Chapter 11

 

When she saw Owen, Isabel broke down, bursting into tears of both exhaustion and relief. ‘Oh, God!’ Gulping and sobbing, she threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh, great God in heaven! I thought I would never find you! But now I have, I don't think I can even bear to look at you, in case you — ’

But then her sobs choked her, and for a few minutes speech was an impossibility.

The servant had said she was ragged and dirty. Now, Owen realised, she was starving too. Her shoulders were bony, her arms like sticks, and her lovely face quite gaunt with need. While not exactly in tatters — for no one of any sense or education would have mistaken Isabel Darrow for a beggar, or a tramp — her shoes were down at heel, her shawl dirty, and her gown torn.

As she clung to Owen and wept, David Morgan came into the shop. Having heard Isabel's scream, he confidently expected to find a patient in extremis, desperate for his aid. But instead, he found his nephew being half–strangled by a lunatic in a shabby silk gown. At a loss, he stared. ‘Well, then? What ails the girl?’ he demanded, irritably.

With some difficulty, Owen extricated himself from Isabel's embrace. ‘This lady is not a patient,’ he began. But then, he bit his lip. Some kind of explanation was necessary. But what? ‘She's an old acquaintance of mine,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ Not in the least impressed, David sniffed. ‘May I know when and where you were introduced?’

‘This is Mrs Darrow,’ muttered Owen. ‘She is my cousin Rayner's wife.’

‘Your cousin's wife.’ Glancing again at Isabel, who was still weeping and whose face was stained with dirt and the tracks of previous tears, he shook his head. ‘Oh. I see.’

Owen frowned. ‘What do you mean, you see?’

‘I mean, I understand perfectly now. It all makes sense. Your sudden departure from Warwickshire. Your arrival here, with straw in your hair and your linen not changed for a week. Your wedding not to take place after all. Then, your dear aunt dead of a seizure, but you yourself not permitted to stand by her grave.’

Grimacing, David shook his head. ‘Everything awry,’ he muttered. ‘The family at Easton suddenly incommunicado. You behaving like a dog that's been whipped for stealing the mutton, from the kitchen spit.’

‘Uncle, I — ’

‘Save your breath, child. Whatever the explanation, I don't wish to hear it. Not this evening, at any rate.’ David touched Isabel's shoulder. ‘Well, young lady,’ he continued, ‘you had better come into the parlour. I'll have the abigail make up a poultice for your feet, and I myself will fetch you a cordial. While I do that, you can explain yourself to your friend here. After he's locked up, that is.’

Isabel was most unwilling to let Owen out of her sight, even for a moment. But, when he promised that after he had locked up the shop, he would join her in the parlour straight away, she consented to be led into that snug little room, and to sit by the fire there.

A minute later, Owen was sitting down himself. ‘Well, Isabel?’ he began.

‘Don't look unkindly at me! I can't bear it!’ Her tears having temporarily abated, Isabel began to cry again. ‘Oh, God!’ she sobbed. ‘God and all the saints in heaven, I wish I were dead!’

‘Come, Isabel. You must speak to me. What on earth has happened?’

‘Can't you guess?’ wept Isabel. But then, she made some attempt to control her tears. ‘Very well,’ she muttered. ‘I'll attempt to enlighten you. I'll begin at the beginning, shall I?’

‘Please do.’

‘You remember that after we had — after you'd told them you had changed your mind about marrying Jane, the squire ordered Rayner to take me home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, as soon as we arrived there, he told my maid I'd had an accident, and to put me straight to bed. You may imagine how I passed that night! The following morning, my husband came to see me. He sat down on a hard chair, and read me a lecture on sin.’ Isabel's soft mouth twisted angrily. ‘God,’ she hissed, ‘he's so like his father! Such a cold, unforgiving, self–righteous, Puritan saint! Ever preaching the desirability of sobriety, chastity and moral rectitude. But ogling my breasts the while!’

‘What exactly did Rayner say?’

‘He told me I had behaved abominably. I had forfeited any right to the society of decent people, and I would be an outcast for the rest of my days. Then he asked if I intended to repent.

‘Cant, I thought.’ Viciously, Isabel gnawed her lower lip. ‘So much cant! I know he visits brothels! I've smelled them on him! So anyway, I told him that although he might call me a whore, he was nothing but a hog. As for his sister, she was a nun. Which was hardly surprising, coming as she did from a holy pair like the Darrows, who no doubt suffered nothing so impure as carnal knowledge to pollute their wedded bliss! Whose children were conceived by the Holy Ghost. Born of the virgin Rebecca —

‘He slapped me hard then, across the face. I think I must have fainted. Later that morning he was sent for, and I learned his mother had died during the night. The shock had killed her, they supposed. Owen, I know how tenderly you loved your aunt. I'm sorry to give you pain.’

‘What happened next?’

‘He shut me up in the house. He locked me in my bedchamber, in fact. I suppose I wasn't a prisoner, not exactly — but I was forbidden visitors. Not that I'd have had to turn them away, for by then everyone knew what had happened, and no respectable matron would have come near me, for I would have polluted her by my very presence. My maid brought me all the news. Of course, the servants’ tongues never stopped wagging, of that you may be sure.

‘Even my mother would not see me. In fact, my parents let it be known that they disowned me. Rayner could cast me out, and I might die in a ditch for all they cared. I was no child of theirs.’

‘Oh, Isabel! That's terrible.’ In spite of himself, Owen was moved. Insofar as he'd considered the matter at all, he had expected Rayner to forgive his wife. He'd assumed things in Warwickshire would soon get back to normal. Jane would forget him, and eventually marry a better man than he. ‘Isabel,’ he began gently, ‘what do you mean to do now?’

‘I don't know!’ Isabel's tears were ready to flow again. ‘I just wanted — ’

‘How did you manage to get away from Rayner?’

‘I bribed my maid to leave my door ajar. I gave her my silver needle–case, with the laudanum bottle secreted in the lid. She'd always coveted it, you see. I had a few guineas in my escritoire.

‘I travelled post, then when my money ran out I begged my passage. I hailed wagons, farmers’ carts, tradesmen's drays — anything. Oh God! It was horrible!’

‘How did you find me?’

‘I knew your uncle was an apothecary. Maria happened to mention his circumstances once, and astonishingly enough I had remembered the facts. So when I was set down in the market place, I enquired at the inn, and was directed here.’

Now, David himself entered the little parlour. He brought with him a jug of something flavoured with sweet herbs, camomile, and honey. Pouring a glass, he handed it to his guest. ‘Drink it all,’ he said.

Meekly, Isabel accepted the glass. She began to sip. Then, David's maidservant, Sarah Hughes — who frequently assisted at those minor operations and surgical procedures which, as a licensed apothecary, David Morgan was legally permitted to perform — removed Isabel's ragged shoes, and washed her feet. Carefully, she treated all the blisters and scrapes which disfigured Isabel's soft, white skin.

‘Thank you,’ said Isabel, when the maid had finished. ‘You're very kind.’

Sarah smiled in acknowledgement. She stood up. ‘Will you have something to eat, ma'am?’ she enquired.

‘I'm not hungry.’ Isabel stifled a yawn. ‘But I'm so weary, I could sleep for a week.’

‘Where may she sleep?’ asked Owen.

‘She must have the maid's room,’ replied David, decisively.

‘What about Sarah?’

‘She and Bronwen will share a bed in the scullery.’ David reached for the candle. ‘Come along, young lady. I'll light you upstairs.’

‘Thank you, Mr Morgan.’ Isabel struggled to her feet. Then, reddening, she hung her head. ‘But before I go to bed,’ she murmured, ‘I have something of a rather delicate nature to say to your nephew here. I — ’

‘Very well.’ David handed the candle to Owen. ‘My nephew shall light your way.’

 

The maid's room was small, but clean and warm. To Isabel, who had spent a week on the open road, it looked like a bedchamber in a palace.

‘I'll leave you, then,’ said Owen. He placed the candlestick on the washstand. ‘Sarah will bring your tea, about seven. But if you need anything in the night, do please — ’

‘Owen?’

‘Yes?

‘Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for taking me in, and for giving me a roof above my head tonight.’

Owen shrugged. ‘I feel responsible for you,’ he said.

‘Yes. I believe you do.’ But then, Isabel grimaced, as if in pain. ‘All the same — our just and charitable society being what it is, no one would have blamed you if you'd felt no concern at all. If I had been found dead in the gutter a stone's throw from your door, nobody would have called you to account.’

‘Maybe not. But I should have reproached myself.’

‘That is because you're a good man.’ Isabel reached for his hand. ‘Stay a moment longer. Close the door.’

‘Isabel, I don't think — ’

‘I need to say just two words.’

‘Well?’

‘Touch me.’ Taking his right hand, Isabel placed the palm against her stomach. ‘Don't you feel him quicken?’

‘Quicken?’ Owen stared at her. ‘Isabel, what are you saying?’

‘He kicks and bucks like a baby antelope! My dear Owen, I'm carrying your son.’

* * * *

There was nothing for it but to take her to the little house near the ironworks and introduce her to the two servants there as Mrs Morgan, their master's wife. Of course, David's own servants’ chatter made the circumstances of the alleged Mrs Owen Morgan's arrival in South Wales, torn and bleeding and looking for all the world like a tinker born and bred under a hedgerow, except that she wore a grubby silk gown, general currency for miles round about. Everyone agreed that it was a rum business.

Very rum indeed.

For a while, Isabel was happy. Relief that she was not to be turned out — for indeed, Owen now had a spare bedchamber fitted up specially for her, and engaged a maid to look after her — and gratitude that she was allowed to take his name, so could therefore meet the gapes of local people with a bold, level stare of her own, made her tractable and pleasant.

For a time.

But then, she began to fret. She had nothing to do all day, and was consequently extremely bored. Recovering from her ordeal on the highways and byways of England and Wales, she found she had plenty of energy, but nothing to expend it on.

‘Go walking,’ suggested Owen, when she grumbled that she had spent all one particular afternoon watching sooty raindrops slide down the window panes, and almost died of boredom as a result, ‘take some exercise. In the fresh air.’

‘What fresh air?’ Contemptuously, Isabel sniffed. ‘If I so much as poke my head outside the front door, I begin to sneeze. My bonnet is covered in smuts in an instant.’

‘But if you go just a little further down the valley, you'll find the air is clear.’

‘If I go down the valley, I shall then be obliged to climb the mountain. If I have a mind to come home again, that is. In any case, I am presently in no condition to scramble about amidst rocks and scree.’

Isabel pouted for a few moments longer. But then, she smiled. Going over to where Owen sat, she wound her white arms around his shoulders. She kissed his face.

‘Don't do that,’ he murmured.

‘Why?’ Isabel kissed him again. ‘You do need me,’ she whispered. She ran her long, thin fingers through his hair. ‘Why pretend to hate me, when you know you love me still?’

Owen merely sighed.

So, encouraged, Isabel slid her fingers under the neckband of his shirt. She shook off her cap. Strands of her coppery hair stroked Owen's face.

* * * *

Pregnancy had not diminished Isabel's appetite for sex in the slightest. Indeed, if anything, this had increased. So, after a token resistance, Owen allowed her into his bed. He let her seduce and beguile him all over again.

She was determined to bewitch him, and she did. Now, she even had an ally, for inside her the unborn baby wriggled and squirmed and demanded attention as imperiously as ever his mother did. Owen watched fascinated as little elbows, fists and knees pummelled and punched and kicked, lying safe beneath the soft blanket of Isabel's milk–white skin.

Tracing the child's ghostly outlines, watching the baby twist and turn and then, as if exhausted, come to rest, Owen realised he was still mad. He was still in love with his cousin's wife. But, more than that, he was beginning to love her for herself. She had been so brave. So selfless. She had given up everything to be with him...

She was also generous, and kind. Sated herself, she was always careful to make sure he was completely satisfied, too. One evening, realising he was still awake, she touched his arm.

‘What is it?’ he murmured.

‘You're very restless,’ she said.

‘I was thinking.’ Wearily, he rubbed his tired eyes. ‘There's a problem at the works. We can't get one of the furnaces properly into blast. There's something wrong with the big steam engine, too — but I don't know what it can be.’

‘Well, you need your sleep.’ Isabel took his hand in hers. ‘I could relax you,’ she whispered.

‘Could you?’

‘Of course.’ Sitting up, she slipped out of her nightdress. She pushed the bedclothes aside.

* * * *

Until he had carnal knowledge of Isabel, Owen had assumed that English ladies of her class and breeding were delicate, fastidious creatures. A wife tolerated her husband's lust simply because it was expected of her. If she meant to be a mother, sexual congress a tribulation she was obliged to bear. Only the lower orders and professional whores understood the giving and receiving of pleasure for its own sake.

But then, he reasoned, Isabel wasn't English anyway. Although her ancestors had lived for generations in the green heart of Warwickshire, Isabel was an American by birth. Perhaps that accounted for it? The hot sun of Virginia had warmed her cold Anglo–Saxon blood.

So now, he lay supine, letting her hands and mouth work their magic on him.

‘How do you know about these things?’ he asked later when, good for nothing, his problems at the ironworks completely forgotten, he lay exhausted by her side.

‘My nurse taught me,’ she replied.

‘Your nurse?’ Owen was astonished. ‘But how — ’

‘Don't look so shocked. It wasn't like that.’ Tossing back her copper ringlets, Isabel smiled. ‘My nurse was a passionate woman. She was very desirable, too. She had at least seven children, two or three of them my father's own. But her other lovers came from all over the estate.

‘Her duties as my nurse were not burdensome, so she had plenty of opportunity to amuse and divert herself. To divert others, too! She visited all over the plantation, in fact. Whenever she paid a call, she would sit me in a corner of the cabin with my dolls, throw off her shift, then go to work.

‘When we left Virginia, I forgot all about those interesting outings of mine. But when I was first married, something triggered memories of that time.’ Isabel shook her head. ‘I thought all grown–up women behaved thus. I imagined it was part of the contract, that a wife should give her husband pleasure. But Rayner did not agree. The first time I did, or began to do — for indeed, I was abruptly forestalled – what I have just done for you, my husband was disgusted. He said I was behaving like a harlot.’

Bitterly, Isabel sighed. ‘He knows all about them, of course! As God is my witness, I do not traduce him in the slightest when I tell you he's had experience of dozens. If not scores!’

‘Has he?’ Owen was amazed. He had dismissed Isabel's earlier insistence that Rayner frequented brothels as demented raving. ‘Are you quite sure of that?’

‘Most certainly!’ Isabel replied.

‘But — Isabel, how did you learn of it? Surely he did not tell you to your face?’

‘Oh, the whole county knows! Rayner and Charles Harding are bywords in Easton, and the area round about. For a while, my maid was intimate with Mr Harding's manservant. That fellow has a mouth as wide as the entrance to Hades itself.

‘All the same, nobody speaks of it in public. Maria pretends she knows nothing about it, nothing at all. Owen?’

‘Yes?’

‘You're so kind. So honest. Not a hypocrite, like Rayner and his friends. I was right to come to you.’

‘Yes, I think you were.’

‘We will be happy together, won't we?’

‘I hope so.’ Contentedly, Owen yawned. Now, he would certainly go to sleep.

* * * *

But with no calls to make, no friends to chat with and no occupation to keep her busy, for much of the time Isabel was not happy at all. She was too bored to be content.

The servants did the routine housework, of course — but although in rural Wales, it was perfectly permissible for a mistress to take charge of her own kitchen, Isabel thought it beneath her even to enter the servants’ hall. All she would do was order meals. Lacking any skills in practical needlework, she could not make baby clothes, nor mend household linens. So she simply had nothing to do.

As her girth increased, and she became clumsy and lumpish, her temper became uncertain in the extreme. The imperfections of the house, which she had once thought charming, were a constant irritation. Her bedchamber was too poky, the stairs were too steep, and the sitting room too dark.

Her diet was unsatisfactory, too. ‘I am sick of mutton,’ she complained, as a hash of onions, potatoes and meat was placed before her, for the third day running. ‘Is there never any beef or pork to be had, in this Godforsaken place?’

‘The Welsh eat mutton.’ Owen was hungry, and not disposed to quarrel with his victuals, even if these were stodgy and badly dressed. He passed Isabel the pepper. ‘So, Isabel — if you are to live in Wales, you must learn to like it too.’

Isabel scowled at him. Dropping her knife and fork on her plate, she called for some cheese and celery, instead. Then, having chewed a stalk or two, and rejected the cheese as maggotty, she announced she was going for a walk.

* * * *

But, whenever she went outside to take a breath of fresh air, she was never able to find any. Up on the mountainside or down in the valley, it made no difference. There were smuts, smoke and dust everywhere.

Passing to and from the ironworks, the workmen and their sluttish wives stared at her. They never spoke, but merely nodded and grinned, like the simpletons they were. Not understanding their outlandish language, Isabel had no intention whatsoever of learning it, so it annoyed her extremely that Owen himself would jabber away to anybody and everybody in a tongue as foreign to Isabel as Ancient Greek. But his offer to teach her some Welsh was rejected with scorn.

‘You could go on a visit my uncle, if you like.’ Owen had had a busy day at work, and expected an even busier one tomorrow. A third furnace had been built and was to be put into blast, a new steam engine was to be installed, so he was as excited as a child with a new toy. ‘It's a long round trip, I agree. But you could stay overnight, couldn't you? If you spent a day or two in Cardiff, you could look out some linen for the child.’

‘There's none to be had in Cardiff,’ retorted Isabel, crossly. ‘I shall have to send to Manchester for all that.’

‘Then, sit and chat with my uncle.’

‘Your uncle!’ Isabel snorted her disdain. ‘Who in her right mind would wish to spend even an hour in the company of that foolish old man?’

* * * *

When Owen came home the following evening, grubby and tired but triumphant, Isabel's mood had not improved. ‘You look like an artisan in that filthy coat,’ she grumbled. ‘You smell quite disgusting. I hate the stink of engine oil and coal dust, and you reek of both.’

‘I'll go and wash, then.’ Owen was happy tonight. The new engine was working perfectly, the processes were on song, and since the war in Europe had intensified, orders were flooding in. ‘I'll do it now, while you make tea.’

‘Pray do.’ Isabel glared at him. ‘Whatever his faults, Rayner at least always looked the gentleman.’

All that evening, it was the same. Prodding and goading, sneering and provoking, Isabel longed for a quarrel, but Owen was too tired to oblige her. She was still grumbling when he fell asleep in his chair.

The following day, she was sullen from dawn to dusk. That evening, she wanted sex.

‘I do love you,’ mumbled Owen, as he turned over and attempted to go to sleep. ‘But I worry that we might hurt the child.’ He yawned. ‘Oh, darling! Let me sleep! I'm so tired tonight.’

‘Tired,’ pouted Isabel. Spitefully, she pinched his arm. ‘You cruel, unfeeling brute. What you mean is, you're tired of me.’

‘Nonsense.’ Owen closed his eyes. But now, he found he was thinking of Jane. Dear Jane! The kind of woman a man would always be glad to come home to. The tranquil, soft– voiced creature any sensible man would be delighted to call wife.

‘You're thinking of her again.’ Isabel's rather shrill, sharp voice cut like a blade, right into the dream. ‘You're remembering your virgin nun.’

Owen knew this was a guess — that she could not see into his heart or his mind — but still he started, a guilty thing surprised. ‘Don't, Isabel,’ he muttered. ‘You give me a headache when you go on so.’

* * * *

‘I hate this place.’ It was breakfast time. Isabel had made tea, but she had forgotten to warm the pot, the water had not boiled, so now she passed Owen a scummy cupful of weak, greyish broth. ‘It's so poky,’ she grumbled. ‘So drab. When I remember my own house, how light and airy it was — ’

On and on she went, and she was still complaining when Owen left for work.

He returned home very tired. Having spent much of that day in the heat and dust of the casthouse, his head already ached, and when Isabel began to memorialise her fine linen sheets, her beautiful gowns, and her little lap dogs who would certainly be pining for their mistress, he found he could bear it no longer. ‘Why don't you go back to Warwickshire, then?’ he cried.

‘What?’ Startled, Isabel stalled in mid–grizzle. ‘What did you say?’

‘You heard me.’ Owen closed his tired eyes. ‘Beg Rayner to have you back. Ask him to overlook the awkward fact that you're big with another man's child. There's a more than even chance he might.’

‘But Owen, I — ’

‘He's been schooled from childhood in the art of turning the other cheek. Of forgiving those who trespass against him. If you grovel enough, he might take you in.’

‘Do you mean that?’ Her eyes wide, Isabel stared at him. ‘Do you actually — ’

‘Yes, indeed.’ Deliberately misunderstanding her, Owen ploughed on. ‘Rayner's not a vindictive man. So, if you abase yourself, if you lie in the dust and lick his boots, he'll probably raise you up and forgive you everything.’

‘Owen, do you honestly wish me to go back to Rayner?’

‘Do you wish it?’

‘Sometimes, I think I do.’ Isabel was sniffing hard. ‘When you haven't spoken to me properly for days together, when I long and long for some pleasant conversation, I do. Whatever his failings, Rayner was always sociable. He loved to chat.’

‘Well, I am an only child. My parents died when I was very young. I have spent long periods of my life in my own company, so it's only natural that I should be somewhat self–absorbed.’

‘I think you've grown to hate me.’

‘I've grown to hate the fact that you can be so tiresome!’ Owen was angry. Why couldn't Isabel leave him alone? Why did she need to be entertained all the time, night and day?

For, there was more than an element of truth in what she said. He didn't actually hate her, he couldn't hate poor Isabel — but she did annoy him. Also, he didn't desire her. Not any more, not while she was so fat and ungainly, with the blue veins standing proud on her legs, her ankles swollen, and her once beautiful bosom bloated and heavy as lead.

‘He might take me,’ she was saying now. Miserably, she sniffed. ‘After all — there's a chance this could be Rayner's child.’

‘What?’ Owen came out of his reverie with a start. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, this baby could be Rayner's.’

‘Oh? But you told me he — ’

‘He was a boring, disagreeable lover. He gave me no pleasure in bed. But he was not incapable.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘What a mess it all is.’ Awkwardly, Isabel rose from the sofa. Collecting the tea things together, she sighed. ‘Do you still love her?’

‘I — ’

‘Of course you do. You think of her constantly. You even dream of her. You say her name in your sleep.’

‘Isabel, I have known her from a child. I have always loved her.’

‘More than you love me?’

‘Oh, Isabel!’

‘Answer me!’

‘I love her face. Her voice. Her manner. I love her quiet serenity, and I love her grace. Wherever she is, there is also peace.’

‘But where I am, there is discord.’

‘Those last words were yours, not mine.’ Owen met Isabel's great, green eyes. ‘You know I love you!’ he cried. ‘That I will always look after you. Yet you cannot leave me alone. You will not let me rest. Sometimes, Isabel, it's as if you want to goad me into saying I hate you. You drive me to distraction!’

‘I gave up everything for you.’ Isabel was weeping bitterly. ‘I abandoned my husband, who loved me dearly. For your sake, I became an outcast. A wanderer on the face of the earth.’

‘You're being perfectly ridiculous now.’

‘I offer you everything, and all I want in return is a little affection.’ Isabel went to stand beside him. She stroked his shoulder, then slid her hand inside his shirt. ‘Owen?’ she whispered.

But Owen was not moved. Early the following morning, he had to see Mr Atkins. He would need a clear head if he was to talk business. Isabel, on the other hand, never left her bed until well past noon. ‘I'm going to bed now,’ he said. ‘I don't wish to disturb you with my muttering, so I shall sleep in the small dressing room.’

‘Then you turn your back on me? I am carrying your child. I need your company, yet you — ’

‘You told me yourself that the child might be Rayner's. Go to him, tell him so. Just think, Isabel. That boy could be the heir to half of Warwickshire.’

‘You're so cruel!’ Isabel clutched at the back of a chair. She swayed, then she fainted, and Owen was obliged to call her maid.