The Wild Seed (2 page)

He had forgotten and his mouth twisted into a rueful smile.

‘You idiot!’ Bethan made a mock sweep at him with her hand and he caught her to him, holding her close, his face buried in the warmth of her neck.

‘See how I am abused and in my own home too?’ He appealed to the empty room behind him and Bethan twisted out of his arms, her eyes full of laughter.

‘Poor old soul, is his evil harridan of a wife being unkind yet again?’

‘Yet again,’ he agreed, his tone sombre.

‘Anyway,’ Bethan moved from him towards the fire, settling her spectacles on her nose, ‘what kept you so late?’

Boyo knew it was an inquiry made out of genuine interest with no hint of suspicion behind the words. He swallowed hard, ‘I went over to Honey’s Farm.’ It was easier to tell the truth or part of it. ‘I looked down on my past, on the sweeping fields and across the valley to where the tannery once stood.’ He felt inexplicably sad. ‘It’s just a ruin now.’

‘You grow, you move on,’ Bethan said reasonably.

‘You are right, of course. Well, no more brooding over the past, I’m going to make myself presentable for my father-in-law.’ Boyo moved to the door, determined to shake off the strange feelings that were haunting him.

He stood in the bathroom and looked round at the black-and-white-tiled walls and the large bath that would have dominated a lesser room. All this luxury still gave him a sense of pride, a feeling of achievement. Until he was seventeen years old he’d never possessed anything except the clothes he stood up in.

As for love, he’d lost the only girl he could ever love when April had died, or so he’d believed then. Her young life had been extinguished by the epidemic that had swept through Swansea some years before and he had been devastated.

Boyo’s life had been empty until he met Bethan. She had offered him warmth, kindness and he had clung to her like a drowning man clings to a spar. He had married in haste, was he to repent at leisure? For now there was Catherine.

His heart had turned over when he’d first seen her again, April’s sister, grown into a lovely woman. He had never given her a thought, not in the seven or so years since he’d last seen her. But now, he could not imagine life without her.

It was not fair, of course not, Catherine was young, much younger than he was in every way. As she’d pointed out, there were not that many years between them, but life had made Boyo old before his time. As for Catherine, she had her whole future before her, she should be free to find a good husband and bear him children. The thought was almost a physical pain.

He rose from the steaming water and stood looking at his naked frame in the mirror. He was taller than average, well-built, muscular; the hard work he’d done as a boy had seen to that. He wondered if he was handsome; his jaw was firm, his eyes clear but there was an almost brooding quality about him that he recognized as his need to conceal his thoughts and feelings from others. It was a way he had developed of protecting himself. Sometimes, when at a fine soirée peopled by the rich and successful of the town, Boyo would think ruefully of the ragged tannery worker he had once been. He would have been given short shrift by these same people who now accepted that he was one of them.

Later, dressed in a pristine shirt and immaculate suit, he made his way downstairs to the dining-room. The candles were lit on the long table. Silver and glass gleamed in the flame and across the room a fire burned brightly in the ornate grate. His was a comfortable life, a life in which he had become content. Why then was he jeopardizing everything by falling in love so suddenly and so devastatingly with Catherine O’Conner?

‘Daddy will be here any minute,’ Bethan bustled into the room bringing with her the clean scent of lavender. She came to him and he kissed her cheek in the usual familiar gesture that had become a habit.

‘The peach room is made up for him, he likes it in there with the curtains open. He likes to sit up in bed and watch the moon over the sea.’

‘Your father is a man of impeccable taste,’ Boyo said and meant it.

Dafydd Llewellyn was from old Welsh stock, reputed to be linked to Welsh princes somewhere in the distant past. It was easy to believe; he was a man of regal bearing, he spoke Welsh as he spoke English, without blemish. That he was learned became obvious as soon as he opened his mouth and yet Dafydd patronized no-one.

The great brass bell outside the door jangled loudly and Bethan’s face lit up. ‘There he is, I can’t wait to see him again.’

Within a few minutes, Bethan returned, her arm linked with her father’s. The man had such presence that Boyo was filled with the urge to bow over the man’s hand as if he were a saint, or indeed of royal blood. Instead, he smiled and went forward holding out his hand. The hand-shake was warm, firm, in spite of Dafydd’s advanced age.

Supper was a pleasant, leisurely business. The first course was soup, rich and hot with pepper and leeks. The fish fell from the bone, whole turbot decorated with nuts on a bed of sliced boiled eggs. The beef was braised in a dark gravy and served with cabbage and carrots and the very first of the new potatoes grown in the Gower farmlands.

Dafydd declined the pudding filled with sultanas and currants and covered in steaming custard. His eyes under their heavy lids were difficult to read; Boyo saw his father-in-law as some ancient Merlin, mysterious, wise and invincible.

‘How is business?’ Dafydd relaxed in his high-backed chair and regarded his son-in-law carefully. ‘Leather still bringing good prices?’

‘Very good,’ Boyo said. ‘It seems that large manufacturers are buying skins in great quantities for huge suites of furniture for hotels.’

Both men knew that Boyo need never worry about business again. His fortune, once great, was now, by dint of clever investments, bringing in enough money to keep Boyo in luxury for the rest of his life. Combined with Bethan’s profits from the Gomerian Inn, the couple were among the wealthiest in the Principality.

‘Not tired of the leather trade yet, Boyo?’ Dafydd held out his pipe waiting for his daughter’s nod of consent before lighting it.

‘I don’t think I’ll ever be tired of it,’ Boyo said honestly. ‘It’s part of my heritage, part of me.’

Dafydd eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Your grandfather must have been a clever man.’

Boyo was surprised, his origins were scarcely ever referred to. The mists that surrounded his birth were rarely drawn aside and yet, even now, it was a mark of pride to Boyo that he had not been the nameless, penniless foundling he had so long believed himself to be.

Dafydd’s next question brought a wary feeling of tension, though Boyo made every effort not to show it.

‘Were you in town today?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

Boyo wondered if the questions were loaded. ‘Bit of both,’ he replied.

Bethan, as though sensing a tension she could not quite understand, leaned forward and rang the bell. ‘Time we had some coffee.’ She looked at her father. ‘Boyo was reliving his past, going back over his old haunts.’ She put her hand over Boyo’s. ‘Honey’s Farm still has the power to hurt you, doesn’t it, love?’

He felt tenderness rising within him. ‘The things that happened there, yes, sometimes.’

‘The past is best left alone,’ Dafydd spoke in an easy tone but his words seemed filled with meaning. ‘Turning over old stones can be a mistake.’

Was there a warning in his words? Boyo could not be sure. He remained silent and the silence lengthened. Bethan was looking from one to the other of them.

‘Is there something going on I’m not aware of?’ She smiled a little uncertainly. Boyo held his breath, not sure how much his father-in-law knew about his activities, or indeed, if he knew anything at all.

The taut lines of Dafydd’s thin face seemed to relax. ‘Just being an old fool, airing my home-spun philosophy and turning into a bore. Forgive me, I think I’m tired. The trip from Swansea seemed to take for ever, those dreadful, twisting lanes are a hazard for any self-respecting carriage driver, not to mention the passenger.’

He rose and Bethan too. She kissed her father on both cheeks. ‘We can talk more in the morning, when you are feeling more rested.’

He smiled down at her, the long lines around his aquiline nose deepening. ‘I want to know when you are going to give me a grandson.’ He touched his daughter’s shoulder. ‘I do hope you are being a good wife, we men are such pathetic creatures when it comes to moral fibre. If we don’t have what we need on our own hearth we tend to look for it elsewhere.’

He glanced towards Boyo. ‘Good night, son-in-law, take care of my daughter, your wife is an extraordinary woman, as I’m sure you realize.’ Again the old man’s words seemed loaded.

Bethan accompanied her father upstairs and Boyo moved to the drawing-room, helping himself to a liberal measure of port from the gleaming decanter which had been strategically placed on an occasional table near the fire. Bethan thought of everything.

As he sat and waited for his wife, Boyo felt a spirit of gloom descend on him. He had gone headlong into this affair with Catherine, snatching eagerly at the thrill and the passion and yes, the love that burned within him like a fire suddenly ignited. He had not stopped to consider the consequences: what the outcome of such a liaison could mean should his infidelity be discovered. And Catherine, how long would she put up with a part-time lover?

He should give up this foolishness at once, he should never have started the affair in the first place. But now Catherine had become, in a few short days, like a drug to his senses, a drug he had no wish to do without.

‘That’s Daddy settled.’ Bethan entered the room and sat down in the chair at the opposite side of the fire. She took off her glasses and folded them with studied care.

‘Boyo, is anything wrong?’ She was looking at him but he could not meet her gaze. He rose and poured himself more port. ‘You would tell me if something was troubling you, wouldn’t you, love?’

He forced himself to smile down at her. ‘Bethan, you are an old worrier, stop fretting, I’m perfectly all right.’

‘You seem, well, not yourself. I don’t know how to explain it but you even look different these past few days, more alive somehow.’

‘Silly fancies, Bethan, I am the same boring old Boyo I always was.’

Bethan’s hands twisted together. ‘You are so young and yet in many ways so much older than I am. There’s a darkness about your past. I wish you would discuss it with me, Boyo, it might help.’

Suddenly her questions irritated him. ‘Bethan,’ his voice was quiet, ‘leave well alone, there’s a good girl.’

Bethan’s mood changed. She smiled at him in her old teasing way. ‘Big buffoon! Spoiled boy! I should take the broom from the kitchen to you, give you a good hiding.’

He wasn’t to be jollied. He filled his glass once more and moved to the door. ‘Excuse me, Bethan, I’m going into the den, I have work to do.’

It was a thin excuse and they both knew it. The administration of his many business affairs was handled by experts, by men specializing in their field. Boyo Hopkins employed only the best.

In the den the fire was burning low in the grate. Boyo knelt on the carpet staring into the flickering embers. He felt tired, no, perhaps jaded was the word. Suddenly he was out of sorts with himself. He lifted lumps of coal from the scuttle with his hands, taking a strange satisfaction in the gritty feel of the fuel against his skin. He studied his grimy fingers, that was how they should look, how they
had
looked – once. He was becoming soft, if he did not take care he would become flabby, inept. He would lose his muscle tone, the hardness would leave his body, he would develop a paunch from overindulgence. He smiled, if he did not take care he would lose his sense of proportion.

The flames brightened, leaping upward into the chimney. He was reminded at once of Catherine’s hair, falling red and gold in the lamplight across her ivory skin.

It was no casual affair, he wished it was, he could cope with that. No, this bond between himself and Catherine had been there since childhood. Now it was forged again and it would not be easy to disentangle himself.

He didn’t know how long he sat staring into the fire but. his eyes felt filled with grit, he needed to get some sleep. He heard Bethan in the hall, she opened his door and peered in.

‘I’m going up to bed, now, don’t be long Boyo, you look all washed out.’

He left it for an hour, hoping that by the time he joined Bethan in the big four-poster she would be asleep. It was a false hope.

She turned to him at once and wound her arms around his neck. ‘Boyo, hold me, I feel lonely and cold.’ She snuggled against him and he breathed in her familiar scent; a wash of affection made his response much warmer than he’d intended and Bethan lifted her head, drawing his mouth down on hers.

Her kiss was not one of passion, but then passion had never been part of their relationship, yet he felt touched by the warmth of his wife’s embrace.

Her arms wound around his waist, she pressed herself closer to him, her breasts soft against his chest. He was a normal red-blooded man, usually he responded to her as any healthy young man would, to his wife, but not tonight. Tonight he had been with the woman who aroused the demons of hell in him by her passion.

Gently, he eased her away from him. ‘As you said, Bethan, I’m washed out tonight, not very good for anything.’

He kissed her brow and turned away from her; he could feel the depths of her rejection by the rigid line of her body. He didn’t want to hurt her, perhaps it would be as well to talk it over, to bring everything out into the open, to ask her what she wished to do about it.

He sat up and pushed back the sheets. ‘Bethan…’ he spoke softly almost in a whisper. She did not reply and tentatively he put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Not now, Boyo,’ she said in a hard, dry voice, ‘we’ll talk in the morning.’

Somehow, he knew from the way she spoke that Bethan was afraid, afraid she might hear something she didn’t want to hear. Pity overwhelmed him; how could he burden his wife, a good, kind, generous woman, with his own conflict of conscience?