It had been many years since anyone had left the isolated Welsh village. The last to have done so had been Megan Lewis who’d lain with the preacher, Gruffydd Evans, and had got herself with child. Although the village women had shorn the hair from Megan’s head and thrown dirt at her for her sins, Megan had kept her chin held high as she’d walked out of sight.
‘Twenty-seven years ago,’ Wynn muttered. She remembered it well, for Megan Lewis had been her niece, the preacher man, her own intended. Both were dead now, and good riddance to them.
More recent was the visit to Wales by the bastard girl born from the coupling. The bastard was as beautiful as her mother had been, with the same green eyes and her hair as dark and as glossy as the coal wrested from the heart of Wales. It had been a shock seeing the girl at Bryn Dwr. So like her mother, she was, for her chin had been tilted with the same proud spirit. She’d been named Siana, after her great-grandmother.
Despite the circumstances, Wynn had admired the spirit of the Lewis bastard. She’d spied on her for the remainder of the time she’d stayed at the house her father had left her. It hadn’t taken long to figure out why she was in Wales. There was another girl with her, hardly out of childhood. Both had swollen stomachs, but only one had a wedding band on her finger. And only one infant had left the place with them. The man with them had stayed at Bryn Dwr before, and had been supportive of them both.
The girl with Siana had braved the dangers of the Gwin Dwr to wash away her sins. Such suffering had been in her face, and an abundance of sympathy and love Siana Matheson had shown her, too. Siana had taken the girl’s sin upon her own back, showing her more compassion than had been shown to her mother by the village women. Wynn remembered the man watching over both of them, telling the younger girl of his love for her.
‘Siana’s compassion will bring her no favours,’ Grandmother Lewis had said when Wynn had told her what she’d observed. ‘The Welsh-born child is a catalyst for tragedy.’
The village was nestled in the foothills of the Black Mountains, fed from a spring which disappeared underground before it reached there. Its flow was captured by an iron-handled pump situated in the middle of the village square. The pump was a meeting place for the village women, and a hive of gossip.
Wynn could almost hear the talk that would be left behind her, if she found the courage to do what she was thinking of doing.
‘Gone?’ they would say. ‘Poor old Wynn Lewis, her as sour as onions because she never had a man?’
‘Gone. Who, that dried-up old lizard?’
‘Her tongue is as sharp and nasty as the stinger on a wasp. How will she live, for nobody will employ her?’
Who indeed, Wynn thought, feeling sorry for herself, for she had no skills.
The village community generally lived on the produce they grew. The men planted vegetables in the surrounding allotments or, with their dogs, tended to the sheep which roamed the hills growing fat on the lush grasses. The fleece was spun into yarn. Some was woven and fashioned into garments, the rest sold to the wool merchant in Monmouth. The animals which didn’t end up in the pot were driven into market. Life had a certain rhythm to it, born out of routine and centred on survival. They made a living, but not a profit.
At one end of the village was a small chapel which was filled to overflowing on Sundays. Mostly they were Godfearing people, and respected the law, which was applied with a slathering of Methodist fire and brimstone.
Wynn had spent much time on her knees in the chapel over the years, praying for something to happen so she could escape.
Now something had happened. Grandmother Lewis had died.
She gazed around the cottage she’d once shared with the old woman. Now she was gone, Wynn had to leave the cottage which had always been her home. She had to make room for her young nephew, who was about to be wed.
At sixteen years of age, Gwynneth, the bride, was to all intents and purposes a woman. Already, the girl had ingratiated herself into the good graces of her future parents-in-law. Having made her arrangements with the elders of the family, today, not an hour after the service to save Grandmother Lewis’s pagan soul, Gwynneth had taken it upon herself to visit her future home, to decide which pieces to keep.
Wynn protested, ‘My mother left certain pieces to her English great-granddaughter, the rest is left to me.’
Gwynneth shrugged. ‘It’s greedy, you are, Aunt Lewis. It’s not as if you’ll be taking it to your brother’s house, for there’s no room there for it.’ Her eyes gleaming, the girl fingered a piece of the fine lace. ‘And how will the Lewis bastard know she’s been left anything? Is it taking it to your great-niece yourself, you’ll be doing? Not that it would be a bad thing, mind you. The Lewis family doesn’t know what to do with a dried-up old spinster woman, especially one whose disposition is as mean as a witch. Mind you, you don’t frighten me, poor sad old thing that you are. It would save us the trouble if you left altogether, see.’
So that was the way the wind blew. It might not be a bad thing at that. After Gwynneth had departed, Wynn locked the door and sat on the bed to think about her position. Normally, she would never have dreamed of opposing her brother. But when he’d mapped out a life of servitude for her it had been a shock. She deserved more respect after a lifetime of looking after Grandmother Lewis. She hadn’t found the courage to say so, though.
‘You’ll help my wife in the house for your daily bread and sleep in the room off the kitchen,’ he’d told her after the burial. It meant a life of hardship ahead for her, for she’d grown too bitter to appreciate anyone else’s company but her own. She didn’t get on with her sister-in-law.
Now, on her last night in the quiet little cottage where she thought she’d end her days, Wynn’s mind was in a turmoil. She should have set her pride aside and left the village long ago. But someone had needed to look after Grandmother Lewis. Wynn had been left her mother’s savings, the money earned from selling her lace work, telling stories, or predicting the future for those who would pay her.
And the old woman had said just before she died, as peaceful as a lamb in her rocking chair before the fire, ‘Don’t let the past sour the rest of your life, cariad. Gruffydd Evans is dead, and glad of it, I am, for the man was a black-hearted scoundrel. Release your angry thoughts so they no longer lie ugly upon your face, my Wynn. You have a journey to make, but beware. Seek not to reveal the past, for it will destroy you.’
Although she’d never believed in her mother’s pagan sight, Wynn had experienced a flicker of excitement at being told there was the possibility of something beyond the Welsh borders for her. She wasn’t afraid of hard work. Perhaps she could find a job in England in one of those grand houses, be paid for her efforts. Perhaps her great-niece would be kinder to her than her brother’s family. She would take her the old woman’s legacy, there was no harm in that, mind. But as for Gruffydd Evans, the preacher man, she would never forgive him and she hoped he rotted in hell, for the man had broken her heart.
Her mind made up, Wynn collected together the things Grandmother Lewis had wanted her namesake to have. There was precious little. Her finest hand-made, lace pieces, a love spoon given to the old lady by her husband so many years ago, the wood now worn smooth by constant handling. There was a lock of dark hair fashioned into a brooch.
Then there was the book of poetry written by someone called Hywell Llewellyn. It was written in the old language, so the girl wouldn’t be able to understand it. Still, it was a pretty piece. Illustrated in gold leaf, the colours seemed as bright as the day they were laid onto the page. Wynn wrapped it carefully in a cloth.
To her bundle she added her Sunday dress, made of thick blue cotton, and a warm jacket. The dress was plain, like her. A yard of vinegar, her sister-in-law had called her. Well, she would not stay where she was not welcome.
Her cache of coins went into the toe of one of her spare boots, a hairbrush and a clean bonnet into the other. Tying the boots around her neck, she pulled her shawl over the top then donned her mother’s black hat.
Two boiled eggs, a piece of cheese and an apple were wrapped in a clean cloth and tucked into the pocket of her apron with a chunk of bread. Her bible went under the bib, for she went nowhere without the good book to guide her.
Wynn took the quilt from her bed. Rolling it tightly, she fashioned a harness from rags and slipped it over her arms to carry on her back. There now. She was weighed down like a beast of burden and could carry no more.
Seated on a chair by the window, Wynn waited until the sun was a warm golden light shining through the glass. She waited longer, until the shadows of the cottages were laid low along the ground. Lighting a candle, she drew the curtains across as she usually did.
Only when the purple dusk sank into blackness did Wynn pick up her bundle and her mother’s walking stick. She slipped from the cottage and trudged silently and surely through the darkness, the air a humid kiss against her cheek. She’d walked these hills since childhood. Even in the mists that rolled stealthily down from the Black Mountains to shroud the green valleys, she knew her way, though others may be lost.
When she reached the top of the hill she looked back, down over the village. She could see the light from candles through the chinks in the curtains, smell the smoke rising from cottage chimneys. She suffered a moment of remorse at leaving what was so familiar to her.
They would not miss her until morning. By that time she’d be long gone. Her limbs began to tremble. It would be easy to return now, before they discovered her flight. When they did, there would be no turning back, for the doors would be closed against her.
But there was a sense of freedom in her now and an inner voice seemed to urge: It’s just as easy to go forward. The English border isn’t far, you can see it from the top of the next hill.
A sudden gust of wind lifted the black hat from her head and sent it bowling back towards the village. An omen? She laughed out loud, dismissing the thought, for the sense of destiny was strong in her now. ‘Going back to where you belong, are you? It’s just as well, for the English would laugh at you, funny old Welsh thing that you are.’
Above her, the stars burnt holes in a sky of darkness, giving her a glimpse of something mysterious and infinite beyond. It was a moment of beauty within the vastness of the silence and for once, Wynn felt at peace as she said, ‘God, strike the devil from my shoulder and guide my footsteps.’ When the moon rose over the next hill to light her path, her spirits lifted and her stride lengthened.
Reverend Richard White was about to eat some bread and cheese for his breakfast, when the woman presented herself at his kitchen door.
‘I’ll be speaking to the woman of the house?’ she said, fixing eyes as dark and as shiny as autumn berries on him.
‘I have no wife. I’m Reverend Richard White, rector of the church over yonder. I live here alone.’
‘I’ve been walking for several days, sir. Can you spare me a drink of water and perhaps allow me a little bread?’
Richard hesitated. The women was handsome in a gaunt, worn sort of way, with brown hair streaked through with grey and twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked harmless, but tired and dusty.
It was his Christian duty to offer her sustenance, but his housekeeper had recently retired to her brother’s house with the rheumatics. So far, Richard had been unable to hire another woman, for it was harvest time and all the available workers had been taken on by Cheverton Estate.
‘I can pay for the bread, mind,’ she said sharply.
He stood aside, smiling a little at her lilting Welsh accent as he gazed at her over his glasses. ‘That’s not necessary. But the food you see on the table is all I have at the moment. My housekeeper has recently retired after looking after me for many years, and I find myself unprepared for domestic matters. The bread is three days old, but I’d be happy to share it with you.’
The woman dumped the bundle she was carrying onto the floor and gazed critically around her, her sinewy hands planted on her hips. ‘It’s a new housekeeper you’ll be needing then, is it?’
The reverend shrugged. He did, but wondered if it would be wise to hire this stranger. But the kitchen stove had gone out, and although someone came in to dust occasionally the house had taken on a neglected air. ‘Are you looking for work?’
‘The Lord must have guided my feet to this very spot. I’m not too proud to earn my bread cleaning up after others. Neither am I too old to manage the vegetable garden, even though the good Lord has seen fit to fill yours full of weeds. I can read and write and do sums, too, so can keep household accounts. I’m used to economizing, too, mind you, for I’ve had to all my life, though I’ll want to be paid a proper wage.’ She gazed wistfully around her. This house would suit me just fine because the Lord dwells within its walls.’ That said, she folded her hands into her sleeves and stood there, gazing at him.
‘Have you references, Mrs . . . um?’
‘No, sir, I do not, for I’ve spent most of my life looking after my mother, who has recently died. But I’m honest and God-fearing, and would be willing to work for a week to see if we suit each other. Would chicken be to your liking for dinner?’
Her sudden change of direction confused him. ‘Chicken . . . I um . . . I’m not sure if we have one?’
In a way that reminded him forcibly of his childhood governess, she replied, ‘There are several fussing around in the vegetable garden, and a scrawny bunch they are, too. Have the eggs been collected lately?’
‘I couldn’t right say, Miss . . . um?’
‘Then I’ll find some coal, light the stove and collect some, and I’ll fry that stale old bread on a skillet if you have some drippings in the larder, to go with the eggs. After we’ve eaten I’ll go through the larder and make a list of what’s needed. Will that be all right with you, Reverend?’
‘Perfectly, Widow . . . um?’ Richard said faintly, hoping the Lord had sent this woman to him, not the devil. For despite her travel tiredness, she was crackling with energy.
‘Wynn Lewis, lately of Wales,’ she threw firmly over her shoulder as she headed out of the door. ‘Indeed to goodness, what made you think I was a widow? I’ve never been married, nor am I likely to be, now. I’m here to seek out some kin of mine.’
Lewis? Richard shook his head when she stomped off. Now, where had he heard that name before? It was a while before he remembered. That had been Siana’s maiden name when she’d lived and worked at the rectory before her first marriage. He’d taught the girl to read. Unease filled him then. There had been enough trouble in Siana Matheson’s life. He would watch and wait, discover what the Welsh woman wanted with her.
Later that night, Wynn knelt by the side of her narrow bed and thanked the Lord for his goodness.
‘Thank you for sending me to this door. The reverend is an honest man, indeed, Lord, though in sore need of being looked after. Didn’t he take me in on trust and give me the food meant for his own stomach? And if you could take some of the whip from my tongue when I talk to him, I’d be much obliged, for I like the peace of this place and feel the destiny Grandmother Lewis spoke of pulling at me.’
When an unexpected chill ran through her, Wynn shivered. ‘Mind you, not that I believed her, for she was misguided in her wicked, pagan ways. Since I am a true believer, no doubt a more fitting destiny awaits me.’ About to open her eyes, she added. ‘God bless your servant, Reverend Richard White.’
A faint breeze came through the open window, bringing goosebumps rippling along her arms. Rising, Wynn snuffed the candle and climbed into the bed, where she pulled the blue and white quilt over her body and sighed with pleasure at the comfort of a mattress under her body, the pillow for her head and a purpose in her life.
Somewhere, an owl hooted. Wynn smiled before she drifted into sleep. She was not to know her presence was to be the catalyst for disaster.
Maryse had expanded to a greater size than she’d expected and couldn’t get comfortable.
Now, three weeks after the cottage fire, she woke in the early hours of the morning, feeling extremely uncomfortable. Moreover, the bed was soaked through.
For a moment she lay there in the dim glow of the guttering night light, watching the shadows leap and dance on the wall behind it and listening to the silent, dark spaces of the house.
This was a house with a secretive atmosphere. She’d always liked, and felt comforted living here. Something creaked above her, a mouse scratched in the wall. Her spaniels, curled cozily on their cushions, whimpered and sighed in their sleep.
An ache started in her back, gathering in strength as it broadened to clutch at her distended stomach. It ebbed away, receding like the tide and leaving her face covered in perspiration.
It had started – the long, painful process of labour to bring Marcus’s infant into the world. She should be ringing the little bell on her bedside table so her maid could alert Marcus. She didn’t. It was too early and she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Besides, he had come home late from his meeting and his breath had smelled a little of brandy when he’d said goodnight. He needed his sleep.
The little gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed two o’clock. She rose from the bed, her nightgown clinging and sodden against her legs. Another pain and more water gushed in a warm stream, leaving a series of little puddles across the floor as she went to gaze out of the window.
Moonlight laid a haunting luminosity across the landscape. She couldn’t remember ever having been up at this time before and revelled in the solitariness of it. The lake gleamed like polished pewter in the moonlight. The lawn was covered in dew, which would rise in the dawn as mist. She would probably be a mother then, for she’d heard that second children birthed in a faster time.
Somewhere, a door began to rattle. Odd, when there was no wind. She suddenly remembered the time when she’d become a mother before – in Wales. Her infant had died. She didn’t even know whether the child had been a boy or a girl. Even with Siana by her side, she’d denied the child’s birth. She hadn’t cried out and hadn’t cared. It was unnatural for a mother not to care about her child, she thought, not to want to see it, or love it.
But Siana wasn’t with her now, and her stepmother wouldn’t be so understanding with regard to this child, who’d been conceived and born in wedlock. She must learn to lie, to pretend she loved it when it arrived.
Maryse pushed restlessly at her stomach. How big and how ugly it was. She didn’t want this infant. It would remind her of the other one, the one she tried to deny. Giving a small cry of distress she rode out the next pain, which was stronger, like a fire burning at her insides. When it was over, she angrily dashed the tears from her eyes. She would be strong and bear this child in silence, too. Then when the birthing was over, nobody would know how weak and shameful she was.
The spaniels were awake now, sniffing around her legs, whining, their tails stirring the air for attention. ‘Go back to bed,’ she ordered, and off they went, their eyes gleaming as they watched her move towards the table.
That rattling attic door would soon wake everyone in the house. Lighting a candle from the night light, she made her way through the corridors and up the staircases, stopping every now and then to ride out the pains, which came more often now, so it was hard not to cry out.
The attic door vibrated under her hand as she pushed it open. Moonlight streamed through the window onto a portrait on an easel opposite of a woman in a green gown. Dripping molten wax on the table beside the portrait, Maryse stuck the candle to it. She gazed at the portrait again. Breathtakingly beautiful with her dark hair and pale green eyes, the woman reminded Maryse of Siana. Though Siana had eyes as dark as pine and had a warmer look to her. Both of the women had been wife to Edward Forbes, whose family had once owned this estate. Both of them had lost the child they’d borne him.
The door creaked shut behind her, the latch clicked. She hardly heard it as she sank to her knees with the strength of the next pain. The mouth of the woman had a cruel twist to it, her eyes glittered in the candlelight.
Maryse felt as if she was being split in half by the pressure on her pelvis. Something slipped from inside her. It made a mewing sound and brought no relief. A few moments later the pressure inside her became unbearable and the pain went on and on. The woman in the portrait stared down at her, smiling. Then Maryse’s foot caught against the easel and it began to topple. The candle flickered in a draught and extinguished. The smell of hot wax filled the air as the portrait fell upon her, heavy and suffocating, the frame trapping her across the chest.
Although she tried to push against it, she couldn’t quite shift it.
The pain of labour went on and on unceasingly. Maryse, hardly able to breath for the crushing weight upon her chest, took shallow breaths and began to moan. Then as her son relentlessly began to push his way into the world, she gave a prolonged and agonized scream.
Downstairs, the spaniels came alert and began to bark frenziedly.
His heart pounding, Marcus sat up in bed. The dawn was a crack of pale yellow across the window. His instinct for danger was screaming. Pulling on some trousers and a shirt, he flung his dressing robe over the top and headed through to Maryse’s room. The bed, bloodstained, empty and rumpled, told its own story.
He headed into the corridor outside, the spaniels yapping at his heels, and was about to dash downstairs when he saw a blob of candle wax on the stair leading into the upper reaches. He moved on up, here and there coming across a small stain, then more wax.
The attic door was closed, but unbolted. The dogs flung themselves against it, scrabbling at the wood. Two scared-looking maids in their robes and nightcaps appeared, woken by the scream. He reached for the doorknob and, finding the door held fast, had to thump his shoulder against it to open it.
He saw his infant before he saw Maryse. The heavy frame had just missed her, but the tiny girl seemed to be dead. She’d obviously been too small to survive. Pulling the frame from his wife’s body he gazed anxiously at her. She was deadly pale, barely breathing. Blood ran from her and, as Marcus went to lift her, he saw the second child between her thighs.
Pinching the boy’s ear, he was rewarded with an indignant squawk.
‘Go and rouse the servants, and take those noisy damn dogs with you. Send a woman to me with all haste with some sheets to wrap my wife and the child in,’ he shouted at the maid who’d followed him up. ‘Tell the groom to fetch Noah Baines without delay. Have my wife’s bed made ready, then come back with something to wrap the dead infant in.
He covered the pair with his robe, and was about to moved his poor, unfortunate daughter when she made a tiny, mewing sound. His heart melted. She sounded as though she was begging him to rescue her. Wrapping her in his shirt he held her against his heart, waiting with some impatience for the maid to return.
As he stroked the soft, pale skin of his wife’s face, he wondered what she’d been doing up here. That damned portrait! He’d laughed when Siana had told him to get rid of it. He should have listened, burnt it along with the others. At the time, it had seemed a shame to spoil the exquisite beauty of Siana’s predecessor.
Now he gazed at it with hate in his eyes, thinking irrationally that the bitch had nearly killed his wife and daughter.
The woman gazed calmly back at him.
‘I’ll burn you,’ he whispered, ‘just as I did the other one.’
Beside him, his wife made a noise, a low, gurgling chuckle. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It hadn’t sounded like Maryse.