Honey's Farm (6 page)

The boy winced but did not open his eyes. Wearily, Fon moved away from the bed. ‘There's nothing more I can do for now,' she said softly. ‘I'd better go home and fetch Patrick in from the fields' – she smiled wryly – ‘and I'd better make Jamie a good hot breakfast. He'll be starving by now.'

‘I'll send my little girl over, later, to help with the milking,' Mrs Jones said. ‘Come back from staying with her auntie she has, and restless as a leaf in the wind.'

She spoke cheerfully, but her eyes were shining with tears. ‘It was good of you to stay with me so long and help me with our Tommy, the way you did. I'll never forget it.'

‘It's not much,' Fon said. ‘I only hope I've done some good.' Fon was doubtful. She glanced at Tommy and was relieved to see that he seemed easier and the unhealthy tinge to his skin was giving way to the more normal colour of the outdoors.

At the door, she paused. ‘The fistula should break some time today,' she said. ‘But whether it does or not, put on some more of the poultice to draw out all the badness.'

She ached from bending over the bed, and she felt weary as she walked back home; but in spite of her tiredness she was content. She knew she had done her best for Tommy, untutored though she was. She had worked by instinct more than knowledge, and now she could only pray.

In spite of all her reading of the herbal book, she had never been given reason to put any of the remedies into practice on human beings. Even now she wasn't sure if it was purely luck that Tommy Jones had begun to recover.

She thought of Jamie, waiting for her at home, and she felt warmed by the thought. She touched her breasts where her soft skin was marked by Jamie's passion, a passion that was well matched by her own.

Fon marvelled at the change in herself, from a wide-eyed romantic to a sensual woman, and all because of the love of a fine man. Or was it lust on Jamie's part, a small voice within her asked with soft insistence.

She shrugged as she moved forward with renewed vigour. Whatever Jamie was offering her, she would accept humbly. She had his passion, and on her finger was the ring of the man she loved, and that was more than many women achieved in a lifetime.

‘But are you sure it's what you want, Will?' Hari Grenfell's voice was soft with concern, and Will felt a warmth run through him. She was on his side, always; he could rely on it.

‘Of course I have a job for you, a job you would do very well, no-one better; but if you would like to keep the shop on, then I'll help you in any way possible.'

Will touched her hand, smiling down at her. He loved Hari as a brother loved a sister, more perhaps, because he owed her so much. Hari had taken him in when he was barely nine years old, had given him an apprenticeship, given him hope, given him love.

Will remembered with vivid horror the hovel where he'd been born and where he had seen his family die, one by one from the Yellow Jack. The pestilence had come suddenly to Swansea and had brought tragedy to many families, not only his own. When it was too late to remedy the matter, the cause had been found: the fever had been brought into Swansea docks by a sick seaman who had passed it on to the pilot who had guided the stricken ship into the arms of Swansea pier.

Will pushed the unpleasant thoughts aside. ‘I must give up the shop. I wouldn't want to fall even deeper into debt, Hari,' he said reasonably. ‘Better that I cut my losses now, get out while I can salvage something from the business.'

‘But surely the worst is over, Will?' Hari poured tea from a fine china pot, and Will watched as the sun shone through the bone china cups, illuminating the finely painted flowers that adorned the service, as bright as any real flowers growing in the garden. He paused for a moment, thinking of the skill that had gone into the painting, the patience as individual pieces were decorated. Then he sighed; he could not avoid the consequences to his business brought about by the oyster famine, could not keep the unpleasant thoughts at bay for ever. They had to be faced; problems needed to be solved, and it was up to him to take the initiative.

‘I don't think the worst
is
over, Hari,' he said softly. ‘People with wealth like yours, established businessmen' – he smiled – ‘and women, will be all right, but it's the folk owning small businesses that have suffered. At least those in the village of Oystermouth.'

‘Well, my dear Will, take that job with me. I would be overjoyed to have you on my payroll once again. I couldn't ask for a better manager.'

She paused. ‘It would mean travelling a little. I want the ties I've forged in Cardiff strengthened.' She grimaced ruefully. ‘Mrs Bell, who owns the emporium, can be a right dragon. She needs to be charmed into renting me a larger, more suitable spot in her premises. You, with your charm, would be an ideal person for that.'

‘Thank you,' Will said. ‘Do I detect a compliment there?'

‘Maybe,' Hari said. Then she became serious. ‘But, Will, while you are in Swansea you are more than welcome to share our house for as long as you like, you know that.'

‘Your offer of a job I accept with no hesitation,' Will said firmly, making a mental note that the solution would only be a temporary one. He could not remain tied to Hari's apron strings for ever, fond as he was of her. But now was not the time for pride; he needed to earn a living, to take stock of his situation.

‘But as to living accommodation, I'm a big boy now, Hari, used to living on my own.' He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I'll find somewhere suitable, don't you worry.'

Hari smiled broadly. ‘A big boy is right!' Her Welsh accent became more marked, purposely so, to express her amusement. ‘And a real charmer into the bargain. I see the girls swooning over you, and there's proud I am.'

Will leaned back in his chair. Hari of course was exaggerating, influenced by her love for him.

Amused by his silence, she continued. ‘
Duw
, Eline better snap you up quick before some pretty new face comes along to take your fancy.' She paused. ‘Why are you taking your time getting married, Will? I'd have thought you'd have got Eline to the altar long before now.'

Will's humour vanished. ‘How can I marry her?' he asked in a hard voice. ‘I've nothing to offer, not even a roof to put over her head.'

‘Proud you always were, Will Davies, too proud for your own good, man.' Hari sounded cross. ‘Do you think Eline cares so much for material things, then?'

Will shook his head. ‘Maybe not, but I won't marry her until I can offer her a secure future.'

‘William.' Hari put her hand over his. ‘Who can assume security for anything? The entire world is insecure; the only thing that keeps us sane is love. Don't waste it.'

Will looked round the sumptuous sitting-room, the plush hangings on the windows, the rich carpeting on the floor. It was easy for Hari to talk when her world was cushioned with money, her own and her husband's not inconsiderable wealth.

‘I wasn't always rich.' Hari as always read his thoughts. ‘You know that better than most, Will.'

‘I know.' He leaned towards her. ‘But you made something of yourself. Before you were married to Craig, you had already begun to make a name. You took risks and they paid off; I'm not so clever as you, obviously.'

The words were not spoken with bitterness, only with a deep regret on Will's part that he had failed to make his business the success that he and Hari had hoped it would be.

‘It was the loss of the oysters that made the business fail, Will,' Hari said softly, ‘and not any lack on your part. You shod the villagers when they could not pay for shoes, helped them when they were in dire straits. You have nothing to reproach yourself with.'

‘I know.' Will rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head, easing his cramped muscles. ‘None the less, I must accept defeat. I'll go home now, make the necessary arrangements to wind everything up.' He smiled ruefully at Hari. ‘I'll be back.'

He kissed her cheek, and for a moment she clung to him. ‘You'll work things out, Will,' she said firmly. ‘I just feel it in my bones.'

As the Mumbles train careered its way along the narrow tracks, past the large expanse of calm sea towards Oystermouth, Will sat on the top deck, staring back in the direction of Swansea.

His home town, the mean streets and the broad, the hovels and the big houses, all were familiar to him now, courtesy of Hari Grenfell. She had taken him with her on her rise to riches and fortune, had lifted him from his deprivation and poverty to enjoy a world that he now adopted as his own, the world of fine living and of good manners, of good bed and board, and mostly of the respect of those who thought of themselves as his peers. His background was forgotten or never known; he was now William Davies, beloved protégé of the rich and successful Hari Grenfell.

His gaze was drawn towards Oystermouth. It was here his heart lay. It was here that the woman he loved lived and breathed and made for herself a fine living, and the fact of it only served to highlight his own failure.

Why was it, Will asked himself in exasperation, that the women in his life were destined to be rich and successful, and he who loved them was doomed to failure?

But he would triumph again, he told himself, in time. For now he must give up his shop and work for Hari instead of for himself. But he was young and strong and determined; he would make his way in the world, and next time there would be no failing.

Eline stood in the slant of late sunshine pouring through one of the large south-facing windows of the gallery, watching the surge of first-night viewers as they moved elegantly from room to room.

It was a good exhibition, and Eline knew a moment of triumph as she looked around. Paintings by the late Alexander K. Brander and one by Joseph Walter of Bristol adorned the room, while upstairs was an entire room dedicated to the paintings of James Harris, whose stormy colours and rich seascapes intrigued Eline and filled her with a longing to be able to paint with such accuracy and skill the moods of the sea.

There was only one thing troubling her. Will had promised to attend the opening of the exhibition, and so far there was no sign of him.

‘Good show, Mrs Harries.' Gerald Greyfield stood before her, a portly gentleman come all the way from England for the early viewing, his round, good-humoured face wreathed in smiles. ‘There are a few of the pictures I shall want for myself. Will you mark them off for me, my dear lady?'

He paused. ‘Oh, and may I introduce a colleague of mine, Calvin Temple? He's been just itching to meet you.'

Eline was aware, as Lord Greyfield made the formal introductions, of the tall stranger staring down at her with open admiration. It was something that amused, rather than pleased her; but all the same, the flattering attention was a salve to her feelings of pique at Will for being late on such an important occasion.

Then she forgot Calvin Temple and became occupied with the business of selling the pictures. And yet a worry niggled at the back of her mind; the thought of Will's absence would not be pushed aside. She was worried about him. Had he perhaps stayed in Swansea for the night? But surely he wouldn't do that without telling her? Questions flew through her mind even as she mentally worked out the payment she must make to the artists of the pictures and the commission she would claim on the sales.

She was delighted when one of her own paintings, modest in comparison with the artistry around her, sold to Lord Greyfield. She was realistic enough to know that he bought it because he liked the look of her, rather than for any store he set by the painting itself. His blue eyes, crinkled in a bronzed, weathered face, twinkled down at her.

‘You must promise to visit my home in Worcester, my dear,' he said, standing tall above her. ‘I would like you to see my modest collection of contemporary paintings, as well as my one or two treasured old masters.'

‘I'd be delighted,' Eline murmured, her eyes glancing beyond Lord Grayfield to where Will had just appeared in the doorway. Joy filled her, suffusing her face with warmth, so that Lord Grayfield blinked rapidly.

‘Excuse me.' She was barely aware that she had left Lord Grayfield's presence rather more abruptly than was polite and that he was looking after her with bushy eyebrows raised.

‘Will!' She stood looking up at him. Her heart was beating swiftly as he smiled at her, and all she longed to do was lean against him and have his arms hold her safely.

Instead, she frowned. ‘Where have you been – you're late.' It was an accusation; her voice was slightly raised. Eline knew that she had made Will angry, by the almost imperceptible tightening of his mouth.

‘I apologize for not being here to listen to your opening speech,' he said, in even tones that should have warned Eline to tread carefully. ‘I'm sure it was a triumph, but I did have rather important things to do, such as arranging my future.' He glanced around him almost scornfully. ‘Yours, obviously, is well taken care of.'

‘The implication being,' Eline said shortly, ‘that I'm a selfish person who considers only myself.'

‘Perhaps.' William made to turn away; his eyes were narrowed and in his jaw a muscle tightened.

‘Well, I'm sorry for wanting this show to be a success,' Eline said icily. ‘It seems one of us has to make an effort to run a business successfully.'

Will looked directly at her then, and the colour drained from Eline's face. She couldn't believe that she'd uttered the hurtful words that had widened, with shocking suddenness, the rift between them into a chasm.

Will turned and, without another word, left the gallery. As though it were thundering within her, Eline could almost feel the heaviness of his footsteps moving ever further from her.

‘What is it? You seem upset.'

Eline became aware that Calvin Temple was standing beside her, looking down at her in concern. She suppressed the desire to rush into the street and, if need be, chase Will to the ends of the earth.