Honey's Farm (32 page)

‘It's beautiful!' Eline said in admiration. ‘I congratulate you, Calvin; I couldn't have chosen better myself.'

Against a long wall stood an elegantly carved cabinet, and Calvin moved towards it, opening one of the doors and drawing out a silver tray set with small covered dishes.

‘I have brought us a picnic,' he said, smiling like an excited boy. Eline was touched by his obvious pleasure.

‘Come, sit on the bed, let me wait on you.' He bowed mockingly and Eline joined in the spirit of the occasion by kicking off her shoes and climbing into the deep silk of the bed.

‘I feel like a queen,' she said, smiling. ‘You spoil me, Calvin; you shouldn't be so generous.'

‘I have no-one else to whom I wish to be generous,' he said softly. ‘You have become my life, Eline.'

She thrust aside her uneasiness and laughed as he poured champagne into tall glasses that sparkled like diamonds. ‘Here, my lady,' he said, handing her a glass.

He poured his own and climbed on the bed beside her. ‘This is a celebration,' he said, ‘as if you haven't guessed.' He sipped his champagne and smiled down at her.

‘What sort of celebration?' she asked, carefully, her senses heightened as she waited for his reply. It was not what she expected, and she sighed in relief.

‘An old, not very close uncle has gone to the great mansion in the sky,' he said, calmly refilling her glass. ‘And that means that from henceforth I am no longer plain Calvin Temple, but Lord Temple, with even more lands and houses and wealth.'

He leant forward and kissed her mouth. ‘And what am I to do with it all, I who have no kith and kin to leave it to?'

He took her glass from her hand and placed it on the side table. ‘Eline, don't answer straightaway, think carefully about what I am going to say: I want you to marry me, I want that above all – but even if you refuse, I shall name you as my next of kin. You shall inherit my own private fortune.'

‘No, Calvin!' Eline said quickly. ‘Please don't put such a burden of responsibility on me; I can't accept.'

‘Of course you can,' he said, his hand unfastening her neckline. ‘You are my concubine, and even if you won't be my wife, all I have is yours, and nothing will ever change that.'

He touched her breasts with delicate fingers, his breathing becoming ragged. ‘I can't live without you, Eline. I love you so much; I have loved you from the first moment I set eyes on you.'

He kissed her mouth and then her throat. ‘Why fight it? What is there for you in spinsterhood? Who and what are you waiting for, Eline?'

‘No-one,' she agreed dully. He was right; who was there in her life now? Will was married, about to become a father; what use was there in fighting Calvin's wishes?

‘You know you don't like being a mistress,' Calvin said, persuasively. ‘The irregularity doesn't sit well upon you, does it?'

She shook her head dumbly as he continued to undress her. ‘I would be so good to you, Eline, I would care for you and protect you with my dying breath.'

The silk beneath her was cool against her bare skin. She watched as Calvin quickly took off his own clothes, and objectively she looked at his fine strong body and handsome face. She wondered what was wrong with her that she did not leap at the chance of being his wife.

He was against her then, holding her close, his expert fingers caressing, bringing her desire to life in spite of her disquiet.

She moaned softly, and he laughed. ‘You see, you want me; isn't that enough to be going on with, my darling?'

‘Let me think . . .' she whispered, but he didn't hear her; he was intent upon giving them both pleasure. Slowly Eline relaxed against the softness of the bed, emotions taking over from rational thought. She closed her eyes as he possessed her, his finesse combined with young, healthy vigour stirring her passion.

She felt her arms close about his smooth back, she stroked the back of his neck, feeling the hair curl against her fingers with a dart of tenderness. Calvin was a good man, an ardent lover; what more did she require in a husband?

Love
, came the traitorous thought, darting into her head like a blade of a knife. But love was denied her; her love, her William, was out of reach. They had said goodbye once and for all and now, it was time that she thought about herself.

It took only a few weeks to arrange the wedding. It was winter, with snow dusting the trees, but Eline, in her soft satin gown, was too nervous to feel the cold.

Inside the pretty church of St Paul, she made her vows to love and honour and obey, and it struck her that this was the second time in her still young life that she had given her vows to a man she didn't love.

Outside, the grounds were filled with well-wishers and guests; the huge wedding breakfast was to be held in the fine rooms of the Mackworth Hotel. Calvin had seen to it that the entire building was theirs for that day and for their wedding night. Tomorrow, they would go home to the enormous house on the hill, to The Crest, and to a life of luxury and ease.

And yet she must pursue her career as a designer of shoes; Calvin had promised her that he would not interfere. But already he had discarded the small premises she had planned for herself in favour of larger, more substantial buildings.

As the couple emerged into the open air, a flurry of snow fell over them, almost, Eline thought, like a benediction.

She smiled up at Calvin, and he squeezed her hand gently. ‘My wife,' he said. ‘At last, Eline, you are really mine.'

Will sat in the small workroom and sighed heavily. The boot he was mending stood on the iron last in front of him; the bench was littered with pieces of leather, and the smell of it, fresh cut, reminded Will of his apprenticeship with Hari.

In those days he was an uncomplicated, innocent boy who was grateful for a roof over his head and food in his belly. Grateful too for the affection Hari unfailingly showered on him, her love wiping out the pain of losing his family to the yellow fever. Hari had shown him what happiness was, and now, somehow, he had lost it all.

He rose to his feet and removed the leather apron. The sky was darkening outside the window; a flurry of snow flew against the windows. It was high time he was getting home.

Home! The word rang hollowly in his mind; home was now the modest cottage at Oystermouth, for, with Gwyneth sickly with her pregnancy, Nina thought it wise that her daughter should be where she could keep an eye on her.

He pulled on his topcoat and picked up the parcels, gaily wrapped, from the table. Gifts to put under the tree, small gifts from himself, a pair of slippers for Gwyneth, sturdily fashioned to keep out the chill of the flagstone floor, and stout boots for Nina, who good-naturedly did the shopping now that her daughter was heavy with child.

And in the mound of parcels, gifts from Hari, toys for the expected baby and a pretty nightgown and woollen bed-wrap for Gwyneth. For William there was an envelope containing money; it would be more useful, Hari insisted, than any other gift.

He had balked at first, his pride rearing up to deny that he needed funds, but Hari had simply touched his cheek and smiled. ‘Let me do this, Will,' she'd pleaded softly. ‘I have too much money, and you are the little brother I never had, remember.'

He sighed heavily. Would he never be free of petticoat tails? Well-meaning as they were, the women in his life seemed destined to keep offering him a helping hand. Still, he would have no need to walk the five miles tonight; because of Hari's generosity, he could afford to treat himself to a ride home on the Mumbles train.

Home, he thought ruefully, was a place which sheltered the people you loved; he was fond of Gwyneth, sorry for her sickness and obvious discomfort now that the birth was near, but his love was all given to another woman, to Eline, who had become the wife of one of the richest men in the town.

He must stop these feelings of self-pity, he rebuked himself angrily. He wasn't badly off; he had banked the commission paid to him by Bob Smale, and that, for now, was his nest-egg, his small bit of security. As for the rest, he was making a living, his workshop practically rent-free.

It had been Eline who offered him the accommodation in the building she had planned to use for her own business before her husband had insisted on a fine new workshop that would be worthy of her standing in the town.

Eline had taken him round the building, offering him the low rent with the excuse that she had paid out half a year's rent in any case and this way, she argued, she would at least recoup some of her losses.

Will believed that Eline's new husband had no knowledge of the arrangement, and he felt a small glow of triumph that, at least in this, Eline shared something, some small part of herself, with him.

The door opened and a large figure stood framed against the light. ‘I hope you are proud of your part in all this!' The words were harsh, a challenge.

Will put down his parcels and took up a hammer as he faced the red, angry countenance of Bob Smale. ‘What are you talking about?' he asked, pretending innocence but knowing exactly what the man was talking about.

‘The roadway, it isn't going through that parcel of land I bought after all. It's a useless burden now, just more space for the weeds to grow.'

‘Sorry,' Will said cheerfully, ‘but it wasn't part of our bargain that I survey the land or find out what it was to be used for. You didn't confide that much to me, remember?'

For a moment Bob Smale appeared nonplussed. ‘Well, common sense would tell you that I wouldn't buy the ground unless there was something in it for me.'

‘Quite,' Will agreed. ‘In which case I'd have thought it was in your own interests to check the plans before you put out any money.'

Bob Smale, defeated, made for the door, but before he left he swung round to face Will, his face even redder, his eyes blazing.

‘I don't care what you say,' he snarled, ‘you were part of this – this outrage – and I thought you were a man to be trusted.'

Will raised his eyebrows in mock indignation. ‘What outrage?' he enquired. ‘You asked me to front a consortium buying a piece of land from Jamie O'Conner, and I did exactly that; where is your quarrel with me?'

Bob Smale swung away, slamming the door shut with a bang that reverberated through the building. Will smiled to himself; the man had got only what he deserved. But Will was wise enough to know that he, as well as Jamie, had made an enemy of a dangerous man.

Will let himself out into the darkness and locked the door of the workshop carefully; there was no telling what a man like Bob Smale would do once angered.

Sitting in the cold leather seat of the Mumbles train, Will stared out into the darkness, seeing the twinkling lights of the houses on the perimeter of the bay with no sense of comfort. He dreaded going back to the small cottage where he and Gwyneth slept in a cramped bedroom together, of necessity unable to be apart. But he had made his bed, and now he must lie on it.

The cold wind was rushing in from the sea when Will alighted from the train, and he was thankful to reach the shelter of the cottage. He pushed open the door and stared round at the familiar kitchen, with the fire burning cheerfully in the grate and the small tree decorated bravely with paper chains, and his throat constricted. Gwyneth had done her best to make their first Christmas a happy one.

He placed the parcels carefully round the base of the tree and looked around, wondering where everyone was. He glanced at the back of the door and saw that Nina's coat had gone. A chill of apprehension touched him; there was only one reason why Nina would go out so late and in such weather – the birth of the baby must be imminent.

He took the stairs two at a time and moved quickly into the bedroom.

‘Will!' The gladness in Gwyneth's tone brought a searing guilt that was difficult to contend with; he should have been here, with her, he knew it was near her time, the least he could have done was to leave work early.

‘What's this, then, idling in bed while your husband slaves to bring in the bread! What sort of wife are you?'

He crossed the room and took her hand, seeing, with sympathy, the sweat beading her forehead and upper lip.

‘Is it very bad?' he asked quietly.

He sat on the chair beside her and smoothed her wrist, and Gwyneth forced a smile.

‘No worse than for other women,' she said bravely, ‘and if they can do it, so can I.'

Her face crumpled, and her mouth was pursed into a circle of pain. Her eyes were closed, and beneath the bedclothes her body stiffened.

Will was at a loss. Memories of his mam, straining on the bed, and him crouched in the corner, listening in mute terror to her moans, filled his mind. For a moment he was back in the past, in the hovel that had been his home. Then he shook his head as though to clear his mind and held his wife's hand, waiting for the pain to pass.

When Gwyneth rested, finally, he smiled down at her, brushing the damp hair from her forehead. ‘Can I fetch you anything?' he asked softly. She shook her head. ‘Mam's gone for the midwife,' she said. ‘Once the new young nurse is here, I'll be all right, you'll see.'

Will marvelled at the fortitude of women, who endured the agony of birth not once but several times in their lifetime. The procreation of the species must go on at all costs, he mused with some bitterness.

It was with a sense of relief that he heard the door bang downstairs and the sound of footsteps coming steadily nearer.

‘Out of here, Will Davies,' Nina said, her voice full of false cheer. ‘This is women's work; you did your job when you planted your seed, my fine man.'

Downstairs, he made some tea, feeling it a useless gesture but knowing he must occupy himself with something or go mad. Was this the agony that came then from a few moments of thoughtless passion? The tearing of a woman's body to produce a child? The one comforting thought was that it was something women experienced all the time, something they apparently wanted.