A Handful of Ashes Read online

  Instead of being able to give way to the relief of tears, Francis kept his grief locked inside. He was wound up as tightly as the spring in the carriage clock on the mantelpiece and refused to see anybody, not even Pansy, who was obliged to turn to Siana for comfort.

  On the day of the funeral they waited for him in the hall. As he came downstairs his appearance shocked Siana. He’d lost a great deal of weight, so his clothes hung on him and his eyes appeared hollow and sunken. He gazed at her from those eyes, as if he hardly knew her. ‘I don’t want you to attend the funeral.’

  ‘But Francis, you need my support.’

  He gave a bitter laugh. ‘My family will support me adequately. I’d prefer it if you confined yourself to your room. I will send for you when I’m ready.’

  ‘Papa,’ Pansy entreated.

  He ignored his daughter’s plea. ‘You understand me, Siana?’

  ‘I do,’ she said and, turning, walked away from him and up the wide staircase towards her room. Sick at heart, she watched them leave for the funeral from her bedroom window. Francis had reached a decision and she knew it boded ill for her.

  When he returned it was without Pansy. ‘My daughter has gone back to Kylchester to stay with my family,’ Francis curtly told her when she enquired.

  Although there were comings and goings during the next two days, Siana didn’t bother to try and seek her husband out. Francis had said he’d send for her when he was ready. She would have to be content with that.

  She went up into the hills, unescorted, walking for hours to try and find solace. But guilt hung heavily on her. When she went to the nursery to say goodnight to the children later that evening and discovered Bryn’s bed was empty, she knew she would be content to wait no longer.

  But Francis’s study was empty, and though she paced the floor for half the night until she fell into an exhausted sleep in a chair, he didn’t return until the next morning. She woke late and found Francis at his desk, writing a letter.

  ‘Where’s Bryn?’ she shouted.

  He turned, gazing at her. ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘Don’t need to know?’ As if the boy was nothing to her. As if he’d never existed in their lives – had never been loved by them.

  ‘He’s our son.’

  ‘No. He’s not our son.’

  She flew across the room at him, pounded her fists against his chest, shrieked. ‘You must tell me where he is.’

  Taking her by the arms he shoved her on to the chair. ‘You’re acting like a fishwife.’

  ‘I hate you,’ she spat at him, tears boiling from her eyes.

  ‘That’s all to the good. It will make what I’m about to say to you, much easier. You’ve always wanted to travel. Now you shall. The day after tomorrow you will be embarking on a long sea journey. You will take Susannah to her mother in Van Diemen’s Land, which as you are aware, is an isolated island off the south coast of Australia. You will be at sea for several weeks, and will remain in Van Diemen’s Land until further notice.’

  ‘You are banishing me? But what about my children . . . who will care for them?’

  ‘Goldie is living with her brother, Sebastian, in London, and Daisy is with your brother, Josh. I see no reason why the arrangements shouldn’t continue, since the children are adequately supervised and cared for.’

  He was scattering the family, depriving her of the people she loved the most. ‘And Bryn?’

  ‘Bryn is no longer your concern.’

  ‘Francis,’ she pleaded, ‘don’t punish Bryn for what has happened. He’ll be so lost and alone amongst strangers.’

  It was as if she’d never spoken. ‘The ship sails from Bridport the day after tomorrow, so you have adequate time to pack. I will provide you with a letter of credit to the bank in Hobart Town, and the address of a family of Quakers who will help you buy provisions and provide a guide to the property there.’

  ‘Will you send for me?’

  Leaning his head to one side, he seemed to considered it. ‘At the moment, I don’t care if I never set eyes on you again.’

  How wounding his words were, but he was lashing out at her from grief. ‘You can’t mean that, Francis.’ She tried to push him into the decision she wanted to hear. ‘I think I’m with child.’

  He stared at her with so much disdain in his eyes that her heart quaked. ‘Couldn’t you have thought of a more plausible tale, Siana? I believe you to be lying, as you’ve lied to me in the past. You might as well know, my intention is to never father a child of yours now.’

  She gasped, as if he’d slapped her. Wounded to the core she rose to her feet. ‘You’re behaving despicably. Am I to understand that you intend to disown any infant I may bear?’

  ‘How could I be sure it was mine, now?’

  ‘Then I must believe that our marriage means nothing to you. So be it. I would have it in writing, so, at least I cannot be deprived of the infant I carry, as you have deprived me of the rest of my family.’

  ‘You’re in no position to demand anything of me.’

  ‘You’re making that perfectly clear.’ She made one last appeal. ‘How can you be so caring with strangers and so cold to those you once professed to love? It sounds as if Prudence has been advising you. Has she convinced you that your blood is far too blue for the low peasant girl you once exchanged marriage vows with?’

  He hesitated for a moment as if a struggle was going on inside him. Then his eyes hardened. ‘How can I love a woman who deceived both myself and the daughter I placed in her care, especially when that deceit caused Maryse’s death?’

  Siana turned and walked away from him, her heart too heavy to bear any more of his censure.

  She didn’t see Francis before she sailed, and made no attempt to see him. Susannah, meanwhile, was puzzled by the disappearance of Bryn from her life, looking for him under the bed or in the cupboard, as if expecting him to jump out and scare her.

  ‘We are going on a ship,’ Siana told her, trying to make it sound like an exciting adventure. ‘And at the end of the journey we’ll find your mamma. Do you remember me telling you how much you look like her, and how much she loves you and is longing to see you again?’

  Susannah nodded.

  ‘The time has now come to take you to her.’

  Only she hadn’t expected it to be like this. She’d expected Elizabeth and Jed Hawkins to come home for Susannah, then settle down in the district. She hadn’t expected to travel to some wild, foreign land.

  They were driven to Bridport by the groom. The ship was a three-masted packet with a sturdy, workmanlike appearance. Siana shared her tiny cabin with another woman, who also had a child with her. She seemed pleasant enough, and the two girls soon made friends.

  ‘They’ll be company for one another, so they won’t get bored,’ the woman said, seemingly pleased she had a companion for the journey. Siana, on the other hand, would rather have been left with her own thoughts than be obliged to socialize.

  ‘I’m Emily Scott. I’m joining my husband. He’s an army officer who has just been granted a tract of land.’

  ‘Siana Matheson. I’m delivering Susannah to her mother.’

  The woman seemed to draw back. ‘Oh, you’re the girl’s nursery maid, then?’

  ‘No, her mother is a close friend of mine. Susannah was being cared for by my husband and myself.’

  ‘Do you have any children of your own?’

  Siana wondered where Bryn was. ‘I have stepchildren.’ And no more than that did she intend to tell her travelling companion. ‘I’m taking Susannah up on deck to watch them cast off.’

  ‘One of the seamen told me the ship flies over the water, so we should make good time.’

  Siana thought she saw Francis, standing on the shore. So did Susannah. ‘There’s my papa,’ she shouted out and began to frantically wave to him. ‘Goodbye, Papa.’

  The man turned away and headed towards a horse. Within minutes he was gone, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand.<
br />
  The ship was hauled down the channel by a boat oared by several men. When the water deepened she gradually spread her sails and began to surge forward. As Siana watched the coast of her beloved homeland recede, she had never felt quite so alone.

  Wynn Lewis had stayed two nights at the house of Bryn Dwr.

  The day before she had walked to the top of the hill and looked down on her village. The house she’d once occupied looked exactly the same. Smoke rose from the village chimneys and women stopped to chat, their shawls clasped tightly around then to ward off the cold. She felt invisible, as if she didn’t exist for them now.

  Wynn had not lit a fire in the grate at Bryn Dwr. She didn’t deserve to be warm.

  Grandmother Lewis had visited her in her dreams the night before. ‘What are you doing, here, cariad?’ she’d said to her.

  ‘I’m going into the cave of the Gwin Dwr to cleanse the sin from my soul.’

  ‘The Gwin Dwr, is it? That isn’t the place for you, it’s for the pure in heart as well as body. You lack the courage and the conviction.’

  ‘I am pure, for no man has touched me. And I pray to God every day on my knees.’

  ‘Beware, for there’s no pride to take in a body that has not fulfilled its function, when the thoughts inside it are impure. The wine water has a pagan heart.’

  Wynn had woken up shouting, ‘You don’t understand. Away with you, you silly old woman. Let me sleep in peace.’

  Now she rose from her mattress and went outside. It was bitterly cold, snow drifted in the wind and powdered the mountainside.

  Courage and conviction, Grandmother Lewis had said. Wynn knew she had both. She would do it now, before she had time to change her mind, and she would be cleansed.

  Her bare feet made light imprints on the snow. The cave was a welcome shelter and she could see the steps leading down to a flat ledge covered in moss. There was enough light to reveal the faint red stain to the water, and she shuddered. Legend had it that the English soldiers had raped the Welsh virgins, cut their throats and thrown their bodies into the pool.

  She began to understand then. The English girl had been raped. That’s why they’d brought her here, to help her heal. Oh God, what had she done? This was no place for her to seek absolution.

  She placed her foot in the water. After the snow it felt warm. It would be relaxing to immerse herself in it, wash the stink of the journey from her body. Then she’d make the journey back to Dorset before the snow closed over the mountain. Throw herself on the mercy of Reverend White and beg him to seek forgiveness on her behalf from his God!

  She removed her clothes and gazed down at her angular body. Untouched by man though the thought of such attention had tortured her often. She was dried up, withered, like a stringy goat. No wonder Gruffydd Evans had scorned her, preferring to take her niece unto him, so long ago. It was true that Megan Lewis had tempted him. She’d always been dancing around the fields with flowers in her hair, smiling at the men. And Wynn knew that in her heart, she’d always been envious of Megan Lewis. The envy rose in her now, the bile of it almost choking her.

  The water looked inviting and her body was cold and covered in goosebumps. She sat on the flat slab and slid off the ledge into the deep pool below. She went under and came up spluttering, to reach for the edge.

  There, she was cleansed. Indeed to goodness, why the silly fuss about the dangers of this place? Her fingers slid from the slippery ledge as she tried to pull herself from the water. She scrabbled to get a grip, but only succeeded in pulling her clothes in after her. There was no foothold, her feet simply went under the ledge.

  Unable to swim, Wynn began to thrash about as she panicked. The cave was filled with the echoes of her screams, as if people were being slaughtered all around her. She couldn’t tell whether it was her voice or those of the spirits around her. Tiring, she became aware of the chill in her body, of the fatigue creeping over her. She slid under the water, found the strength to struggle her way to the surface and take another gulp of Welsh mountain air. How sweet and clean it was.

  As she began to sink again she clearly heard Grandmother Lewis’s voice say, Seek not to reveal the past, for it will destroy you.

  The water closed over her and she had no resistance to it as it crept into her nose and mouth. She swallowed it, taking in great mouthfuls until her stomach was bloated. Bubbles of air exploded from her, rushing to the surface above to spread in ever widening ripples.

  Down, down, she went until the light faded and all became still.

  Outside, the snow filled the imprints her feet had made.

  At Rivervale House, Francis Matheson sat in the drawing room and listened to the silence.

  It should have been satisfying, but it wasn’t. It was empty, as though the house wasn’t occupied. It took some time before he realized it wasn’t the house that was empty, it was himself.

  The house was full of memories – of Bryn and Susannah’s squabbling, Daisy’s chatter and Goldie’s soft voice. It was filled with Pansy’s outspokenness, Maryse’s unspoken fears and his own inconsolable grief. Something was missing from the memories, though. Love. He had swept it from his life, so he didn’t have to feel anything any more. It was as if the fire in the hearth had burnt out, leaving him with a handful of ashes.

  But it hadn’t worked, for the broom had not swept away his pain. Grief pounded against his skull like a navvy’s fist, his heart thumped painfully against his chest as the clock ticked away the hours. Would it always be like this, his grief stretching on and on into infinity?

  He placed his aching head in his hands as he recalled how he’d watched the ship leave the harbour and had seen Susannah wave to him. This was not the time of year to send them to sea. What if they were shipwrecked and perished?

  But the packet was new and built for passenger comfort. ‘The company has just taken possession of it and their most able captain is in command,’ the agent had told him. ‘She’s one hundred and twenty feet long, does fifteen knots under full sail and will have a regular sailing schedule as soon as the second one arrives. With a good following wind we could cut a couple of weeks from the normal sailing time.’

  Tears began to track down his cheeks. He must get control of himself, but first he needed the forgetfulness of sleep.

  Halfway upstairs, he gazed at the distinctive stained-glass window, at the woman with the child against her knee. Siana had said the child reminded her of her firstborn. But the woman reminded him more than anyone of Siana, who needed her children to love. She had been forced to suffer the loss of Ashley without him. In fact, she had lost both her children within a year of each other. His own child, whose existence he’d only just learned of – Elen, she’d said the girl had been named. And at the same time Siana had grieved for him too, her husband, for she’d thought he’d been lost at sea.

  He thought of Bryn, of the way the boy’s excitement had turned to tears at the parting. No, he didn’t want to think of Bryn. Not yet! Angered by his weakness, he tore his eyes away from the window and continued upstairs.

  The door to Siana’s room was open, her bed sheets still tumbled. He could smell her perfume, a subtle mix of pine scents and the wildflowers of the Dorset countryside.

  On her dressing table, placed on top of the shards of broken mirror, he saw a piece of folded paper. Mouth dry, he took a few steps forward and stared at it. His name was written on it in her neat, sloping handwriting.

  Francis.

  He remembered a time when she’d struggled to write her name, remembered the hours she’d put in to rise above her lowly birth. Even now she thirsted for knowledge and read every book she could lay her hands on.

  He slowly reached out for the letter, touched the edge of the paper with his finger. His palm began to tingle, as if she’d left something of that fey, mysterious part of herself within its folds to taunt him.

  Suddenly, Maryse came into his mind. Snatching his hand away he turned and strode from the room. Pulling the door sh
ut behind him, he turned the key in the lock.

  10

  It was halfway through March, the warmest time of the year in Australia. In Van Diemen’s Land the sky was an infinite blue canopy overhead and birds soared high.

  The spirit of Elizabeth Hawkins soared with them. She had just been given her release from a four-year sentence for setting a fire which had burnt down a shop. No longer would she be classed as a servant assigned to a master, but a respectable wife and, unexpectedly, for she was in her forties, the mother of two strapping sons in addition to her daughter, Susannah, a girl on whom she hadn’t set eyes for a long period of time.

  She glanced back at the verandah, laughing when her younger son gave a roar as he woke from his nap in his father’s chair. Tobias was not easy-tempered on awaking. She watched him gaze around him, his face as sour as if he’d sucked on a lemon. When he caught sight of her, he stared reflectively at her just like his father did, then he grinned.

  She held out her arms to him, swinging him up for a hug when he came running.

  His brother, Oliver, almost three years old and the elder by barely a year, was out with his father, perched proudly in front of Jed on the saddle. Though who was the more proud of the two was debatable. Jed had taken Oliver with him on his visit to their neighbour.

  The property they occupied was owned by Francis Matheson. Francis, although under suspicion and confined to the property himself after being mistaken for an escaped convict, had made sure she was assigned as his servant, thus saving her from the worst privations of her sentence. Francis and Siana Matheson had always been good to her.