave up your hopes for the sake of your friend. No one can show any greater love than that—I am sure you know the Bible as well as I do, if not better.”

She hung her head and looked suddenly self-conscious with her hands in his. He released them.

“You work for the minister,” he said. “And you worked for Barnes. And Parry too, I believe?”

She swallowed and nodded.

“I would like to offer you employment at the castle if you are interested,” he said. “Miss Haines has been complaining of too few maids now that my daughter and I are in residence.” Miss Haines had complained of no such thing. “Would you like to call on her and discuss the matter—perhaps next week when your face should be back to rights?”

Angharad regarded him from one wide eye. “Oh,” she said. “Yes, please. I'll be getting a pension, but I do like to work.”

He smiled. “I shall tell Miss Haines to expect you one day next week, then,” he said, his hand on the door latch. “And thank you again, Angharad, for your courage and your goodness. I shall consider myself in your debt for a long time to come.”

“Thank you, my lordship,” she said, looking flustered, as he let himself out.

Perhaps it was as well, he thought as he strode along the street, that he had visited her after his dismissal of Barnes. He was tempted even now to call at the lodge cottage on his way home and beat the stuffing out of the man. But he would not do it. Violence only seemed to breed more violence. And when all was said and done, the loss of his job and all his prospects was probably the worst possible punishment for Josiah Barnes.

Yes, it was the best possible course he could take, he decided during the first few days after his return from Newport, to keep himself busy, to keep his mind active, to fill his leisure hours with amusing his daughter. He would not think about Siân until after Christmas. Until after she had gone.

Perhaps then it would be safe to think about her. And safe to remember.

But not now. Not yet.

*   *   *

If
possible, the chapel was more crowded than it was for Sunday services on the morning of Owen Parry's funeral. There were a few
who had always openly opposed him and more who had been intimidated by his physical strength and his power. There were those who had been shocked by the revelation that he was a member of the Scotch Cattle and that he had actually participated in the raid that had carried off his fiancée for whipping. There were those—mostly women—who blamed him for the fiasco of the demonstration on Newport, though by some miracle he had been the only casualty of that march from Cwmbran.

But there was scarcely a person in Cwmbran who did not respect him and who did not feel that his loss somehow diminished them all. Besides, he had been one of their own, and despite everything—despite the heightened feelings of the past months and the fears and the violence—their sense of community was central to their very lives.

Owen Parry had no remaining family. But in a sense every man, woman, and child in Cwmbran was his family. They turned out in force to mourn him and to raise the roof off the chapel with their singing so that he could not miss hearing them even from his place in heaven. They came to lay him to rest and to sing again in the cemetery across the river, under the wide sky, in case after all the chapel roof had prevented their songs of praise from reaching him in heaven.

The male voice choir lined up in their usual order, a deliberate and conspicuous space between two of the baritones to show that someone was missing, that the choir was the poorer for his absence. They sang
“Hiraeth”
for one who no longer had to feel the nameless longings that only prisoners of the flesh felt. They sang
“Hiraeth”
for one who had progressed past longing into the great fulfillment of the hereafter.

Siân sat in her grandfather's pew at the front of the church and later stood close to the open grave, too numb to weep. He had wanted to marry her—she might now be experiencing widowhood again. He had wanted her to go up the mountain with him. He had threatened her with violence if she ever crossed his will after marriage. He had threatened violence to save her from a whipping. And then he had
participated in that night of terror and violence—and had persuaded those with him to reduce her sentence from twenty to fifteen lashes. He had stopped the whipping when he had seen her biting her lips to shreds and stuffed a rag between her teeth for her to bite on. He had had her bound when he found her among the men on the march to Newport. He had cursed and yelled at her when he found her on the square before the Westgate Inn.

And then he had died for her.

She had held him in her arms as he died. He had called her
cariad.

Owen. It was impossible to believe that the cold, silent coffin held Owen. All that power and energy and determination and passion and tenderness.

Owen.

Her eyes were drawn unwillingly to the gap in the lines of the male voice choir when they were out in the cemetery. And back to the coffin being lowered into the earth. As Mam had been lowered. And Gwyn. And Dafydd.

Owen. Ah, Owen.

Emrys's arm came about her shoulders and held her like a vise. And finally she felt the tears course down her cheeks and drip off her chin. She would not brush them away, or look away from the fact of his death, or hide her face against Emrys's shoulder.

Love had many faces. Owen had worn one of them. She did not try to hide from the pain of her grief for him or try to analyze the love she had felt for him. She had loved him and she grieved for his death.

He had been a part of her life. A part of her life was gone with him.

The Marquess of Craille was standing close by when she finally turned away from the grave. She had known he was at the chapel though she had not once turned her head to see. She had known he was at the cemetery. He took the few steps that separated them now.

“I loved him,” she said, looking up into his eyes.

He did not smile though there was a smile in him. She felt it. “I
know,” he said gently. And he took both her cold hands in his, squeezed them almost painfully, and raised one of them to his lips. “I am sorry for your grief, Siân.”

Emrys still had an arm about her shoulders. She did not know or care who else saw or heard.

I loved him. I love you.
The many faces of love.

The many faces of pain.

E
MRYS
knew that Josiah Barnes was leaving. Everyone knew that. Emrys even knew the full reason, though rumor had to suffice for most people. He knew that Barnes was to leave the day of the funeral. But it was not until he was at the funeral that he found out what had happened to Angharad Lewis.

He took Siân home and left her in the care of his mother before changing out of his Sunday clothes and paying a call at the lodge house in Glanrhyd Park. He prayed as he strode through the town and past the ironworks that Barnes had not already left.

He had not.

Angharad's father had gone to the Three Lions with a crowd of other men after the funeral. She was at home alone when Emrys knocked on the door. She only half opened it and peeped fearfully around it.

“Oh,” she said, leaving the door ajar and hurrying away from it into the room, “it is you. Dada is at the pub.”

“Angharad,” he said, stepping inside the house and shutting the door behind him, “Craille has sent him away. But even if he had not, Barnes would not be bothering you again.”

She turned her head and looked over her shoulder. He was holding up his hands, palms in. His knuckles were red and raw. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Sit down at the table,” she said, “and I will bathe your hands for you.”

He did as she told him and sat in silence while she filled a bowl,
half with cold water and half with water from the kettle on the fire. She selected a soft cloth from a drawer and then came to stand beside him at the table. She bathed his hands with trembling care.

“Shall I find bandages?” she asked when she had finished. She had not once looked up into his face.

“Don't be daft,” he said.

She stepped back. “Go, then, Emrys Rhys,” she said. “And thank you.”

“Angharad,” he said softly, “I have applied for Owen Parry's job and his house. Maybe I won't get either. But Craille is talking about building more houses in the spring.”

“Look at me,” Angharad said, though she did not look at him. “I deserved every one of these bruises and the ones you cannot see. I am a whore and an informer.”

“We all do stupid things sometimes,” he said. “You are still Angharad to me,
fach.
”

She hung her head, but he could see the glisten of tears in her eyes.

“I went back to chapel today for Owen's funeral,” he said. “It wasn't so bad. I would like to go back again—for a wedding.”

Angharad sobbed and set the back of one hand against her mouth.

“But I may not get the job,” he said. “I may not get a house of my own until next summer. Perhaps not even then.”

“I would live with your mam and your dada and ten other people as well,” she said, “if you were in the house too, Emrys Rhys.”

“Would you?” he said. “Will you come with me for that wedding, then, Angharad?”

“Yes,” she said. “If you can forgive me.”

He stood up and reached out a hand toward her. “Come and be kissed then, is it?” he said. “I'll see if I can kiss you without hurting the poor lip.”

“I don't mind if you hurt it,” she said, hurrying into his arms. “I don't mind. Emrys. Ah, Emrys, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“Sh,” he said, “and let me kiss you. And then we will forget all about the past. After this kiss,
fach.
”

He kissed her and gave them a long time in which to forget.

Sir John Fowler had written to Siân three times during the week, but he had not yet heard from the Crowthers in Carmarthenshire. It was to be the cottage, then, until they did hear. Perhaps until after Christmas. He was coming for her tomorrow. Her bag was packed—she really had very few possessions—and most of the farewells had been said. Just Grandad and Emrys in the morning and Gran whenever her father arrived.

Farewells were so difficult to say. Even Huw, when it had come his turn, had hugged her as if he was trying to break every bone in her body. And the Reverend Llewellyn had tried to crush every bone in her hand.

Angharad was happy. Despite the severe beating she had suffered at the hands of Josiah Barnes, she was happy. She had been offered a maid's job at Glanrhyd Castle, but she had found a better job than that. She was going to marry Emrys before Christmas. And Iestyn had a job at the castle too, as Alexander's secretary. He was happier than Siân had ever seen him. And it was not just the happiness that the sweetness of his nature imposed on him, but the happiness of dreams beginning to come true. It shone out of him.

And all because of Alexander.

She could not think of Alexander.

His meeting had taken place the night before. The Sunday School hall had been so full that the meeting had been moved to the chapel itself. Everyone had wanted to talk, Emrys had reported. And things were to happen—a school within a month, waterworks in the spring as soon as the cold weather was at an end, a minimum wage at the works and mine, a public library. The list went on and on.

Almost all the things she had told him she would do if she had unlimited supplies of time and money, Siân thought. As if he were offering her one more gift.

But she would not think of Alexander. Not yet. Not when she was still in danger of rushing off to him for one last good-bye.

She had not seen him since Owen's funeral.

There was one more good-bye, though. And she would do it now
in the afternoon, before the early winter dusk came down. She had to say good-bye to Cwmbran.

She took the route she had taken so often with Owen, up onto the lower hills, reliving their evenings together. She stood still and looked down at the town, ignoring the November wind, which whipped at her cloak and made wild tangles of her loose hair.

Glanrhyd Castle half hidden among the trees of the park. The works below it with smoke curling from the tall chimneys and a general look of grayness about buildings and yards. The houses in terraces rising above one another as the streets ascended from the valley floor. The coal tips and colliery wheel farther down the valley with greenness beyond. The river, looking clean from up here and soon to be clean indeed. The chapel. The footbridge across the river and the cemetery beyond.

And the people. Her family, Gwyn's family, the neighbors, her choir partners, Glenys Richards, who played the harp for her, Angharad, her friends from the mine, the Reverend Llewellyn, Verity, Alexander.

Siân turned sharply suddenly and began to climb higher, away from the pain. But she took it with her. It was not easy to say good-bye even when it was to something as inanimate as a valley and hills and a town. Oh, it was not easy to say good-bye.

She had never felt that she fully belonged. Because she had not grown up there, because she was half English and illegitimate, because her upbringing and education made her different from the other townspeople, she had always felt that she was not fully a part of Cwmbran. She had tried in so many ways to belong, to fit in. She had taken a job, even when that had meant working in the mine. She had married Gwyn, a fellow miner. She had joined the chapel and the choir. She had taught in the Sunday School. She had agreed to marry Owen. But she had always felt that she had somehow failed. She had never felt that she belonged.

She had been wrong. She realized that now it was time to leave, now that she was saying good-bye. She belonged.

She was climbing up toward the meeting place. But she paused
in one hollow and crossed to a rock face. She laid one hand flat against it. He had set her back against it while he questioned her about the Chartist meeting. She had become suddenly frightened that he intended to rape her. She had threatened to scream. And he had kissed her. A blond, handsome English stranger.

She continued on her way up to the meeting place and stood on the spot where she had twice hidden to observe a meeting. It was quiet and deserted now. And the town below was quiet and peaceful.

Her town. Her valley. Her people.

Belonging did not always mean being the same as everyone else. Belonging meant accepting and being accepted, loving and being loved. She remembered being hugged and kissed outside the
eisteddfod
pavilion by almost everyone from Cwmbran. She remembered being lifted to the shoulders of some of the men and carried in triumph. Not just her personal triumph, but theirs. Cwmbran's.

She was different. She would always be different. But people had come to accept her and even love her for what she was. She could see that now that it no longer mattered. This was good-bye. She felt a sharp stabbing of grief as she looked down at her valley. Her mother's valley. Her people's valley. Hers.

She turned and toiled on upward, not looking back, not even knowing where she was going until she arrived there.

One final good-bye. She stood looking down at the spot on which Alexander had first made love to her. It was a chilly day, though she was sheltered from the wind when she sat down. The ground was dry—there had been no rain since the day of the march to Newport.

She sat hugging her knees and gazing downward. The end. Tomorrow would be a new beginning. She did not know what was ahead. She could not know. But today it did not matter. Today was an end. Good-bye to Cwmbran. Good-bye to her people. Good-bye to Alexander.

Alexander. Alexander.

She set her forehead against her knees and closed her eyes. And allowed herself to remember and to touch despair again.

She sat thus for a long time.

*   *   *

The
meeting had gone well. It had exceeded his most optimistic expectations, in fact, in both numbers and enthusiasm. The Reverend Llewellyn had begun it with a long prayer, beginning in English and switching to Welsh as the emotion grew. Ideas Alex had suggested were accepted with eagerness, but he had not had to suggest many. Soon the people had taken charge of the meeting, pleasing him with the good sense and practicality of their insights. Iestyn had recorded it all with meticulous thoroughness despite the fact that he had only one workable arm.

Committees had been formed to investigate some ideas and to make definite plans and proposals—the location and size and design of a schoolhouse, for example. But no one—including Alex—had been willing to fall into the trap of losing momentum and enthusiasm by waiting for committee reports. Much could be done without delay. The chapel and the Sunday School hall would serve as a school for the time being. A teacher was to be hired as soon as possible. Perhaps the school could be in operation by the new year.

Siân's name had been suggested.

Alex had felt a wave of approval from his people, an acceptance that he had felt only on brief occasions before, like the day of the
eisteddfod.
He felt respect from his people, almost affection. In his prayer, before he had switched to Welsh, the Reverend Llewellyn had given thanks for an owner who cared enough for his workmen to follow after them to Newport and diligently to protect their lives and freedom there so that there had been only one casualty. The Lord would forgive him for the untruths he had felt compelled to tell in order to do so. There had been a chorus of fervent amens while Alex, with bowed head, had smiled.

It had all been very wonderful. And yet now, the day after, he could not shake off a feeling of depression that was threatening to
spoil it all. A general flatness of mood just at the time when he should be feeling most elated. Verity was gone for the day. Lady Fowler and Tess had invited her to spend it with them and had sent a carriage late in the morning.

He felt lonely without Verity.

He felt lonely.

After a solitary luncheon he wandered about his study, watching Iestyn writing some letters and knowing that his idleness and his restlessness were making the boy self-conscious. He went out onto the hills so that he would be a burden to no one but himself.

The wind was invigorating. It was a chilly day, but more because of the wind than anything else. There was none of the icy dampness in the air that was so characteristic of this part of the world.

He wandered across the lower hills, pausing frequently to look down into the valley. It was all so familiar now. He could picture individual streets, and his eyes could alight on some individual houses and know who lived in them. The works were familiar and the mine. The chapel was familiar—focal point of the spiritual and social life of Cwmbran. Focal point of their wonderful music. Soon to be a temporary school.

And the hills were familiar. They were a mere extension of the town below. He had wandered them frequently. He had first met Siân in the hills. He glanced up to the spot, close by, and strolled up to it. Just here. He set his palms against the rock and leaned toward it, his eyes closed. She had been frightened and courageous and defiant. He had kissed her.

He pushed himself away from the rock.

The hills were meeting place, playground, recreation area, courting place, and more. He remembered the whole town trekking over the mountain to the next valley for the
eisteddfod,
taking Glenys Richards's harp with them. He remembered the wonderful, heartwarming absurdity of the
gymanfa ganu
on top of the mountain.