Daughters of Rebecca (3 page)

The woman uttered something unintelligible and Shanni hid a smile. Mrs Davies was quite old, of course, almost thirty-five, and a widow, but even so she was far younger than the housekeeper, who would not see fifty again.

‘Going to meetings, talking about violence.' Mrs Pollard was on her soap-box. ‘Decent women should know their place. Didn't we have enough trouble in 'thirty-four when the Poor Law came in? A riot there was in Brecon, and the Swansea Yeomanry sent to sort it out. Brought back dead, some of them.' She shook her head. ‘I don't know what the world is coming to, these days.'

Shanni remained silent. What did the old woman know of injustice? She had spent her life waiting on rich folk. She had not known the shame of poverty or of being alone in the world. Shanni was not so fortunate: she had been born in a hovel, had learned to hate the way society treated the poor in general and women in particular.

‘Well, what have you to say for yourself, Shanni Price?' She sniffed. ‘Who would call a girl Shanni, I ask you? A fancy enough name for a child from the slums, wouldn't you say?'

Shanni remained silent. What use was there in talking? Action was needed: action against the rich, action against the men who wielded power. She had heard only yesterday about poor Sally Jones. The girl was only twelve years old and a
prostitute. She had been dragged to the sessions not because of her trade but because she dared to take away a copper kettle from an alehouse. For that small crime she was sentenced to transportation to some far-flung country. It seemed to Shanni that there was one law for the rich and quite a different one for the poor.

‘Take your mam,' Mrs Pollard said. ‘I hear she was fooling around with Dan Spencer and carrying his babba.' Mrs Pollard had a spiteful gleam in her eyes. ‘Lying in the bed of a married man is disgusting. What that man's poor wife had to go through is no-one's business.'

‘It's none of yours either.' Shanni stood up and stared at the older woman. ‘But, then, no man married or single would take you to his bed and that's why you are so bitter!'

For a moment Mrs Pollard was silent then she screamed and held her hand to her brow. ‘Oh, Mrs Davies, fetch me some water quick, I've come over all faint-like.'

Mrs Davies obeyed, helping the older woman into a chair. ‘Go to the master, Mrs Davies, there's a dear. Tell him Mrs Pollard can't work today because of this dreadful girl. He must dismiss her. It's her or me. I won't stay under the same roof as her.'

Mrs Davies hesitated, but Shanni smiled slowly. ‘Don't worry, I'm leaving! I can't stay here with you, Mrs Pollard. You've an evil tongue and I hope you rot in hell!'

Shanni ran upstairs to her room. It took only a few minutes to put her clothes into a bag. She would have to take her maid's skirts with her. It
might be stealing, but the rags she had arrived in had been burned in the brazier in the garden.

Shanni felt the cool of the day on her cheeks as she left the house. She was half-way down the drive when she heard the sound of carriage wheels behind her.

‘Shanni Price, where do you think you're going?' Mrs Mainwaring was leaning over the side of the carriage, her eyes alight with amusement. ‘I hear you told poor Mrs Pollard a few home truths.' She laughed, a pretty, ladylike sound.

‘Come on, climb in. I suppose I'll have to take you in myself.' Mrs Mainwaring moved over to make room on the seat and, after a moment's hesitation, Shanni climbed aboard.

‘You're a bright girl, Shanni Price. How would you like to read and write and do figures?'

‘I can read – a bit,' Shanni said defensively. Then she relaxed. ‘I would like very much to be clever, to figure out sums and to write proper words.'

‘Then that's what you shall do.' Mrs Mainwaring smiled. ‘No more cheeking your elders, though. Is it a bargain?'

Shanni looked into the face of the older woman and saw only kindness. She remembered how gentle Mrs Mainwaring had been with Mam, how brave she had been to send the crowd of howling women packing.

She wanted to thank her but the words would not come, and for the first time since her mother died Shanni gave way to the hot, painful tears that she had long wanted to shed.

SHANNI SAT IN
her bedroom at the top of the house in Pottery Row and looked around her. The curtains on the windows were of heavy material, clearly expensive, and the cotton sheets on the bed were spotless. She hugged herself in pleasure. She had a room to herself, not like the kitchen-maids who huddled three together.

Shanni put down the book she was trying to read. Sometimes she thought she would never learn to be fluent with her words the way that Mrs Mainwaring was. Still, she was getting better every day, even she could see that, and Shanni tried hard to learn. She wanted to please Mrs Mainwaring, to show that she was grateful for being taken into her home. Shanni had no idea what she would have done if Mrs Mainwaring had failed to notice her rapid departure from the Morton-Edwards household.

Shanni had come to admire Mrs Mainwaring; she was a woman who knew her mind, who took no cheek from anyone. Shanni had heard how bravely she had run the pottery when she was little more than a girl, and here she was now, a
rich, successful businesswoman. It was an achievement Shanni dearly wanted to emulate.

Shanni moved to the window and stared out at the neat gardens below. A fountain spiralled water that fell like diamonds back into the stone bowl; the birds were singing in the trees and the sun dappled the lawns. Beyond the walls and to the left of the house stood the pottery. The kilns were always in use, shimmering with heat, but from her window Shanni could see nothing but beauty and greenery.

Whenever she thought of the past weeks, she comforted herself that she was not the only one to lose her mother in tragic circumstances. It had even happened to Mrs Mainwaring. She had not given in to an unfair fate but had worked night and day to make a success of the business that had once belonged to her father.

And just look what she had now: a place in society, a handsome husband and a fine son. Lonely and alone, Mrs Mainwaring had found the courage to flout the unwritten rules of polite society and marry an outsider.

Shanni could never imagine herself living with someone so different, a man from a land far away across the sea. But Joe Mainwaring was a good man, as far as Shanni could judge. He had strong features and lovely blue eyes, and he would never betray his wife the way some of the other rich folk did. Poor folks, too, come to that.

Her eyes narrowed as she thought of the way Dan Spencer had made a fool of her mother. He had ruined the lives of two families and escaped unscathed. No-one in Swansea blamed him for
Dora Price's humiliating death yet the townsfolk had poured scorn on Llinos Mainwaring's marriage to an American-Indian.

Shanni sank into the window-seat and rested her head against the cool panes of glass, fighting back the tears. She was lucky to have found a benefactor who cared about her and wanted her to get on in the world. And she would prove that Mrs Mainwaring had acted wisely, whatever effort it took. She would make her so proud, make her glad she had taken in a poor girl from the slums. Mrs Mainwaring had no daughter, only one son who was away at school in England. Shanni would not presume to imagine she was the daughter Mrs Mainwaring had never had, but she came damned close to it.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. She brushed the tears from her eyes and patted her hair into place.

‘Miss Price, you're wanted downstairs.' The voice of Flora, the youngest of the maids, sounded shaky and timid. Shanni felt angry with the girl: she should not be humble; she should not believe herself beneath anyone.

‘Coming, Flora.' Shanni opened the door and the girl stepped back respectfully. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Miss, but there's visitors and Mrs Mainwaring wants you to meet them.'

‘Flora, straighten up!' Shanni said firmly. ‘You do not have to bob a curtsy to me. I'm just a girl from the slums, remember?'

‘Right, Miss.' Flora stepped aside and made way for Shanni to pass her on the stairs.

Shanni sighed. It was no good: Flora had the
mentality of a maid and nothing would ever change her.

In the drawing room Mrs Mainwaring was waiting for her. She smiled and raised her hand, gesturing for Shanni to come forward. ‘This is Madame Isabelle.' She nodded at the well-padded lady who stood tall and statuesque, dominating the room. ‘She will be giving you singing lessons and will teach you to play the pianoforte.'

Shanni nodded dutifully, but she was not sure she wanted to learn music. What good would playing the piano be to her in the outside world?

‘I would much rather learn about government and the running of the country, Mrs Mainwaring,' Shanni said softly.

‘First things first, my dear.' Madame Isabelle took charge, her voice echoing around the room. ‘A young lady needs refinement if she is to procure for herself a good husband.'

Shanni did not want a husband and she was not sure she wanted to be refined. What she really wanted was to alter the world for the poor, to make sure everyone had enough bread to eat and coal to keep them warm in the winter.

She bowed her head. ‘Thank you, Madame Isabelle,' she said respectfully. She regarded the woman steadily. Madame Isabelle had some sort of foreign name but she was as Welsh as Shanni was, and she was putting on an act for the benefit of Mrs Mainwaring.

Shanni glanced at Mrs Mainwaring, who was smiling encouragement. She meant well: she wanted Shanni to be a lady. She had explained
that she was often lonely, with Mr Mainwaring and their son being away so much. And she had lost her daughter at birth so in some ways Shanni felt she was there to make Mrs Mainwaring happy, not the other way round.

Mrs Mainwaring rose to her feet and walked elegantly across the room. ‘The lesson will take about an hour,' she said, smiling, ‘and then we shall have some tea.' She went out and closed the door behind her.

Madame Isabelle took Shanni's arm and led her to the piano that gleamed with beeswax polish and pressed her down on to the stool. ‘Now, let us see what you are made of. This is middle C. Play it for me.'

Shanni did as she was told and the key responded to her touch. The sound pleased her and she smiled.

‘Now you run along the keys thus,' Madame Isabelle demonstrated, ‘and so you complete an octave.'

More to humour Madame Isabelle than because she really wished to learn Shanni made an attempt to understand what the teacher was telling her. But she was bored and her eyes strayed to the fine paintings on the walls, to the heavily draped curtains on the windows.

The scent of beeswax polish reminded her of poor Flora, who rubbed at the furniture endlessly, eager to please. The girl was so grateful to be given a good position and have enough food to eat that she would have laid down her life for her mistress. And no-one should be made to feel like that.

Shanni forced herself to concentrate on her lesson but her mind was becoming filled with a confusion of quavers and semi-quavers, and with major and minor keys.

‘It's all so difficult,' she said, rising from the stool.

Madame Isabelle inclined her head. ‘It is now but after a few months it will become clear to you.' She smiled. ‘You have a good ear and you will learn very well under my tuition.' She sat on the stool and lifted her hands, her fingers gleaming with jewellery. Then, as she began to play, the music soared into the room, fine and stirring.

Shanni felt her heartbeat quicken. ‘That's so beautiful,' she said, when Madame Isabelle at last lifted her hands from the keys.

Madame Isabelle turned to face her. ‘What are you really interested in, Shanni?' she asked quietly. ‘I can see you like to hear me play but your heart is not with music, is it?'

Shanni frowned. Should she speak her mind? She looked into Madame Isabelle's clear brown eyes and decided to tell her the truth.

‘I want to make the world a better place for the poor, especially for women,' she said. ‘I want to put right injustice, to get rid of poverty.' She was unaware that she was spreading her hands wide. ‘I want to educate women, to give every girl the chance of a better life.' She sighed. ‘I've explained all this to Mrs Mainwaring but I'm not sure she understands.'

‘I'm sure she does, my dear,' Madame Isabelle said. ‘Mrs Mainwaring is a remarkable lady. She took a failing pottery and made it the success it is
today. Don't underestimate her, Shanni. It would be a mistake.'

Shanni supposed Madame Isabelle was right: Mrs Mainwaring was a very special person. She must be to have taken Shanni into her fine home.

‘I would like to see the downtrodden of the world seek their rightful place in society,' Madame Isabelle said. ‘I believe it wrong that a husband owns his wife as though she was little more than a chattel. But, my dear, education is required to achieve such aims.'

She stood up. She was a tall woman and towered above Shanni. ‘To start on that road you must learn your lessons well. You must learn oratory and for that your voice must be improved. You will lose the cadences of your forebears, you will speak like the gentry and then, only then, will you be listened to. Do you understand?'

Shanni did. Her coarse speech had become apparent once she was settled in her new home. Listening to Mrs Mainwaring's cultured, gentle voice had emphasized that Shanni sounded rough and uneducated.

‘I will bring you some books to read, my dear,' Madame Isabelle said, ‘but by some they would be considered subversive, so you must make this our little secret.'

Shanni nodded and Madame Isabelle smiled in approval. ‘And in the meantime you will practise the scales just as I have shown you.'

‘I will,' Shanni said, delighted at the prospect of learning more than the intricacies of music. ‘I will try my best to master them by the time you come again.'