Daughters of Rebecca (9 page)

‘You'll have to forgive my appearance. It's the maid's day off and I was making bread.' She smiled a little ruefully. ‘I suppose I was reminding myself of the old days when I was just plain little Rosie with chores to do around the house for my mother.' She gestured towards the back of the house. ‘Will you come through into the kitchen?'

She was conscious of Watt behind her as she pushed open the door. Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast but she concealed her feelings by bending to untie her apron.

The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the
room and Watt sniffed appreciatively. He stood beside her and she forced herself to smile pleasantly, as if his visit was simply that of an old friend. But Watt was not just a friend. She had lain in the same bed as him, shared the intimacies of married life with him, and she blushed now at the thought of how much pleasure his touch had given her. Still, all that was before she found out he had married her out of pity.

‘Sit down, Watt. I'll just take the bread out of the oven and then I'll make us a pot of tea.' She glanced to the dresser where a cake was cooling on a stand. If Watt were an observant man he would realize that she had been fully prepared for his visit, but how many men were that perceptive?

He sat awkwardly on the wooden kitchen chair, his long legs jutting out from under the table. Rosie, glancing surreptitiously at him, thought he was more attractive than ever. When they married he had been slim with the boyishness of youth still in his face. Now he had filled out, his features had hardened, he was a man.

A wave of regret washed over her for what might have been, if the marriage had been a love match on both sides.

‘How are things at home?' she asked. ‘You must have tired of living with my brothers. Are they behaving like men, these days?' She smiled.

‘They're hardly ever home if the truth be told,' Watt said. ‘I am on my own most of the time.'

Rosie pretended his words had not registered. She was on her own, too, and she did not complain. ‘And the pottery?' She bent over the oven and slid the loaf on to a tray. Steam rose
from the oven misting her eyes. Or were those tears she could feel on her cheeks?

‘Rosie . . .' Watt began, and she stiffened, knowing he wanted to talk about their marriage. She pushed the kettle on to the fire, scraping the bottom noisily against the hot coals. Then, struggling for composure, she sat down opposite him.

‘We have to talk,' Watt said.

‘No, we don't.' Rosie shook her head. ‘All the talking in the world won't change anything. I fell in love with you, that's why I married you.' She sighed. ‘But you didn't love me, did you?'

He did not deny it, and Rosie's spirits fell. ‘Have some tea with me, Watt. Let's try to be friends before we think of anything else, shall we?'

She rose and clattered the cups as she put them on the table. As she fetched the milk from the pantry she took a deep breath, trying to slow the beat of her heart.

‘Good thing I'd washed the table down before you came, otherwise there'd be flour all over the place.' She spoke lightly. ‘I never was the fussiest of women but living with Alice certainly taught me to be both neat and thrifty. If left to her own devices she would have ruined her good clothes by leaving them around on the floor and she would most certainly have squandered her inheritance.'

She fussed over making the tea then sat down again. ‘Would you like to try some of my cake? I'm not the best of cooks but it won't poison you.'

‘I just want to talk to you, Rosie,' Watt said. ‘Aren't you lonely up here on your own?'

‘Of course not.' But Rosie was. She craved even now to throw herself into Watt's arms. She was a woman with a woman's needs. Why did he always fail to see that?

He sipped the tea, and stared at her over the rim of the cup. ‘You grow more beautiful every day,' he said. ‘Where did I go wrong, Rosie? How did I lose you?'

‘It was probably my fault.' She did not look at him. ‘I was too young and ignorant to know that you married me simply to make things easier for my mother.'

‘I can't argue with that. I'm sorry, it's the truth.' Watt rubbed his cheek. ‘Pearl was a good friend and I had worked with her for a long time. I thought what I did was for the best. Can't you at least allow me that much credit?'

‘It was very worthy of you,' she said, with a hint of sarcasm that he did not miss.

He reached across the table to take her hand. ‘Rosie, when you left I soon realized what a fool I'd been.' He ran his fingers through his hair and Rosie noticed a silver thread or two. Somehow her heart was moved.

‘I knew when you'd gone, when my bed was empty of you at night, that I was in love with you.'

‘You didn't learn that lesson soon enough,' Rosie said. ‘It's probably too late now, Watt. How can I ever trust you again? You could change your mind and go off with another woman for all I know.'

‘I wouldn't do that. Just give me a chance to prove myself, Rosie, please.'

‘No, I can't think straight, not yet.' She drew
her hand away, unwilling to show him how much his touch affected her. ‘I have only just come back here to live. I have lost my great friend, Alice, and I don't know what I want, not right now.'

Watt rose to his feet. ‘Well, you are rich and independent,' he said. ‘Perhaps you're setting your sights higher than a mere manager of a pottery.'

Sudden anger surged through Rosie. ‘That was not worthy of you, Watt.'

He moved to the door. ‘Maybe not, but I'm only human and I can't come begging you to forgive me for ever, can I?'

‘I am not asking you to!' Rosie's voice held a bitter note. ‘I never had you, not really, did I? When we married you were mourning Maura Dundee, the woman you promised to love with all your heart. I was such a fool not to see that I was second best to her ghost.' She glared at him. ‘How could you do that to me, Watt? You took my dreams and crushed them. Oh, what's the use of talking? Go away and leave me alone!'

All the hurt and pain of the past welled up inside her. Rosie stared at her husband and saw a man growing older alone. He wanted her now and it was he who had raised the subject of her inheritance. Was that the attraction now? That she was a woman who could take care of herself?

‘I can't find it in my heart to forgive you, Watt,' she said. ‘I still burn with anger whenever I think of the grief you caused me. Don't you see how humiliated I was? A girl you married out of pity and everyone but me knowing it?'

‘You have to keep bringing up the past, don't you?' Watt's face was white. ‘I was a fool to come here. Well, I won't bother you again, you needn't worry about that.' Watt strode through the passage and let himself out into the growing darkness.

Rosie followed him, wanting to cling to him, to beg him to stay. But a hard knot of anger stopped her. ‘Goodbye, then, Watt,' she said lightly, to his retreating back, ‘and good luck.'

She closed the door and leaned against it. Suddenly it was as if the light had gone out of her world.

‘We need to fight our cause with actions as well as words.' Dafydd Buchan stood in Madame Isabelle's parlour, fired with enthusiasm. ‘We must stamp out the tyranny, abolish the impossible charges put on the gates. All we're after is justice.'

Shanni sat listening quietly to Dafydd. She was intrigued by him: he was well dressed and spoke in cultured tones but he really cared about the poor.

‘The tolls are monstrously unjust! A farmer pays more to pass through the gates than he does for the lime he transports.'

Madame Isabelle spoke in well-modulated tones: ‘And what are we going to do about it, Dafydd?'

‘We have already attacked some of the gates where the tolls are excessive and we must continue to do so. We'll burn them to the ground and the toll-houses with them. We'll teach the
traitors working for the idle rich where their loyalty lies!'

‘But that was tried in 'thirty-four without a great deal of success,' Madame Isabelle said reasonably. ‘I don't know that violence achieves anything in the end.'

‘Eighteen thirty-four was a different matter.' Dafydd sounded impatient. ‘The men protested against the Poor Law then, not the tolls, and they were without leaders, without weapons. Now we are better prepared. We can fight to the death if necessary.' His eyes were shining with zeal.

‘I don't know.' Madame Isabelle seemed unconvinced, and Shanni watched her covertly.

‘We have organized bands of men,' Dafydd went on talking, ‘men not armed with pitchforks but with pistols. We have drawn up our plans and we are ready.'

Shanni was suddenly afraid. She thought of the
Ceffyl Pren
, of the rough justice that could so easily turn to violence and even death. The police and the yeomanry would turn out, better armed and in greater numbers than the rebels.

Shanni had been a small child when the men of Swansea had been sent to Brecon to stamp out the rioting, but she had heard the lurid tales of the conflict many times. Men had been killed, women beaten and all to no avail. The laws had been reinforced and the people left worse off than ever before.

‘We have to strike at the oppressors before they become too powerful,' Dafydd was saying. ‘We let them get away with a rise in tolls this time, and
within a few months the price of passing through the gates will rise again. We must stand and fight or all is lost.'

‘For that to happen we need money to buy more arms.' Another man spoke up roughly. ‘Are you trying to tell us that we few can beat the might of the police and the militia with one or two pistols? They'll shoot us down without mercy, man, and hang a few of us, no doubt!'

‘With that attitude, Thomas Carpenter, you are asking to be exploited,' Dafydd said cuttingly. His shoulders were tense. He was a man capable of great anger.

Shanni glanced at Madame Isabelle, who looked worried. She watched as Madame smoothed back her elegant hair and, as if on an impulse, rose to her feet.

‘I suggest we all relax and have a drink to celebrate our unity.' She rang for the maid, and Shanni knew that the offer of refreshment was a ploy to take the heat out of the argument.

Shanni felt the tension ease as Dafydd sat down and loosened the buttons on his coat. He glanced across the room at her but it was as if he did not see her. His eyes were hot with anger and Shanni shivered.

Glasses of wine were carried in on a tray and the maid handed the drinks around, bobbing curtsies to the men. A tray of comfits was produced, and the talk became general.

‘I shall play for you,' Madame Isabelle said and, lifting her skirts, she settled herself on the stool in front of the piano. Her fingers ran lightly over the keys, bringing life and warmth to the room. The
melodious sound of Madame singing brought foolish tears to Shanni's eyes.

‘I see the music moves you, Shanni.' Dafydd had crossed the room and seated himself beside her. He was calmer now. She shivered a little as she felt the warmth of his arm against hers. ‘You are a delicate flower and perhaps our words are too strong for you.'

‘I hate violence,' Shanni replied.

‘Sometimes violence is the only answer, don't you think?'

She glanced up at him. He was smiling and the anger had gone from his eyes. He seemed kindly, a champion of the poor, and she wondered if she had been mistaken about his fanaticism.

‘I can't see it myself,' Shanni said. ‘I would think that cunning might achieve what outright action would not.'

He touched her hair. ‘Such an old head for one so young,' he said. ‘What has made you like this, Shanni?'

‘I have seen violence close to,' Shanni said, her voice low but hard with anger. ‘Violence which takes the name of justice can kill.'

She saw a glimmer of amusement in Dafydd's face. ‘Go on,' he said humouring her.

‘No, I don't want to think about it.'

He took her hand in his and smoothed her wrist. ‘Sometimes it's better to talk about something painful. It's like lancing a sore and allowing the poison to run away.'

She took her hand away. ‘The past is dead and gone, buried like my mother and her baby.'

‘Then I'm sorry, Shanni,' he said, ‘but sometimes good comes from pain. Look where you are now, a beloved friend to Madame Isabelle. Indeed, you are a privileged friend and trusted too, otherwise you wouldn't be here.'

Shanni bowed her head. ‘I have been very fortunate.' She looked up at him. ‘But at what cost?'

‘Come along, Shanni!' Madame Isabelle's voice cut into the conversation. ‘Let's hear you play your little piece, shall we?'

Shanni recognized the request for what it was: an attempt to get her away from Dafydd Buchan. Madame's next words confirmed what she was thinking. ‘You are too old and intense for our little Shanni.' She tapped Dafydd on the shoulder. ‘She is young yet, and needs to form her own opinions.' She took Shanni's hand. ‘Come along, I want everyone to know what a talented pupil I have.'

Reluctantly, Shanni sat at the piano. She looked at the music and saw that Madame Isabelle had chosen the piece she knew best. Her fingers hovered over the keys. She must not let her teacher down by giving a poor performance.

She played hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. It was as if the presence of an audience brought out the best in her. The simple music sounded rich and tuneful. Her fingers no longer faltered but struck the notes with confidence. And when the piece was ended, she rose and curtsied to a burst of clapping. Shanni smiled, but was wise enough to know that the
shouts of ‘Bravo' were meant as encouragement to a young girl, not as an accolade to an inexperienced pianist.

Later as she lay in bed in the unfamiliar room, she stared at the patterns of light on the ceiling and thought about the evening. Dafydd Buchan was a powerful man, a strong leader, but was his zeal just a little too ardent to be healthy? And yet when she remembered how close he had sat, how powerful he was and the way his eyes had searched hers, she felt thrilled, wanting to be more to him than just a silly young girl.