Daughters of Rebecca (5 page)

A woman began to scream as Dan Spencer was dragged into the street. He was hauled unceremoniously on to the back of the
Ceffyl Pren
where he slumped, head on chest, in an attitude of abject terror.

Egged on by the jeers of the women, the men berated him for his misdeeds. He was repeatedly beaten with sticks and all the time he sat there, on the back of the wooden horse, not moving or speaking out in his defence.

‘We can't let this go on.' Lloyd made a move to leave the shelter of the doorway but Shanni put both arms around him and held him back. ‘Don't interfere. You'd be beaten to a pulp by the crowd. In any case, this is what he deserves. It's
often the only sort of justice given to people like us.'

They remained quietly in the shadows and Shanni's heart pounded as Spencer was castigated, beaten and humiliated. She felt no pity, only triumph: she would have been the first to strike a blow if she had had the opportunity.

At last the procession moved out of Potato Street and, gradually, the noise died away. Lloyd seemed subdued. He walked back the way they had come, a few steps ahead of Shanni. Miserably, she followed him, knowing he was horrified by what he had seen.

At the back gate to the pottery, she caught his arm. ‘Try to understand, Lloyd. No magistrate and certainly no visiting judge would condemn Dan Spencer for what he's done.'

‘He slept with a young girl,' Lloyd said. ‘Does that act deserve such primitive barbarism?'

‘He ruined her!' Shanni said. ‘Took her maidenhead. No man will want her now. Can't you understand that?' He stood there shaking his head, and suddenly Shanni wanted to slap him. ‘I suppose you think that poor girls do not deserve respect, is that it?'

‘No, but—'

‘But a man's a man and will pluck any flower he chooses, is that it?'

‘No, that's not what I think, but the blood is strong, the urge to mate is always there. Can't
you
understand
that
?'

‘I'll
never
understand it.' Shanni left him there and walked rapidly back to the house. She let herself in at the back door, crept along the
passage and up to her room praying that no-one had seen her. She threw off her clothes and washed quickly, hating the feel of soil on her skin. She made a face at herself in the mirror – she had soon become used to cleanliness, to freshly washed and ironed clothes, to all the comforts of the rich.

She sat on the bed and put her head in her hands. She must forget her feelings of friendship for Lloyd Mainwaring: they were poles apart, they could never truly be friends, not now, not ever. And yet she had hoped for so much from him. A young man with Lloyd's advantages, his compassion, would one day have the power to put right many wrongs.

‘Fool!' she said, as she climbed beneath the blankets. She would remain single all her life. Never would she trust any man – they were all ready to rut and plunder and she would do well to remember it. Yet tears, hot and bitter, flowed on to her pillow. Her triumph vanished and all she was left with was sadness.

LLINOS STOOD IN
the warmth of the pottery yard, looking at the bottle kilns and feeling the heat emanating from them. Watt Bevan, her manager, scratched his head worriedly. He was younger than Llinos by several years but his hair was prematurely tinged with grey. Llinos loved Watt like a brother: he had come to the pottery as an orphan when he was about nine years old, and together they had struggled to wrest a living from the clay. Looking around now, she was proud of the success they had made of it.

‘I can't leave the pottery right now, Llinos,' Watt was saying. ‘There's trouble brewing. The men are agitating against the rise in toll charges again, and you know as well as I do what hardships it's brought them.'

‘I do understand all that, Watt, and I sympathize, but you are supposed to be bringing Rosie home.' Llinos looked up at him anxiously. ‘This is your future we're talking about. Rosie is your wife, after all, and you should feel responsible for her.'

Watt sighed. ‘I know, but it's difficult to concentrate on family matters just now.'

‘Well, that's your choice, I suppose, Watt,' Llinos said. ‘But Rosie needs to come back to Swansea now, and I do feel it's your place to go and fetch her. You never know, it might be the beginnings of a reconciliation between you.'

‘I doubt that!' Watt said. ‘We've been apart for too long. In any case, Rosie is an independent woman – she has been left a small fortune. How would it look if I tried to patch things up with her now?'

The sound of raised voices from one of the sheds caught Watt's attention. ‘Look, whatever my personal feelings I can't leave, not now when we could have a dangerous situation on our hands.'

Llinos sighed resignedly. ‘I'll go and bring Rosie back to Swansea.' She rested her hand on Watt's arm. ‘Go on, sort everything out as you always do. What would I do if I didn't have you to run the pottery for me?'

‘You'd run it yourself,' Watt smiled, ‘I've no doubt of that. Still, I'm grateful to have done a good job here. At least I can say I've made a success of that even if I failed in my marriage.'

‘Go on with you, and get the men back in line!' Llinos watched as Watt strode purposefully towards the sheds. He was right, of course: she would have run the pottery without him but it would have been a lonely task.

She began walking towards the stables: she had better tell Graves to prepare the carriage for the journey. Perhaps it would be a good idea to take
Shanni with her for company – the girl seemed lonely now that Lloyd had returned to college. The two had formed a bond while he was at home, and whenever a letter came from him, Shanni read it avidly. But Joe was probably right: Shanni saw Lloyd only as a friend, which was just as well. In the meantime, she was wonderful company for Llinos.

She thought of Joe's words about Shanni being almost like the daughter Llinos had lost and a pain caught her heart. She bit her lip. Would her little girl have turned out to be fiery like Shanni, full of the will to put the world to rights? She sighed. That was something she would never know. And Joe was right: she must live in the present and try to forget the past, but sometimes the past had a nasty habit of creeping up on her. Llinos took a deep breath. It was time she put her mind to the matter at hand, that of bringing Rosie home to Swansea.

Rosie Bevan closed her bag and looked around her bedroom for one last time. She was leaving the elegant house where she had lived with Alice Sparks for the last long months of the older woman's life. It had been a strange sort of life to a girl used to the poorer streets of the east of the town. Because of Alice, Rosie had enjoyed the luxury of living in a grand house with plenty of money at her disposal. Alice had trusted her implicitly, and Rosie felt she had earned that trust.

She stared at the large window, the heavy curtains, the well-polished furniture, and felt a
pang of regret. Alice had been a difficult employer but the two women had grown close, especially in the last few months. Now Alice was dead, and Rosie missed her as much as if they had been sisters rather than friends.

She brushed away the tears. She must not mourn but do as Alice had instructed and live her life to the full. No-one knew what lay around the corner and happiness was to be treasured.

Poor Alice, she had not known a great deal of love in her life. Her marriage had been forced on her: her tyrant of a father had threatened to disown her if she did not settle down. But Alice had survived it all. Even to the end she had fought for life, had styled her hair, rouged her cheeks and presented a brave face to her friends.

She had never ceased to be grateful to Rosie, not even in death. She had made a will instructing her solicitor to place a large sum of money in the bank in Rosie's name. It was enough to buy a modest house and for Rosie to live in ease for the rest of her life. If Rosie used her inheritance wisely she would want for nothing.

Her heart lightened, she must look to the future: she now owned property. She would love her house, make it a home, fill it with warmth. Rosie left the room and hurried down the gracious staircase. She was trying to be brave, to be optimistic. But what did the future hold in store for her? Would she always be alone? The thought frightened her.

She paused at the door. Watt would be outside. Her husband would be waiting with a carriage to take her back to Swansea. It was strange to think
of Watt as her husband. Their marriage had been one of convenience – at least, that was how Watt Bevan had looked on the arrangement.

Rosie, like a fool, had loved him, adored him, wanting only his love, but it had not taken her long to realize that Watt did not love her. He took her to his bed, made love to her and she had cried with joy, but when her dreams vanished, like mist in the sun, she had left him.

Rosie stood for a moment in the silence of the elegant hallway and stared around at the familiar staircase, the jewel-bright colours of the drapes, and smelt the warm aroma of beeswax. She would miss all of it, but most of all she would miss Alice.

She heard the sound of hoofbeats on the forecourt. Taking a deep breath she opened the door then locked it carefully behind her. It was no longer her home. Outside, the coach was just drawing to a halt and Rosie recognized Graves, the coachman, as he tipped his hat to her.

She felt excitement burn in her heart. Would Watt have changed? Did he regret the past? Or had he met a new woman, one to whom he could give his love? Her head buzzed with questions. She knew Watt had comforted himself with other women from time to time, and in her heart she could not blame him. Everyone needed love and Watt was no exception.

Her heart plunged with disappointment when she saw that Watt had not come for her. Llinos Mainwaring was leaning through the window of the coach, and at her side was a young girl, her face fresh, eyes bright. Of Watt there was no sign.
Her husband could not even spare the time to bring her home.

She climbed into the coach and sat opposite Llinos. ‘Thank you for fetching me,' she said, her eyes on her hands. ‘I suppose Watt couldn't be bothered to make the journey.'

‘Watt sends his apologies,' Llinos said quickly. ‘He wanted to come but there was trouble and I needed him to stay at the pottery. I'm sorry, Rosie, I wouldn't have had this happen for the world.'

‘It doesn't matter.' Rosie settled more comfortably into the seat and folded her hands on her lap. It did matter. It hurt. It hurt very badly indeed.

‘Anyway,' Llinos said gently, ‘this gives me the opportunity to see your new house.'

Rosie felt warmer as she thought of the small but elegant house set on the headland of Sgeti, looking out over the craggy Mumbles Head. It was built of mellow stone, it had a small garden and was within walking distance of the town.

When Rosie began to buy furnishings for her new home, Alice, on her good days, had helped. She had given Rosie advice on what was tasteful and good value for money. A pang of loneliness brought tears to Rosie's eyes. Alice had been such a comfort and now she was dead.

‘You'll miss Alice Sparks, Rosie,' Llinos said, picking up on Rosie's thoughts. ‘I know you became very good friends.'

‘We were close.' Rosie smiled but there were tears in her eyes. ‘She was a real lady and so generous.' She bit her lip for a moment, deep in thought. ‘My wages, when Alice remembered to
pay them, were always much more than I needed. I tried to tell her that often but she would never listen. I grew to love Alice like a sister and though I never told her I think that she knew.' Rosie dabbed her eyes impatiently. ‘I cried buckets the day she was buried but I did what she would have expected of me.'

Rosie remembered every detail of the funeral; it had been a fine sunny day, absurdly bright with blossoms on the trees. Alice had left instructions that she was to be buried alongside her father in the graveyard on the hills above Swansea. She requested a simple headstone with a brief inscription, and Rosie had ensured her wishes were carried out to the letter.

Alice, poor Alice, had taken a long time to die. At the end she had clung to Rosie. ‘Pray for me, Rosie,' she had whispered. ‘You are the only friend I've ever had and I've loved you for it.'

Those words would ring for ever in her mind. Rosie swallowed hard. She knew it was best not to dwell on the past but who would she talk to now? In whom could she confide her deepest feelings?

‘Look, there's the sea, it looks so wide from here. Oh, and there's a dear little house on the hill. Is that where you are going to live, Mrs Bevan?' The young girl was leaning closer to the window, peering down from the track to where the bay curved in a glistening arc around the coastline of Swansea.

Rosie really looked at the girl for the first time. She was very young and very pretty, but where did she fit into the Mainwaring household? She sounded so confident. Her voice was a strange
mixture of the gently nurtured young lady and an ordinary Welsh girl. Her eyes were bright with the love of life, and Rosie envied her. ‘Please, call me Rosie,' she said.

‘Oh, I'm sorry, I should have introduced you right away,' Llinos said apologetically. ‘This is Shanni. Shanni, this is Rosie Bevan, Watt's wife.'

The girl held out her hand. ‘I'm very pleased to meet you.' She pushed back the curls of dark red hair that sprang from beneath her bonnet. ‘If that's where you are going to live I envy you.' She pointed to the house standing out from the cliffs. ‘What a wonderful view.'

Rosie warmed to her. The girl had a pleasant manner and a friendly smile. Without knowing anything about her she felt drawn to her too – perhaps it was because of the sadness that lurked at the back of Shanni's eyes. ‘You're welcome to visit any time you like,' she said. She glanced at Llinos. ‘Though after the luxury of living in the Mainwaring household my home might be a little bit small and insignificant.'