The Wild Seed (33 page)

She patted him gently, as though he was a child. He looked up into her eyes. ‘Cath, let me stay here tonight, just for tonight.’

Catherine took a deep breath. ‘If I let you stay, will you promise that you will go back to Ireland, try to sort things out?’

‘Aye, I’ll promise you that.’

‘And you won’t try to avenge yourself on Boyo because none of this is his fault, take my word for it.’

‘I will not do anything foolish, that’s all I can promise Cath. Before I go back home, I must try to find out who has done this to me. If I don’t do that, then I won’t be able to look at myself in the mirror in the mornings.’

‘Come on, there’s hot water to bathe. You look so tired, Liam, a good night’s sleep will make you feel…’

He caught her hand in his, ‘’Tis not a good night’s sleep I’ll be wanting, Catherine.’

His meaning was clear and she was suddenly angry with him. She turned away to hide the flush that rose to her cheeks and made an effort to compose herself.

‘Liam, I…’

His hand was on her shoulder. ‘Hush, now, no more talking, lead me to this hot bath you spoke of, it sounds like a fine idea to me.’

Catherine sat alone near the fire, her head was aching, she was suddenly weary of the complications in her life. And yet, she had brought it on herself. She had encouraged Liam to make love to her. As for Boyo, she had become his mistress within a matter of days and it was her own fault she had fallen in love with him.

Now she was sick of it all: sick of Boyo, sick of the unhappiness knowing him had caused her. Liam had suffered too, he had lost everything because of her involvement with Boyo Hopkins. He was right, who else would want to harm him or his lands? Only a woman who cared nothing for farmland or the creatures on it.

She sighed heavily and closed her eyes, she was quite sure that Bethan Hopkins was behind the attack on Liam’s farm. Who else would be so cruel, so vengeful? Tomorrow, she would persuade Liam to leave well alone, to go home, try his best to salvage something from the ruins of his livelihood. As for tonight, what was the point in rebuffing him? Surely she owed him the comfort of her arms? That much at least, she could give him.

And yet, later, as she lay beside him in the narrow bed, she was dry-eyed and restless. He was sleeping now like a baby, his arm flung across Catherine’s breast, his curly head against her shoulder. A great tenderness filled her, he was good and kind and he did not deserve the wrongs that had been done to him.

It was a long time before Catherine slept and when she did, she dreamed of Boyo, of his smile, his eyes adoring her. She felt, in sleep, the ecstasy of his lovemaking and she woke to find that she was moaning softly.

She turned quickly, light was filtering in through the window; it was morning. Liam was still asleep and, quietly, Catherine crept out of the bed. She would make breakfast for Liam and send him on his way. Then, perhaps, she would be able to turn her thoughts to the way she was going to run the rest of her life.

Bethan was in her bedroom at the back of the house, staring out at the towering hill that forever cast a shadow over the building. It was a room she had come, if not to like, at least to be comfortable in. She was becoming reclusive and she was aware of it but she lived her life in her own way. Trying to please other people did not always pay dividends.

Bethan lifted her head, listening, she thought she heard a voice, low, sibilant. She turned, there was no-one, only the painting of her ancestor, Elizabeth Llewellyn, the eyes seeming to look through her, into her soul. Bethan was not quite sure what had made her put the portrait in her bedroom, perhaps it was some foolish idea of having a companion, someone who was blood of her blood beside her in the dark, lonely nights.

A knocking on the door jolted her out of her reverie; the young maid stood there, agitated, her thin face white, her eyes round with fear.

‘Come quick, Mrs Hopkins!’

Bethan rose slowly to her feet. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Mr Llewellyn, I think he’s sick.’

Bethan pushed the trembling girl aside and hurried along the landing towards her father’s room. The door stood open, the tray brought by the maid leaning drunkenly on the bed.

‘Father,’ Bethan moved to his side and looked down at the old man in the bed. He seemed diminished since her return to Ty Craig and now his frame made scarcely any impression beneath the bedclothes.

Bethan removed the tray and, with her hand, touched her father’s cheek. It was cold.

‘Daddy! Open your eyes, speak to me!’ She shook him and his head lolled to one side, his mouth gaping toothlessly. Death, Bethan realized, was not the heroic exit from life portrayed by the novelists, death had an ugly face.

She stepped back, away from the still form. ‘Daddy!’ Her voice was thin, far away and then Bethan felt the room spin into a vortex of darkness.

The funeral took place a week later. It was a dark day with clouds scudding over the graveyard but it had remained dry. Bethan listened to the words of the vicar with a feeling of numbness. That body in the coffin was not her father, her father had gone from her without warning, had left her alone in the world.

‘Bethan, I’m sorry to hear of your father’s sudden death, I had no idea he was ill.’

She looked up into Boyo’s face and, in spite of everything, she felt warmed by his presence. ‘I am alone in the world now, what am I going to do?’ She knew it was weak of her to appeal to his sense of guilt but she could not help herself.

He held her arm and stood beside her just as a proper husband would. She leaned against him gratefully. ‘Will you come back to the house with me afterwards?’

‘I can’t, Bethan, I’m sorry, it wouldn’t work, believe me.’

So, even now, in her moment of loss, he would not bend, would not make an effort to comfort her, he was not worthy of her love. She stood upright and took a deep breath.

‘Very well, I will not ask you again.’ She watched the coffin being lowered into the grave, heard the thud of earth on wood and felt suddenly bereft. She had never been close to her father, he had never held her or teased her or played games with her but he had been a good father, a man of great intellect and now he was gone.

Bethan realized how much she had taken him for granted these past months. How little she had considered his needs or his health. She should have noticed he was growing feeble but then she had been worried and upset about her own problems. No-one could blame her for anything; she had done her best by her father she had kept him company in his old age.

In a daze, she walked back to the carriage and climbed into the seat alone. She glanced over the heads of the few people who had come to pay their last respects and saw Boyo mount his horse and without a backward glance, ride away.

For a moment, hate superseded her love for him, how dare he be so insensitive to her needs, he was her husband after all. And what would people think, she, travelling alone back to her home and her husband going off in another direction? And then she was crying. She held her head erect beneath the black hat and veil, her shoulders were square and tense, no-one would see her grief, no-one. Bethan Hopkins had her pride.

For several days after the funeral, Bethan kept to her bed with a chill, brought on by standing in the cold wind at the cemetery. The days had passed in a haze of coughing and sleeping and generally feeling sick.

At last, she opened her eyes and knew she was over the worst. She sat up and drew the bedclothes around her, it was cold in the room and dimly lit. It was night-time.

She looked up at the portrait of Elizabeth. ‘Well, here I am, sick and alone and my husband having a wonderful time with his fancy piece no doubt. Damnation take Catherine O’Conner.’

She heard the bitterness in her voice and then, it was as if Elizabeth was talking to her. There came a soft insistent whispering, it was in Bethan’s head, echoing there, telling her what she must do. Her mission had only just begun, the voice said, retribution was her right, she must claim it.

The presence was near, so close that Bethan knew if she reached out her hand she could touch it. She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes, the spirit would be her solace, her comfort, for there was no-one on earth who cared about her. Her life had become empty, barren. She laughed bitterly, barren, the word was painfully apt.

She brooded on the wrongs that had been done to her. She was alone and unhappy and it was Boyo’s fault. If he had not deserted her, spending every minute he could with that arrogant hussy, everything would have been all right. But show him a pretty face, a young face and he was away like a dog on heat.

‘I hate him,’ she said, to the spirit who leaned above her with the breath of cold winter. ‘That woman has intoxicated my husband, offered him her very obvious charms and he went to her, with no thought for me.’

The spirit sighed and shifted a little and Bethan sank back against the pillows. It was the pain and the despair of Boyo’s betrayal that had robbed Bethan of her child, had brought her to live in a house that was empty now, inhabited only by ghosts of the past.

Oh, she had a great deal to answer for, the red-haired bitch, the sorceress. She had turned everyone against Bethan Hopkins, the citizens of Swansea did not wish to know her, she had no friends. They all saw her as a woman abandoned, ugly, old and alone.

‘They must pay, all of them, for what they have done to me, they must pay, mustn’t they?’ Bethan said softly.

The voice was there again, closer, next to Bethan’s ear and suddenly she knew what it was she must do, she must plot to pay them all back.

Hari Grenfell had taken the O’Conner slut into her so-called business, well she would be the first to feel Bethan’s displeasure. Anyone who crossed her would pay, they would all learn that she was not a woman to trifle with. She allowed the thought to seep into her being. Once she had exacted her revenge, put the record books straight, the world would begin to right itself; Boyo would come to his senses, he would know where it was he belonged. The chain of wicked fascination would be broken. He would have to be punished, of course, he could not be allowed to get away scot-free with the hurt he had inflicted upon his wife. But in the end she would forgive him.

Bethan raised herself onto her elbows and stared out of the window. A grey dawn light was penetrating the gloom now, throwing the rocks outside into relief. The gaunt cliff face was running with rain, dark grey like gravestones. The grave, it was a place of peace, where she would one day rest with her spirit friends but, in the meantime, she had work to do. She must get up and dress herself.

She ate a good breakfast, feeling the strength flow into her body. The tea was hot and sweet; warmed and heartened, she began to make her plans. Bethan knew exactly where she would find Catherine O’Conner; she thought she could hide away, work with Hari Grenfell without anyone knowing, but she did not allow for Bethan’s spies. Uncle Tom had continued to do Bethan’s bidding, taking her advice to employ no more halfwits who would make the same mistakes as Jacob had done.

When the time was right, when her plans were fully formed, Bethan would strike. She did not know exactly how but her voices would tell her. In the meantime, it would be satisfying to destroy all that was close to Catherine O’Conner, all that she had come to hold dear, including her job at the Grenfell Emporium.

A smile curved Bethan’s mouth as she considered the havoc her men had wreaked on that fool, Liam Cullen, the Irishman who had dared to oppose her. His farm was ruined, poisoned, it would take years to restore the fields to healthy land again.

She did not feel one ounce of pity for Cullen. He deserved everything he got, he had enjoyed the charms of Catherine and then, on the order from the slut, he had sought to cross Bethan in her bid to buy Honey’s Farm. Poor foolish man, he did not realize he was no match for the powers that Bethan had at her disposal.

He had been discredited in Swansea, accused of stealing from one of the upright citizens of the town and, though he had been bailed out by his clever lawyer, who had insisted there was no proof that Liam Cullen had taken the brooch, the mud would still stick, Bethan would see to that. The man must suffer, he must pay, as all who crossed Bethan Hopkins must pay.

Hari looked at Doreen’s narrow, sharp face, the bright, intelligent eyes, full of enthusiasm and eased herself back in her chair, pushing aside the accounts she’d been studying; they could wait.

‘So you think Catherine is going to make a first-class saleslady, do you?’

‘I’m sure of it, Mrs Grenfell. I hope you don’t mind me butting in like this but I wanted to tell you how well she’s working out.’

‘That’s very commendable of you, Doreen, but then you always did give praise where it was due.’

Doreen ignored the compliment, though Hari could tell by the blush on the girl’s cheeks that she was pleased.

‘Catherine is willing to be told and she learns fast. I’m even teaching her a bit about the hatting, she’s very bright at picking things up, believe me.’

‘I do believe you. Is it working out at home? It was good of you to rent a room to Catherine, she must have been very lonely living here.’

‘Aye, it’s going well, she’s a nice soul. Daft in the way she thinks of men, mind, she hasn’t yet learned that they are rotters, each and every one.’

Hari knew about the way Doreen’s husband had bullied and abused her. Meadows had chosen to leave his wife only after beating her half to death, and consequently, Doreen had been happier than she had been in years.

Doreen glanced at Hari from under her sparse eyelashes. ‘Got a gentleman caller, she has, mind; that nice Police Constable Danby. She’s not interested though, she still thinks she’s in love with that Mr Hopkins. Wasting her chances she is.’

‘She’s very young,’ Hari said softly. ‘Plenty of time for her to settle down. In any case, these days women have more opportunities to make a success of life alone, you’ve proved that.’

‘You have too, Mrs Grenfell,’ Doreen said quietly. ‘Heard the stories, I have, of how you made yourself rich and famous. I wish I was more like you.’