Longing (9 page)

Good Lord! “Would you not prefer to earn what I have offered you to be a governess?” he asked. “Would you not find the work more pleasant?”

He was surprised to see her lips tighten with what could only be anger. “Can you afford to pay me so much?” she asked. “I thought everyone was suffering with the reduction in iron sales. You included.”

He felt anger too. Was she daring to use sarcasm on him? “Will people suffer?” he asked. “I know that no one likes to have less money than they have been accustomed to. But will there be actual suffering?”

She looked at him and said nothing. He waited for her reply but she obviously had no intention of making any. Mrs. Siân Jones, he
decided, was a prickly woman. Beautiful, but lacking in the sort of soft charm that he expected of women. Her lover doubtless derived enormous pleasure from that luscious body—his eyes strayed downward to her generous, well-formed breasts for a moment and he remembered again how they had felt against his coat—but he had better be a strong man himself, in character as well as body, if he was to hold her tamed. Yet again Alex was not sure that he wanted her teaching any of her qualities to his daughter.

“You are adamant in your answer?” he asked. “You would not like to meet my daughter, perhaps tomorrow, before you give your final answer? She is an eager child and has some charm, I believe.”

“I will be working tomorrow,” she said. “She will be in bed by the time I get home and bathe and have a meal.”

“Is that why you came so late this evening?” he asked. “Do I keep you working for such long hours? You were working this morning.”

“Today was longer than usual,” she said. “I had to stand in line for over an hour, as I do once a week, to collect my wages. All your mine girls do.”

Good Lord. She hated him. It was there in her voice and in her eyes. Had Barnes painted too rosy a picture of his workers and the conditions under which they lived and worked? Was this girl—this woman—typical of the way his other workers felt about him? Or was she the sort of person who felt bitter about life and took it out on anyone who got in her path? It would be interesting to know the story behind her four years at an English school. Any decent private girls' school would have cost many times more for one day than she now earned in a month.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” he said, making her a half bow and turning toward the door. “I will not take any more of your time. Thank you for coming so promptly.” He opened the door and stood to one side.

She did not move for a while. “Will I now be dismissed?” she asked. Her face looked like marble. “I would ask you please not to have my grandfather and my uncle dismissed too. This has nothing to do with them, and they have been good to me.”

He stared at her long and hard. He felt again that he had stepped into an alien world. Was it possible that life could be so cruel in her world? Or was she given to theatrics? He rather suspected the latter.

“Mrs. Jones,” he said, “you are welcome to pull coal carts in my mine for as long as you wish. You appear to enjoy doing so. Your grandfather and your uncle and any other relatives you have may continue with whatever they do in my employ. I am not much given to spite.”

She licked her lips and hesitated. She spoke in a rush. “Not even about the other night?” she asked. “Why have you done nothing? I thought that was what this summons was about.”

“If I had wanted to discuss that matter,” he said, looking closely at her, “I would have summoned your lover, Mrs. Jones.”

Her eyes widened. “My lover?”

“The dark-haired puddler who looks as if he is also a prize-fighter,” he said. “I would speak to him, Mrs. Jones. But I choose not to. Not yet, anyway.”

She seemed about to say something else. Thank you, perhaps. But instead she hurried across the room and past him without another word. He stepped into the doorway and nodded to a servant who was standing close to the outer doors. The man opened them for her and then closed them quietly behind her.

Alex stood staring broodingly at the closed doors before turning abruptly and climbing the stairs back to the haven of his library. Perhaps it was as well she had refused, he thought. He was not at all sure she was the sort of woman he would want as Verity's companion and teacher. And he was not at all sure it would be good for him to have her living in his house, close to him whenever he was at home.

In fact, he was quite sure it would not be good for him. The thought definitely had its attraction, of course—as temptation always did.

Alex smiled suddenly despite himself. Siân Jones might lack charm and wisdom, but she was abounding in courage. She had been
afraid at the start and afraid at the end, but between times she had quite effectively spat in his eye—metaphorically speaking.

It was a shame he was to have no further dealings with her.

Tomorrow he would have to decide whether he was going to send to London or go to Newport himself. He did not particularly relish doing either. He sighed as he sat down in the library again and picked up his book.

T
HE
following evening Siân waited for Owen to come to take her to the weekly choir practice at the chapel. Her grandfather had gone already. Emrys, though he had a good voice, never went since the practices took place in the chapel and both the mixed choir and the male voice choir were conducted by the Reverend Llewellyn. Emrys had no use for the preacher though he had admitted years ago that the words spoken at his wife's funeral had been meant to comfort rather than chastise him.

“Llewellyn is a fool,” he was fond of saying. “He preaches acceptance of our lot when we should be fighting to change it.”

Even the fact that the Reverend Llewellyn had attended the Chartist meeting and led it in prayer and signed the Charter did not mollify Siân's uncle. The preacher had not joined the Association and had spoken out against it. It was right to ask for changes, he had said, but it was not right to insist.

“Bloody idiot,” Emrys had said before being commanded by his father to apologize to the women for using such language in the house.

Siân always looked forward to choir evenings. Singing was the most relaxing thing in the world to do, she always thought, and one of the most joyous, especially when one sang in company with a hundred or more others who loved it as much. Actually to call the mixed group a choir was rather comical since it consisted of at least three quarters of the Sunday congregation. And they did not really need to practice since they all knew the hymns by heart—some of
them had to do so if they could not read—and were well familiar with their own particular part. Hymns in chapel were always sung in four-part harmony.

The male voice choir always practiced after the mixed one. Siân thought it unfair that men singing in harmony together sounded so much lovelier than women or mixed voices. But she loved to stay and listen to the men. They did not practice in order to sing in chapel—the women would not have consented to be quiet themselves since it was mainly to sing that they went to chapel. The male voice choir practiced to sing competitively. They sang a few times each year at minor competitions and once a year at the big
eisteddfod,
or music and poetry festival, that was held in one of the valleys. This year it was to be in the neighboring valley. The Cwmbran male voice choir had been beaten only twice in the past ten years—both times by their bitterest rival.

The
eisteddfod
was the big social and cultural event of the year in the valleys. Cwmbran would virtually empty out on that day while all its people trekked over the mountain to whistle and cheer for friends and relatives and to hiss and heckle rivals. It was also the big annual hunting ground for young people. Many an intervalley courtship began at the
eisteddfod
.

There was a knock on the door and Siân jumped to her feet, smiling. Owen let himself in and greeted her grandmother, who was mending one of Emrys's shirts.

“Ready for choir, are you then, Siân?” he asked. “Sharpened your voice, have you?”

“I hope not too much,” she said, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders. She took his arm as they stepped outside. She was feeling almost lighthearted again after several days of anxiety. Everyone at home had approved her refusal of the job she had been offered last night—though treacherously she sometimes found herself wishing that she had given herself a little longer to make up her mind. The Marquess of Craille, though he knew Owen's identity, was not going to do anything about the meeting he had observed—not yet anyway. She chose to ignore the suggestion of a threat in those last words.
Mari had accepted with tearful gratitude the half of her wage pack that Gran had given back to Siân, though she had sworn that Huw would kill her if he found out. There had been no reaction at work today to the reduction of wages except for a few sullen murmurings. Perhaps there would be no serious talk of a strike after all. And during the day Siân had convinced herself that no harm would come to Iestyn. He was just a boy, and he had signed the Charter after all. The Scotch Cattle had just been flexing their muscles, letting everyone know that they were still around.

“I love choir evening,” she said. “It will be lovely just to sing and sing.”

Owen smiled at her. “Stay for male voice practice, will you, then?” he asked. “And I will walk you home afterward?”

“I'll stay for a while,” she said. “Maybe not to the end, though, Owen. Sometimes it goes late if the Reverend Llewellyn is not satisfied.”

“A perfectionist he is,” Owen said.

“I know.” The warmth of the summer air was acting like a tonic on her tired body. It had been unnaturally warm and dry for a few weeks. “Owen, I was called up to the castle last evening. The Marquess of Craille offered me a job teaching his young daughter.”

He looked at her in some amazement. “Going up in the world again, Siân, are you?” he said. “I should bow to you and kiss your hand?”

“Silly.” She laughed. “He had heard about my going to school in England. But he also wants his daughter to learn Welsh.”

“Queer,” he said. “What did you say?”

“No, of course,” she said.

She expected him to react as her family had reacted. They had assured her that she had done the right thing. Uncle Emrys had echoed her grandmother's fears. The Marquess of Craille could have only one reason for wanting to lure her to his castle, he had said. She expected Owen to be even more protective of her.

“Perhaps you should have gone,” he said. “It would have got you out of the mine, Siân. I hate the thought of you working down there. It is not right.”

She was touched. “But other women have to,” she said. “I am no different from them, Owen.”

“But you are,” he said. “You are brave and stubborn to a fault, Siân Jones, but you are ten times the lady any of them are.”

“You know that I don't want to be,” she said. “You know that I want more than anything to belong, Owen.” Perhaps it was a hopeless dream. Although she did not think herself better than anyone else in Cwmbran, she did know that she was different. That somehow, in some ways, she did not quite fit in. Although most people were perfectly friendly toward her, she had no particular friend or friends, apart from Owen and Iestyn. No women friends except perhaps Angharad Lewis, with whom a bond had been created when their husbands had died together. But even that friendship had cooled since Angharad and Emrys had stopped seeing each other. Most of the other women treated Siân as if she was a little above their level. “You think I ought to have taken the job, then?”

Owen shrugged. “Well, it is too late now if you have already said no,” he said. “But you could have kept your ears open there, Siân. It is always useful to know something about the movements of the owners and what they are saying and thinking.”

Siân frowned. “You mean that you would want me to act as a kind of spy?” she asked. “What a horrid idea.”

“You think Barnes does not have his spies among us?” he asked. “Why should Craille be shut up in his castle like a god when we have to be looking over our shoulders all the time? It amazes me that Barnes did not get wind of the Chartist meeting the other night. He usually finds out somehow.”

The subject had been switched slightly. Siân did not return it to the unpleasant suggestion that she take a post in the marquess's home in order to spy on him and report back to Owen.

“The Scotch Cattle gave Iestyn a warning the night before last,” she said. “Did you know?”

“Him and two others,” he said. “You have some influence with him, Siân. Advise him to pay his penny and be done with it.”

“He will not,” she said. “He listened to the Reverend Llewellyn
and he agrees with him. Iestyn can be stubborn when he believes in something.”

“Advise him,” he said. “It is not worth taking a beating up on the mountain for the sake of a penny.”

“It is not just the penny,” she said. She was growing frightened again suddenly. “They would not really hurt him, would they, Owen? He is just a boy. And he went to the meeting and signed. He is not against the Charter.”

“It is not enough just not to be against something,” Owen said. “Sometimes you have to be for something,
fach
. Especially when your whole way of life and your dignity as a man are at stake. And the freedom of your people.”

“That sounds almost revolutionary,” she said. “What is the purpose of the Association, anyway? If the Charter is rejected by Parliament, there is nothing else to be done, is there?” She was very much afraid that there was a great deal more to be done. She remembered learning all about the French Revolution at school. And that had happened not so very long ago.

“We will not let the matter drop,” he said.

They were approaching the chapel. There were several other of their acquaintances making their way along the pavements toward it.

“Owen,” she said quickly and quietly, “don't let them do anything to Iestyn. Do you know who they are? Do you know any of them?”

“No one knows who Scotch Cattle are,
fach,
” he said.

“Someone must,” she said. “I thought you might. You are one of the leaders of the men. The main leader, in fact.”

He smiled and returned the greeting of one of his friends.

“There must be something you can do,” Siân said. “Someone you can contact. Please, Owen? He is just a boy acting out of conscience. He is a threat to no one. Please do something. Please see to it that he is not punished. Not beaten, anyway.” The thought of anyone being dragged up the mountain and whipped horrified her. To picture Iestyn . . . “Owen, please try to do something. For my sake?”

He covered her hand with his and patted it. “I'll see what I can
do,” he said. “But I don't know Scotch Cattle, Siân, or have any influence with them at all. Just get him to pay his penny. It is the easiest solution.”

Siân sighed as they stepped inside the chapel. It was not the easiest solution when one was up against a boy with strong convictions and religious faith. But she was not going to get herself all upset again. Deep down she was convinced that no harm would come to Iestyn. Just the warning and the fear it engendered were punishment enough to a young boy who had not totally defied his leaders.

She stepped past two women in one of the pews and took her usual seat between Mrs. Beynon and Ceris Pritchard in the soprano section. Owen made his way to join the baritones.

“I am in the mood for singing,” Mrs. Beynon announced. “We will raise the roof off between us, will we, Siân Jones?”

“At least one foot straight up in the air,” Siân agreed, laughing.

The Reverend Llewellyn, standing in the high pulpit, rapped on it with his baton to call for silence. Like chapel on Sundays, choir was never late starting. It was more likely to begin two minutes early.

*   *   *

Despite
the overall warmth of the evening, there was a chilly breeze that would quite likely feel downright cold up on the hills. Or so Verity's nurse said when her charge begged Alex to take her there for an evening walk again. They would stroll through the town instead, he suggested, not to ruffle Nurse's feathers. Nevertheless his daughter was bundled inside a cloak and bonnet before she was allowed over the doorstep. Nurses were of a tyrannical breed, Alex thought, remembering his own.

A few children were playing on the streets and stopped to stare at them as they passed. But both were used to such a reaction at home. Apart from the children, the town seemed almost deserted.

Alex did not make conversation with his daughter. He had something of a headache and was feeling irritable. It was the unaccustomed feeling of lack of power, he supposed. And the helpless frustration of not knowing or understanding what he should know and understand.

He did not know anything about the ironmaking and coal-mining industries or even about business in general. He knew nothing about industrial workers. He knew nothing about Wales or the Welsh. He had almost made up his mind in the course of the afternoon to have his trunks packed and to return forthwith to his familiar estate in England, never to return. But he was too stubborn to give in so soon. He would be damned before he would run away.

He had studied the company books carefully during the morning. He had glanced at them before, but without real consideration. He was appalled at the wages his workers were receiving, especially when he remembered that this week they were to be lowered by ten percent. But then he was ashamed to admit that he did not know much about prices. Was it possible to live comfortably on such wages, as Barnes and Fowler claimed? Perhaps it was.

His curiosity had taken him to the company shop, called the truck shop. His arrival there had caused something of a sensation, he had felt. Certainly the three women who were shopping there when he went in went scurrying out with such haste that it seemed they must have thought he brought the plague with him.