Chapter 4

 

The school at which Owen Morgan was the newest pupil was a very small foundation. Taking only twenty boys, these lads were mostly the sons of tradesmen and manufacturers, from Cardiff and the Vale of Glamorgan, and the areas round about.

Although this was a grammar school offering a traditional English education, Owen's masters did not spend too much time on the classics, reasoning that Greek and Latin would be of little practical use to the shopkeepers and ironmasters of the next generation. Instead, the boys were taught to express themselves clearly in the English language, to understand accounts, and to write a fair, round hand.

Thomas Taliesin, a dark–eyed, dark–haired boy from the Valleys, was the first to pick a fight with the new boy, the first to have his nose bloodied in the process, and the first to decide that Owen Morgan was a good fellow.

This was perhaps inevitable, for the two of them had a great deal in common. An orphan like Owen himself, Thomas's parents had died of septic quinsy within a week of one other, leaving him the notional ward of an ancient aunt who kept fifteen cats and a house–trained pig, but who found the idea of sharing her rambling old house with a thirteen year old boy insupportable.

She had scoured the newspapers and weekly periodicals until she found an advertisement for a cheap school a fair distance from her own home. So Thomas, and two other boys whose relations didn't want them, were permanent boarders at the school, and sat at the headmaster's own table. Fortunately, Mr Dryden's wife liked boys, and was a very good cook, so they didn't do too badly.

As Owen soon realised, Thomas was a braggart, a liar and a thief. He stole regularly from shops and market stalls, and was not above offering the proceeds of his thievery for general sale, in the school yard. There was a fortune coming to him when he was twenty one. Or so he said. In the meantime, while he waited for his ship to come in, his shoes were down at heel, his linen ragged and his cuffs frayed.

But he wore his highwayman's hat with a jaunty air, he grinned and whistled and played the most outrageous practical jokes, and Owen was inclined to like him.

‘You are allowed out on Sundays, aren't you?’ demanded Owen one Friday dinner time, as he and Thomas washed off the blood, after one of their playground spats.

‘Who's asking?’ enquired Thomas, gingerly investigating the damage to his nose, upon which Owen had landed a punch.

‘We could go swimming, maybe.’ Owen grinned. ‘Do you swim?’

‘Like a bloody fish, man.’ Offended, Thomas glared. But then he grinned, too. ‘We'll go up to the old claypits, shall we? I'll teach you to dive.’

 

As well as learning to dive, Owen learned to blend into the scenery of rural Wales. Little by little, he felt he was becoming Welsh again.

But, although he and David nowadays slipped easily into Welsh from English, and just as easily back again, Owen found that at school the speaking of Welsh was not encouraged at all. There, the language of instruction was English. Indeed, most of the pupils came from families whose only language was the Saxon tongue, and of the twenty scholars in the little school, only Thomas and Owen himself knew more than a few words of the ancient Celtic their forefathers had spoken — and even they had learned two completely different dialects of that.

But, in spite of this, they soon realised they could have private conversations which no one else understood. In a bastard version of the most beautiful language in the world, they discussed their hopes, their dreams, their plans for the future. Both orphans, both sharp and clever, both supposing themselves effectually cast off by their rich but heartless relations, who would certainly live to regret their cruelty, it was perhaps inevitable that Owen and Thomas Taliesin should become great friends.

‘But you're not absolutely set on becoming an apothecary, are you?’ demanded Thomas one recreation, as the two of them sloped across the school yard muttering to one another in a rough approximation of the language their parents had taught them. ‘You don't honestly mean to spend your life mixing salves for winter chilblains, or balm for cradle cap?’

‘Why should I not?’ Owen grinned. ‘The relief of suffering is a noble calling,’ he declared, parroting David Morgan. ‘The alleviation of pain — ’

‘Don't give me that cant.’ Extravagantly, Thomas yawned. ‘Apothecaries! Healers of the sick! Quacks and piss prophets, more like. Every man Jack of them, one and all.’

‘Oh, yes? What about you, then? What will you be?’

‘A rich man.’ Thomas kicked a stone across the yard. ‘I shall become a manufacturer. An ironmaster, with my own foundries, my own mills, my own workshops. I'll have a thousand men under me. All obedient to my behest.’

‘Where will you get the cash, to finance an undertaking like that?’

‘I'll seek out a wealthy fool, and persuade him to invest. I'll offer him profits beyond calculation, merely for sitting on his backside and signing his name.’ Thomas sighed. ‘I can't wait to be a man. To leave this dismal little town. To strike out on my own!’

* * * *

In those first years of the nineteenth century, the population of Cardiff was a little over a thousand souls. David Morgan was one of three apothecaries in the town, but his practice extended far into the countryside round about. His patients were usually farmers and their families, the better–off sort of peasant, and servants. But, such was his reputation, the gentry also consulted David Morgan — although in cases of serious illness, a physician from Monmouth or Chepstow would be called in.

Not that this was worth the expense. Not in the least. The physician might be an Oxford or Cambridge man, might style himself Doctor and know the Latin for any organ or bone you cared to name — but his practical skills would be minimal. Whereas although he was merely an apothecary, and merely licensed to dispense drugs, David Morgan's understanding of physiology, pharmacology and obstetrics was second to none.

So it was David who taught Owen the rudiments of anatomy, how to set bones, how to treat burns, and how to recognise the symptoms of common ailments in both children and grown men.

Full of intellectual curiousity, and blessed with a highly retentive memory, Owen absorbed information like a sponge. ‘Perhaps we ought to send you to college after all,’ murmured his uncle, as he watched Owen at work one Saturday afternoon. ‘We could make a physician of you, maybe.’

‘I don't think so.’ Carefully counting drops, Owen added them to the specific against the gout, which he was concocting under David's watchful eye. ‘I wouldn't want to spend my days fawning on the aristocracy. Or haunting the anterooms of the great.’

‘You wouldn't need to, child.’ David grinned. ‘Talented as you undoubtedly are, and with good looks to boot, the great — the ladies especially — would be beating a path to your door!’

 

The year turned, then turned again. Faithful to his promise, Owen wrote regularly to his cousin Jane, and received her replies. These occasionally enclosed a flowery little note from Maria, hoping he was well. Sometimes, even Isabel Graham wrote to him, slipping her highly–scented, hot– pressed letters inside Jane's.

Isabel's letters were longer than Maria's, but not very interesting for all that. As he opened her latest offering, he saw that today's epistle was no exception to the general rule.

‘My dear Owen,’ he read. ‘I hope you are quite well. Last week, Papa bought me a new pony. She is a dappled grey, and her name is Twilight. The weather here is very bad. It rains constantly. I do not know when I shall get out to ride. I am very well. My parents send their kindest regards.’

Yawning, Owen tossed this exciting intelligence aside, and began to read the letter from Jane.

Having sanctioned the correspondence between the two cousins, Jane's parents saw no need to censor it, so she could write about whatever she pleased — and she did. Furthermore, she was a natural correspondent, who if given a sheet of paper and a pen could bring a rout, a ball, or a dinner party to gloriously vivid life. Who described people she did not like with a delightfully malicious wit, and who always concluded her long letters with, ‘my parents send their best love. As, of course, do I.’

Best love. Owen did not doubt that Rebecca loved him, loved him dearly in fact, as much as she loved her own son. But Ellis? Well — he obligingly franked these fat, bulging letters, so that David did not have to pay the carriage costs. That was something, Owen supposed. Ellis also paid for his nephew's education, which was much appreciated, since Owen loved school.

Jane reported that Rayner, on the other hand, hated Harrow. Bored by lessons, and loathing all forms of physical activity or the organised sport in which the famous public school distinguished itself, he was frequently beaten, either for failing to hand in his preparation or for letting his side down. Those few letters Owen received from his cousin seemed to underline this lack of progress, if not the unhappiness of the person who had written them. For Rayner's handwriting would have disgraced a little child just learning pot–hooks, any ability to express himself fluently or amusingly was sadly lacking, and his spelling was a disaster area.

‘So much for a superior education,’ Owen would reflect, turning back to Jane's closely–written paragraphs. Although she had had no formal education at all...

One day, seeing the latest of her bulky manuscripts sticking out of Owen's school bag, Thomas Taliesin snatched it and began to read aloud, for the edification of the whole class. ‘No, let me,’ he begged, as Owen tried to grab it back. ‘It's damned intriguing. I want to know what happened next.’

So Owen let him read Jane's account of a very grand ball, during which her friend Martha Dennison had danced a whole two dances with a man she had afterwards learned was a notorious philanderer — nay, had risen from the bed of his latest mistress only an hour since, in order to attend that very ball! The mistress had arrived later, dressed to kill, and given poor Martha some very black looks.

Then, at tea, Jane had overheard some scandalous details of an affair between the county's most senior MP and the local magistrate's pock–marked but apparently highly desirable young wife. Then, best of all, a clergyman the worse for drink had poured his bowl of white soup into a lady's lap — whereupon the lady had violent hysterics and her husband knocked the parson down, to the delight and horror of the distinguished company.

‘Hand it back now,’ said Owen, as Thomas laughed heartily and pleaded to be allowed to go on. ‘The rest is private, so give it to me.’

But Thomas merely turned over the page. Then, of course, he saw the signature of the correspondent. ‘This is from a woman!’ he cried grinning, a mad baboon incarnate. ‘Morgan has a woman! She sends him her best love! She — ’

‘Does she, by God? What's her name?’ demanded John Friar, chortling delightedly.

‘It's Jane.’ Thomas Taliesin cackled like a demented hen. ‘She is Morgan's dearest Jane. She's his darling, precious — ’

‘She's my cousin!’ Snatching the letter, Owen glared. ‘She sends me news of home, that's all! She's not my precious, nor my darling — ’

‘How old is she?’ interrupted John Friar.

‘Seventeen. But — ’

‘Quite grown up! Is she pretty?’

‘Yes, she is. But I — ’

‘Morgan's blushing!’ Thomas Taliesin was beside himself with delight. ‘Look at him! He's bright red!’

‘Come along, Morgan.’ John Friar shook Owen by the shoulder. ‘Spill the beans. This cousin of yours — is she an heiress?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You must have. Is her father rich?’

‘Yes. But he also has a son. So his daughters may never be — ’

‘Are you going to marry her?’

‘Of course not. I told you — she's my cousin. Besides, she's much older than me.’

‘Cousins may marry.’ Thomas Taliesin looked wise. ‘Well now, boys — if I had a cousin, daughter of a rich man, who sent me her best love at the end of a nice long letter like this, I'd propose to her directly, let her be ten, twenty years older than me! I'd — ’

‘Shut up, Taliesin.’ Still red in the face, Owen glared. ‘Shut your mouth now, or I'll break all the teeth in it and push them down your throat.’

‘You and whose army?’

‘Taliesin, I'm warning you!’

‘Come on, then.’ Thomas Taliesin grinned. ‘Let's see who's the better man! Tell you what, Morgan — if I knock you out, will you permit me to make my addresses to your dear cousin Jane? After all, I'm not her near relation. I've no objection to mounting an old nag — provided her saddle bags are full of gold. I — ’

Owen lunged at him. The other boys pushed back the desks, and settled down to enjoy the fight.

* * * *

‘You were the victor, I hope?’ murmured David Morgan mildly, as he mixed calendula and orange flower water, in order to make a salve for Owen's split lip and blackened eyes.

‘I think so. But it was a close run thing.’ Easing off his torn and filthy jacket, Owen winced. ‘I'm afraid my shoulder may need strapping,’ he whispered. ‘It's very sore.’

‘Let's see, then.’ David examined the joint. ‘Ah, yes. Dislocated, it is. Hold still.’

As his uncle manipulated the bones and tendons, Owen's eyes filled with tears. One by one, they began to spill over. Soon they were trickling in dirty runnels, all down his face.

‘Be brave,’ adjured David, as he worked. Deftly, carefully, he eased the joint back into alignment. ‘There — it's done. Sleep on your back tonight.’

‘You don't wish to strap it up?’

‘No. At your age, the less interference with the flesh, the better.’ David met his nephew's mournful gaze. ‘So what was it all about?’

‘He insulted my cousin Jane. He called her an old nag, and said he wouldn't mind mounting her. He — ’

‘So you felt obliged to defend the lady's honour.’ David shook his head. ‘So for you, it will be women.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘For your father, it was danger. For you, it will be the opposite sex.’ David sighed. ‘From now on, I suppose I shall be seeing this sort of mess regularly.’

‘I shan't get into fights.’ Slipping off his high stool, Owen winced again. ‘I had to hit him this time. But I don't enjoy getting hurt. I don't like pain.’

* * * *

Two years into the new century, the coming of peace with France meant that, for intrepid English travellers, Continental holidays were possible again. Jane wrote that the Darrow family hoped to spend that summer in Europe, touring France and perhaps moving on to Italy in the autumn.

Her parents and Maria were greatly looking forward to going abroad, but Rayner was being very awkward about the whole thing. ‘He protests he has no desire whatsoever to be among Frogs,’ continued Jane, ‘for he understands very little of their vile language, has no opinion of their much– vaunted cuisine — preferring roast rib of beef with a decent gravy to horrid foreign messes any day — and he despises their simpering manners entirely.’

In Rayner's juvenile opinion, moreover, the Peace of Amiens was a sham. England and France were natural enemies. As soon as the Darrows set foot on French soil, war would break out again. His parents and sisters would be arrested, imprisoned, and would end their days on the scaffold, as victims of Madame Guillotine.

Grinning, he'd added that he understood his father's policy. The poor squire was more or less obliged to snatch this chance to get the family abroad, for where else would he find husbands for his daughters? After all, Jane and Maria were so hideous that no sane Englishman would look at either.

‘Be assured, dear Owen,’ said Jane, ‘that I wish as much as ever Rayner does that he could stay at home. But my father is adamant. Travel is to broaden Rayner's mind. It must needs refine his coarse sensibilities, too. My dear Owen, travel would have more chance of refining a Berkshire hog than of improving my dear brother, who is — alas — grown up into a booby, and one of the most oafish, lumpen kind, dear to us though he is and ever will be.

‘But now, something occurs to me. I wonder if he could come and stay with you. Might your uncle allow it? Would you ask him? You would be doing everyone a favour — everyone except, perhaps, yourself! But you were always fond of Rayner, and he loves you dearly, so I'm sure he would be delighted to see you again.’

By the same post, David received a letter from Ellis Darrow. His daughter Jane, he wrote, had recently allowed him to glance over a specimen of his nephew's correspondence, and Ellis had been impressed by what he'd read. Now, he congratulated David on the boy's good sense, marked ability to express himself fluently, and excellent orthography. He must be attending a very good school.

While not mentioning his son's reluctance to join the family party to France, Ellis continued that he would like to ask David a favour. Would it be possible for Rayner to visit his cousin, and stay for a month or so? The boys had been close friends during childhood. As young men, they were surely curious to see each other again. Did David not think they might enjoy spending some time together?

Owen was all for it. So David wrote back by return, inviting Rayner Darrow to visit and stay for as long as he pleased.

* * * *

Rayner stepped out of the coach and gazed all round the market place. Then he saw them. Two tall, good–looking boys of about his own age, they were eyeing the naked ankles and calves of a girl who was setting out a fruit and vegetable stall. He walked up to them, then tapped one on the shoulder. ‘Owen?’ he hazarded.

The boy spun round. ‘Rayner!’ With a yell pleasure, Owen swept his cousin into the most crushing of bear hugs, then drew back to look at him, beaming all over his face. ‘Tom,’ he said then, to the boy lounging at his side, ‘this is Rayner. Rayner Darrow, my long–lost Saxon cousin from wildest Warwickshire!’

‘Indeed? You surprise me. Come now, Morgan — peas in a pod could hardly be more alike!’ Thomas Taliesin grinned. Extravagantly, he bowed. Then he held out his hand. ‘Thomas Taliesin, at your service,’ he said.

Rayner bowed too. ‘Rayner Darrow, at yours,’ he replied.

Owen hooted with laughter. ‘You two belong in Bath,’ he jeered. ‘In the Assembly Rooms, with the famous Mr Nash.’

‘So? He was a Welshman, exactly like you. Born and bred in Swansea.’ Tom threw an arm around Rayner's shoulders. ‘Well, man? Where's your luggage, then?’

‘They're unloading it now. That trunk and the three valises are mine.’

‘Very well. Leave them with the ostler here. Owen will send Daniel for them later.’

The three boys went to David's house, where Tom was always welcome, and where Rayner was made so straight away. Sitting at the kitchen table, planting their huge adolescent feet on the clean rush matting, they ate half of Susannah's weekly bake at a sitting, then went out again, to explore the town.

Rayner was well provided with cash, so his first stop was at the livery stables, where he hired a pony and trap, reserving these for his own exclusive use for the next fortnight, as he meant to see the district in style. If any of his proposed jaunts appealed to Owen or Tom, he added, they were welcome to join him. All their costs — meals, accomodation at inns, whatever — would be at Ellis Darrow's kind expense.

* * * *

By that evening, all three lads were firmly in each others’ confidence. As they lounged on settles in the local pot house, eyeing up the landlord's daughter, and trying to decide if she would be a worthwhile propostion, Rayner casually revealed that actually he'd already had his first woman.

‘Actually worth having, was she?’ demanded Thomas Taliesin, nonchalance incarnate.

‘What?’ Rayner dragged himself away from his study of the barmaid's charms to frown at Tom. He muttered that he supposed so. Although apart from the fact that it relieved congestion, there was nothing much else to recommend it. In short, boys, women were a waste of good drinking time. He beckoned the barmaid over once again.

‘Do you drink a vast deal?’ enquired Owen, as he raised his foaming tankard to his lips.

Rayner grinned. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘It's expected of me. At Harrow, you know, we have fellows who can down a bottle of port in three minutes flat — and still stand! I'm working towards that.’

‘When you leave school, what will you do next?’

‘The old fellow wants me to go to college.’ Rayner pulled a face. ‘We're going to have harsh words about that, I fear.’

‘Why don't you want to go? I would!’ Thomas grinned. ‘I know! You could take Owen along with you. He could be a sizar.’

‘A what?’

‘A scholarship man. Don't you Saxons know anything? Look, take Morgan here. Then at least you'd have some decent company.’

‘It's certainly a thought.’ Rayner considered the notion. ‘It might even be fun, if Owen were there too. But forget the charity boy idea. I'll speak to the old devil about paying Owen's fees. We'll see what he says to that.’

‘Please don't ask the squire.’ Owen frowned into his beer. ‘Your father doesn't like me,’ he muttered. ‘He never has, and he never will. I'll make my way in the world without his grudging aid.’

‘But you could pay him back,’ argued Thomas. ‘When you make your fortune, you could return his cash with interest.’

Owen laughed. ‘Tom here is going to be a rich man,’ he explained. ‘He's to become a great manufacturer, who will set the whole of South Wales afire.’

‘I shall indeed.’ Now, Thomas Taliesin looked crafty. He glanced towards Rayner. ‘Are your your sisters are well?’ he enquired.

‘They're in excellent health. In splendid spirits, too. They're quite beside themselves at the thought of going to Paris.’ Rayner grinned. ‘God, Owen — you should see Maria! These days, she's powdered, painted and bedizened like nothing on earth. She costs my father a fortune in silks and satins. She intends to catch a duke, you see. Or an earl, at least.’

‘What about Jane? Does she aspire to a coronet?’

‘I doubt it. She's certainly no fine lady.’ Rayner shrugged. ‘Oh, she's neat and pretty, I grant you that readily enough. But she isn't showy, you see. Not at all. My father expects to marry her off to an embryo bishop, or some such whey–faced fellow.

‘But if he could keep her in Warwickshire, I expect he'd settle for a mere country gentleman. Provided he had a steady six or seven thousand a year, of course.’

‘Oh.’ The idea of Jane married off made Owen feel most uneasy. ‘How is Isabel?’ he enquired.

‘She's exactly the same,’ replied Rayner. ‘Scrawny, ginger, freckled. No bosom before, no backside behind. As hideous a girl as you could expect to see, if you rode for a whole summer day. It's a good thing she'll be rich.’

* * * *

David Morgan's own childhood had been delightfully carefree. He had been allowed to ramble where he liked, do pretty much as he pleased, in fact — and now he saw no reason at all why three young lads of fifteen should not spend the summer roaming the countryside. Provided they didn't get up to too much mischief, of course.

There was security in numbers, he reasoned. Whereas he would have felt very uneasy about one boy of that age wandering off alone, surely three of them together would be safe enough?

So, that summer, Rayner, Owen and Thomas went roving. Whenever they came across an ironworks, a row of blast furnaces set into a scarred and pitted hillside, or any kind of manufactory, Thomas spied out opportunities and explained how, when he came into his inheritance or met a wealthy fool, he would make his fortune. He drew sketches and plans and daydreamed about getting rich.

Rayner looked out for women. For, in spite of his assertion that they were useful only in that they helped to relieve congestion in a man, he also appeared to enjoy their company. In fact, Owen realised later, his cousin wasn't particularly interested in taking girls to bed. Instead, he liked to have their attention. Their admiration. Their fawning adulation and fascinated regard, as they hung on every word he said.

He was not to be disappointed in South Wales, for he was of course the centre of attention, wherever they went. His dark good looks, aristocratic bearing and expensive clothes made quite sure of that. The landlords of the inns where the boys put up often assumed Rayner's two companions were his servants, and one would sometimes draw Owen or Thomas aside to remark that there was a very handsome lady in the Green Chamber or the Rose Room this evening. Would their master like to make her acquaintance, perhaps?

At whatever kind of inn they chanced on of an evening, pot house or superior coaching establishment, it was never long before, well primed with porter or best ale, Rayner and Thomas began to show off, Thomas impressing the older men with his knowledge and ideas, and Rayner fascinating their wives and daughters. Usually, Owen merely listened to all this palaver, secretly laughing at them both. But sometimes he walked out into the cool summer night, to take a breath of cleaner, fresher air.

One evening, as he strolled back from a walk to a pretty little river near the inn, he noticed a girl taking some packages from a private coach. He'd seen her earlier, in fact. She was a lady's maid. Her mistress, a fat, middle– aged widow, looked very well off. Perhaps he should try to interest her in one of Thomas's lunatic schemes...

The girl nodded to him. ‘Good evening,’ she began, an attractive Welsh lilt lending additional charm to her low, rather husky voice.

Owen decided she must be a country girl. A native Welsh speaker, perhaps, too. So he replied in Welsh — and was delighted when she spoke to him again in his own native tongue.

‘You're with the young English gentleman, aren't you?’ she enquired. Sweetly, she smiled at him. ‘Are you his valet? Or his footman, maybe?’

‘That's right.’ By now, Owen was used to being mistaken for a servant. ‘I'm his valet and footman combined,’ he replied.

‘Then I hope he rewards you accordingly. Were you looking for someone just now?’

‘No. I merely stepped outside for a moment, to breathe in some night air.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, then — ’

‘Don't go in yet.’ Owen looked into the girl's face. He saw that she was pretty, very pretty indeed. Dark hair framed her face, escaping from under her cap and curling charmingly round her ears. Dark eyes sparkled in the moonlight. Full, red lips curved in a delightfully sensuous smile.

She was probably older than he. Eighteen, at least. He knew her mistress had retired for the night. Perhaps she would like to take a short stroll? ‘Would you like to walk down to the waterfall?’ he enquired.

‘Will your master not miss you?’

‘No.’ Owen smiled. ‘He's engaged at dice. He won't get up again until he's lost everything in his pockets and pledged his mourning rings besides.’

So the girl took his arm and together they walked away from the inn.

There was a full moon, so the path was well lit and there was no fear of stumbling in the dark. ‘What's your name?’ asked the girl.

‘Owen Morgan.’

‘I'm Betty Taylor.’ The girl sighed. ‘Well — Betty's not my given name, of course. My mistress calls all her maids Betty.’

‘What is your given name?’

‘Dilys.’

‘I prefer that.’

‘So do I.’

Reaching the waterfall, Dilys sat down on one of the boulders near the water's edge. She patted the stone next to her, so Owen sat down as well. She smiled at him. ‘You may kiss me, if you wish,’ she said.

He did wish, very much. So now, hesitantly, he kissed her cheek. It was the first time he had ever kissed a girl who wasn't also a relation, and it felt very strange — but very exciting, too. He kissed her again.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Not like that!’ Shaking her head, Dilys turned towards him. She put her arms around his neck, then kissed him squarely on the mouth. ‘How old are you?’ she enquired when, a minute later, she drew away.

‘Seventeen,’ he lied.

‘Get away with you.’ She laughed. ‘I must go back now. But I'll see you tomorrow evening, maybe.’

* * * *

The following evening, Dilys met him outside the inn and led him down the path, past the waterfall and into the woods beyond. Sitting down in a grassy glade, she pulled Owen down beside her, then kissed him, opening his mouth with hers.

Then she placed his hands on her breasts, encouraging him to massage them while her own fingers fluttered to and fro across his lap, lightly stroking his private parts. ‘Is that nice?’ she whispered.

Nice? It was wonderful. But Owen found he could only squeak in reply.

So she kissed him again. Hours — or maybe it was merely a few minutes — slipped by. Then, suddenly, Dilys stopped stroking his lap and drew back a little. But this was only so she could pull up the skirts of her gown.

‘You may look,’ she said, lying back on her elbows. ‘You may touch me. You may even kiss me, if you wish. But you may go no further than that.’

Astonished, Owen merely stared at her. So she took his hand and showed him what to do. ‘Just there,’ she murmured. ‘That's right. In fact, it's bliss.’

It took a little practice, but soon Owen found he could do it. He could actually perform a miracle. In the space of a few minutes, he transformed a self–assured, rather bossy little woman into a shuddering, wild–eyed, moaning animal, who groaned and gasped and clawed at him as if she were drowning, and he the only creature who could save her — which, at last, he did.

He hadn't known he possessed such astonishing power.

But she had power, too. Now, he had no choice but to go on, to —

‘No, my dear. We mustn't.’ She clung to him. She was almost in tears. ‘I'd like to, in fact I'd love to, but if you get me with child — ’

‘Oh, Dilys! Please let me! I'll be so careful!’

‘Hush. This is almost as good.’ She undid his buttons, then took him in her hands, and worked on him. When his release came, he literally sobbed with relief. He thought he must die of it.

* * * *

They walked back to the inn hand in hand. ‘We go on to Brecon tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I shan't see you again.’

He gaped at her. He had to see her again! At this particular moment, he wanted to marry her. ‘Give me your address,’ he said. ‘I can write to you then.’

‘Write to me?’ Her eyes grew round. ‘You know how to write a letter?’

‘Well, of course I do.’

‘I can't even read.’ She hung her head. But then, she looked up at him. ‘You're a lovely young man,’ she said. ‘You'll meet dozens of other girls — most of them prettier and all of them cleverer than me.’

‘I doubt that. Oh, Dilys — ’

‘I'll remember you, Owen Morgan.’ Sadly, Dilys smiled at him. ‘I was the first, wasn't I? To touch you, I mean?’

‘No!’ Owen reddened. But then he admitted it. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘How old are you really?’

Owen shrugged. ‘Fifteen,’ he muttered, crossly. ‘But I — ’

‘A mere child.’ Dilys gave his hand a comforting squeeze. ‘I'm twenty two. Engaged to be married. I'm going to wed my mistress's butler next spring.’

* * * *

Jane and Maria looked out of their hotel window and down into the busy street below. Paris was fascinating. So exciting! To two country–bred English girls on their first trip abroad, it even smelled delicious, although some of the component parts of that smell were extremely unpleasant, to say the least.

Maria's hired maid had finally finished her lady's hair and gone on her way. ‘Well?’ demanded Maria.

‘You look wonderful.’ Jane smiled. ‘But my father will say you're too fine.’

‘He's just an old misery. He would have all the women in England dress as Quakeresses. Like you and Mama, in fact.’ Maria sighed. ‘Why don't you let Sophie do your hair for you? Style it à la Parisienne? You don't need to wear your gowns quite so loose, either. Tight sleeves would show off your arms, and a narrow bodice would become you very well.’

‘Would it?’ Doubtfully, Jane frowned. Today, in spite of long sleeves which came down to her wrists, her sister's creamy shoulders and bosom were almost naked, on display for all the world to admire. Before going out, her father would insist she put on a scarf, or even oblige her to exchange her lovely new gown for a more modest one, which left rather more — or in fact, everything — to the beholder's imagination.