The Cobbler's Wife

by Lynette Rees

Genres: Family Life; Sagas; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

How far will she go for happiness? For years Seren James has yearned for a child of her own. Married to a man who has little care for her, she longs for something to fill the emptiness within - and fears that she is almost out of time. When Seren meets a woman who says she can help, she thinks her dreams have come true. But the locals suspect Anwen of witchcraft, and any association with her may taint Seren too. And as Seren finds herself growing closer to Elwyn Evans, the local minister, who has made no secret of his attraction to her, she must ask herself what it will take to find happiness - and whether she is willing to pay the price . . . What readers are saying about Lynette Rees: 'The best read I have had in a long time' Amazon reviewer ***** 'Another brilliant read from this amazing author' Amazon reviewer ***** 'Absolutely enthralled ... Would highly recommend for anyone that enjoys a good drama' Amazon reviewer ***** 'A beautiful story that I couldn't put down' Amazon reviewer *****

Release date: June 1, 2019

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 249

Sample

Abercanaid, Merthyr Tydfil, 1866

Hollow laughter filled the air behind her as Seren James stood watch on her doorstep waiting for the arrival of her mam and sister, Gwendolyn. Where were they? She was relieved they were late because she wanted him gone before they got here. He was already fifteen minutes behind time this morning opening the little cobbler shop he owned just down the road.

‘Come here, woman!’ he growled from behind her and her gut clenched with fear.

‘What is it you want, Morgan?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice level, then she turned to see he was closer than she’d imagined. Stepping back through the door, she brought her gaze to meet with his.

‘I’ll tell you what I want, shall I?’ he bellowed, his eyes so enlarged it seemed they might pop out of his skull at any moment. ‘I want a son, something you can’t give me, you bloody barren bitch!’

She took a step back. There was no use arguing with him when he was in this sort of mood, experience told her that. The alcoholic fumes flowing to meet her caused her to gag.

Oh, dear Lord, no, he wasn’t going to try to take her now, was he? Not like this? Her mam and Gwendolyn could turn up at any moment.

She watched in horror as he slipped his leather belt from his trousers, holding it like a whip in his hand. ‘What’s it to be then, buckle end again?’ he shouted. ‘Get up them stairs now, or I’ll beat you into a pulp!’

She bit her lip, her eyes filling with tears, as she walked backwards to the front door which was slightly ajar. Hearing a voice, he suddenly stopped in his tracks as the belt slid from his hand to the linoleum floor. His eyes narrowed to slits as she breathed a sigh of relief.

It was Iorwen Gruffudd’s voice she heard outside, the local minister. ‘Mrs James, are you in?’ he shouted through the half-open door, his elderly voice cracking with age.

Hitching a breath, Seren pulled the door open a fraction. A moment or two later and she would have been dragged up those stairs, kicking, screaming and beaten like last time, thrashed within an inch of her life and taken forcefully without an iota of love or compassion, just to serve her husband’s lustful urges.

‘Y . . . yes, Mr Gruffudd!’ she shouted back, staring at her husband all the while. He wouldn’t dare shout or curse in front of the minister. To all intents and purposes, he was an upstanding member of the community. People in the village thought he was a respectable, hard-working man, they didn’t see this side of him like she was forced to.

‘Get rid of him, sharpish!’ he hissed.

She nodded, though she had no intention of doing so.

Seren drew the door wide open and smiled. ‘Mr Gruffudd, please come into the kitchen and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea,’ she said, relieved that the elderly man had arrived at exactly the right moment to save her skin.

The minister nodded and, removing his hat, followed her into the sparse scullery as Morgan James hovered near the doorway.

‘Please sit down, Mr Gruffudd,’ Seren said in as bright a tone as she could muster. The old man smiled as he drew out a wooden chair from the table and sat, placing his hat in front of him. Trembling, she filled the kettle with water and placed it on the hob to boil.

Morgan glared at her and she could tell by the expression on his leather-skinned, lined face that he was thinking, ‘Why have you asked him to sit down and have a cup of tea, woman? Get rid of him!’

She was just about to say something when the minister, raising his brows, asked, ‘Not in work today then, Morgan?’

Morgan narrowed his eyes until they were almost slits, then as if by magic, his face changed. His eyes widened and a big smile appeared on his face. ‘Oh aye, I’m off now at any moment. It’s Seren’s fault that I am late, she didn’t wake me in time this morning. A man needs a good wife to get him going in the morning!’

My fault indeed! You drunken pig! If you hadn’t stayed out half the night and needed to be put to bed in your alcoholic stupor, you’d have got up this morning on time . . . She gritted her teeth.

The minister rubbed his rheumy eyes and smiled. ‘Then don’t let me keep you, I’m only here to discuss chapel business with your wife.’

Morgan nodded. He was walking towards her now: what did he want? Her heart thudded a beat so hard, she feared it might burst out of her chest, though she knew he’d never lay a finger on her in front of the minister.

Stooping, he pecked her cheek, taking her somewhat aback as she sensed the contempt he had for her beneath it all. His whole demeanour told her so: the beady-eyed stare, the tone of his voice, the hidden barbs beneath his words, everything. Yet, the minister wouldn’t have picked up on any of it as he didn’t know him like she did and was slightly hard of hearing anyway.

Still, she was relieved to see her husband lift his metal snap tin that contained a hunk of bread and butter and a lump of cheese for his dinner at the shop. It was always the same, he worked hard all day then went home via the pub. Sometimes she wouldn’t see him for hours on end, and it was during those torturous times that she became worried what mood he’d return home in. Sometimes he was frisky, demanding sex from her on the spot and she’d grimace and bear it, other times it involved violence or sometimes both, but the best times were when he got himself so blind drunk he could barely stand, and she’d help him up the stairs to bed, draping his arm around her neck and shoulder as she hefted his heavy weight, step upon laborious step up those bloody stairs. Afterwards, her back would be in half and she’d massage her sore neck, breathless from the exertion, but at least when he was asleep she was safe. Then she knew he was incapable of harming her, or anyone else for that matter. Many a time she’d thought, if she just released his arm, he’d fall down the stone steps and either injure or kill himself and she could blame it on the booze. She’d been sorely tempted to let go on many an occasion, or even to give him a quick push down the stairs, but something inside her stopped her in time.

‘Goodbye, Mr Gruffudd!’ Morgan said chirpily, and he left, closing the front door behind him.

Seren heaved a sigh of relief and steadied herself by holding on to the counter. She poured them both cups of strong tea with plenty of sugar for her frazzled nerves – today they were jangling.

‘W . . . what chapel business did you want to see me about, Mr Gruffudd?’ she asked, as she took a seat at the pine table opposite the minister. She was curious to find out. The minister called around the street occasionally to see various parishioners at their homes, but when he called on Seren it was usually because he wanted a favour of some sort. No doubt he realised she was reliable.

Mr Gruffudd cleared his throat before taking a sip of tea from his china cup and setting it back down on its saucer. ‘It’s like this, you see, Mrs James . . .’ He paused for a moment as if wondering what to say to her. ‘Next month I’m retiring . . .’

‘Oh?’ Why hadn’t anyone warned her of this? She looked at the man and could see the apprehension in his grey eyes.

He doesn’t want to go?

He let out a ragged breath. ‘I know it’s a surprise, I didn’t realise myself until I saw Doctor Owen last week. He’s advised me to do so. My old ticker isn’t what it used to be and he’s suggested I retire and take things easy from now on, though you’ll still see me from time to time. Anyhow, a new minister called Elwyn Evans, from Pontypridd, will be taking over. He’s a good man, young and unmarried so far. And anyway, I was hoping that you and some of the other ladies from the village might make him feel at home here. You know the kind of thing: invite him to your homes for supper, offer to help him at The Manse.’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘He’ll have a housekeeper, but I’d like him to settle into the community.’

Seren found herself nodding in agreement, though she knew the last thing that Morgan would want was a new minister around for supper sitting at his table! And of course, even if invited, there was always the chance Morgan would make a fool of them both in front of the man if he’d been drinking. She supposed, though, she could invite him on a lunchtime instead, maybe for a bowl of cawl, and on the odd occasion offer to help at The Manse when Morgan was in work.

‘That’s settled then . . .’ Mr Gruffudd said with a hearty grin. ‘Now tell me . . . how are things with you, Mrs James?’

*

‘What’s that bastard been doing to you again?’ Gwen examined her sister’s arm and saw a few dark bruises at the wrist.

‘It’s nothing, honestly . . .’ She didn’t want to worry anyone.

‘Mind your language, girl!’ Their mother looked at Gwen and then turned to Seren and said, ‘I’ve made my thoughts clear on this and you know there’s always room for you back at the family home with us, but I fear for you if you stay with Morgan, Seren.’ She shook her head.

‘He’ll kill you one day, he will!’ Gwen raised a fist. ‘What I wouldn’t like to do to that man. Oh, he fooled us all, he did, before you wed, with his good looks and his fancy patter. We were all taken in and you especially, Seren. The rest of us don’t have to live with the blighter!’

Seren couldn’t argue, she could only agree, for Morgan James had been one of the best-looking lads in the village of Abercanaid in Merthyr Tydfil. With his dark mop of hair and chocolate-brown eyes, he had brooding good looks and was well built, too, seeming such a catch with his little shop and his cobbling skills. A match made in heaven, she’d thought. He was someone she’d watched from afar over the years as he was a few years older, reminding her of Heathcliff to her Cathy. And when he had finally asked to court her, she’d been over the moon with delight and the envy of many other young women in the village. The violence towards her didn’t happen overnight either. It was so gradual and insidious that it crept up like a cat stalking a mouse, and then taking it unawares, going in for the kill.

Looking back, it all began on their wedding night. She’d been a virgin so pure and chaste, but he’d taken her with no thought for her pleasure. He’d been rough too, and it had been painful. She’d found herself weeping bucketsful afterwards while he’d snored like a drunken pig beside her, then acted like nothing had happened the following day. But after a time she’d got used to it, and it hadn’t hurt as much, and she guessed that’s what married life was like for most women. You just had to grin and bear it.

Morgan had wanted a child as soon as possible. He was older than her and his brothers and their wives already had children, but when after six months she hadn’t conceived, that was when she began to see the back of his hand.

Well, a year had now passed and there was still no sign of a baby. Someone in the village had told her to speak to Anwen Llewellyn who lived in a farmhouse on the mountainside. They reckoned she had secret potions and spells that could induce fertility. But she wasn’t about to tell her mam and sister she was after anything like that – they both knew the woman but didn’t discuss such matters. What they did think, though, was it was just as well she hadn’t conceived to an evil brute like Morgan James and wished her rid of him altogether.

‘Come on,’ Mam said sympathetically, breaking into her thoughts. ‘I’ll make us all a cup of tea and we’ll have a little chat . . .’

Seren nodded. She knew what one of Mam’s chats were like, they were more lectures of why and how she could leave Morgan, with her sister chipping in support from time to time. Sometimes it felt as though they were both ganging up on her, though she realised they both only had her best interests at heart.

*

It was a long climb up the mountainside, but for once today the sun was shining and the sky was a pure azure blue. A light breeze ruffled Seren’s fair hair as she paused, puffing, for a break. Resting her wicker basket on the mossy ground, she turned to stare at the small village down below with its small mineworkers’ cottages and narrow streets. Up here, she felt like she was away from it all. Oh, what a view Anwen must see each and every day just gazing out of her farmhouse window. The old woman had lived alone for the past twenty years since her husband Gwynfor had passed away and most of her livestock had been sold off to meet her crippling debts. All that remained were a few chickens and goats and her trusty horse that pulled a cart behind him. Seren wondered how the woman managed to survive at all. She rarely ventured out to the shops in the village as there were so many rumours circulating. If Anwen Llewellyn wasn’t being referred to as an eccentric old woman then she was being labelled ‘a wizened old witch’! That shocked Seren as her family had known the woman for years, and all she seemed to be guilty of was helping alleviate their ailments with lotions and potions she made from things like nettles, herbs and spices. She achieved good results too. But people didn’t understand that kind of thing. After all, why go to see an old witch when you have kindly Doctor Owen living in the village? He was well trained, a professional, while Anwen was into experimenting with all sorts of plants. Bunkum, some called it, and even hocus-pocus, but Doctor Owen himself never ran the woman down and was a regular caller at her home for a cup of tea and a chat.

As far as Seren could see, the elderly woman didn’t charge for her services either, though people often left her gifts for her help and advice, and today Seren had baked her some teisen lap and a few Welsh cakes for her assistance.

Just think . . . her life could change for the better if she bore Morgan a son. Then he’d be happy and wouldn’t drink any more, nor would he lay a finger on her. She was sure of it. Sighing heavily, she lifted her wicker basket and carried on walking up the mountainside, convinced that her luck was about to change for the better.

From her scullery window, Anwen Llewellyn squinted to see who was headed her way. Her rheumy eyes weren’t as good as they used to be. Visitors weren’t always welcome as they didn’t always have the right intentions, but today she could see it was Seren James who was coming a-calling. She was such a lovely young woman, and Anwen had known the family for years.

Relieved, she set the kettle to boil on the hob and went to answer the front door. Her old hips weren’t as bad this afternoon as the weather was getting warmer, and so her usual painful movements were far less stiff than usual.

‘Hello, Mrs Llewellyn!’ Seren shouted through the half-open farmhouse door.

‘I’m just on my way, cariad,’ Anwen said softly. ‘Come in dear, you’re very welcome.’

Seren stepped over the threshold, stooping to kiss her cheek.

What was it about the young woman today? Anwen hadn’t seen her for a few months, not since she’d especially climbed the mountain with a pair of leather boots her husband had affixed new soles to. That had been very thoughtful of her. Back then, she seemed chirpy but today, although her tone sounded sweet to the ears, Anwen detected a slight break in her voice.

‘My, my, Seren. Have you lost weight since we last spoke to one another?’ She stood back, appraising the young woman’s appearance.

Seren removed her cape and hung it on a peg on the wall behind her. ‘Not that I’m aware of, Mrs Llewellyn.’

Anwen clucked her teeth as she often did when she felt someone wasn’t telling the truth, but there would be time to get to the crux of the matter later. ‘Never mind all that then, sit down, dear, I’ve put the kettle on to boil.’

‘Oh, I’m forgetting, I’ve baked you some cakes, Mrs Llewellyn.’ Seren handed the basket over to Anwen, who lifted it, her gnarled fingers roughened by all the work she did around the farm.

‘Thank you, cariad.’ She removed the covering cloth and her lips curved into a smile. ‘Very nice they look and all. We’ll have some of these Welsh cakes with our tea, shall we?’

Seren nodded eagerly. But Anwen felt perhaps the woman had no appetite. As well as looking frail, she noticed the light had long since gone out of her eyes. What could be troubling her so?

After pouring the brew into two mismatched cups, the women settled themselves by the table. ‘Mind if I do?’ Anwen said, her eyes lighting up like those of a mischievous young child just about to do something wicked.

Seren smiled. ‘No, go ahead, Mrs Llewellyn. I won’t be eating any, I’m not hungry.’

That young woman is troubled, I can see it in her eyes, but I’ll not probe. I’ll wait for her to tell me what it is that’s on her mind. Anwen took a Welsh cake from the basket and nibbled on it. Not quite as good as her own but passable nevertheless.

‘Did you know that Mr Gruffudd is leaving the chapel?’ Seren said suddenly.

Anwen swallowed. No, she did not know. ‘I haven’t heard anything about that, but when are people likely to tell me, anyhow? I’m the last person they’d want to tell as they think I’m a witch!’ And she cackled purposely which made Seren chuckle. By now Anwen realised the young woman was used to her antics.

‘Not all of us think you’re a witch, Mrs Llewellyn,’ Seren said kindly. ‘I, for one, know you’re a healer.’

‘Well, you and your family know that, cariad, but there’s folk in the village who think I’m up to all sorts, casting spells, slaughtering cattle and dancing naked by moonlight!’

Seren giggled. ‘But seriously, I’m going to miss Mr Gruffudd.’

‘Aye, me and all. I expect we’ll get some green as grass new minister who’ll want to change things here in Abercanaid. Remember that one who stood in for him when he was ill a couple of years back?’

Seren nodded. ‘He had some funny ideas . . .’

‘Funny ideas? The man was a fool! I think, between you and me, he’d invented his own form of religion! I wouldn’t mind betting he’s gone off with the Saints to Utah!’

‘Aw, that’s a bit unfair . . .’ Anwen saw the girl’s eyes flash. ‘I know a couple of people who have joined the Mormon religion and they’re good people, not the Saints of Satan that some Welsh Baptists call them!’

Anwen, realising she had caused a bit of upset, said softly, ‘No, you’re right, bach. I, of all people, who have been condemned by so many, shouldn’t poke fun. I mean no harm by it. Don’t take any notice of the ramblings of an old woman. But you have to admit that young minister was barmy!’

Seren smiled. ‘Yes, he was a little unusual.’

‘I hope he won’t be coming back here?’

‘No. Apparently we’re getting a young minister called Elwyn Evans, he’s from Pontypridd.’

Anwen sniffed loudly. ‘That’s all right then!’ She stared at Seren. ‘Now then, young lady, what brought you here today?’

There was no use hiding anything from the likes of Anwen Llewellyn. Seren swallowed a lump in her throat. ‘It’s been almost a year now and I still haven’t conceived, Mrs Llewellyn . . .’

Anwen smiled and shook her head. ‘Well, it’s still early days. Maybe you’re not having marital relations at the right time?’

Seren knew that wasn’t the case at all as Morgan forced himself upon her most nights, but she didn’t want to tell Anwen that. ‘It’s just that it’s causing a little bit of upset between me and my husband as he badly wants a son.’

Anwen drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Oh, does he now!’

Seren nodded. ‘Is there anything you can give me to help me conceive? I’d be most grateful to you . . .’

Anwen raised her straggly silver eyebrows. ‘I think as you’re young and fit you’d be better off letting nature take its course.’

Tears began to fill her eyes. ‘Please, Mrs Llewellyn . . . a herbal drink, a potion, anything?’

‘There’s desperate you sound, Seren.’ Anwen’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m thinking there’s more to this than you’re letting on.’ It was then her eyes were drawn to the bruising on Seren’s forearms. ‘Has that husband of yours been hitting you around?’

Seren swallowed. She couldn’t lie. ‘Y . . . yes. But only now and then, he reckons I ask for it most of the time and I need the wilfulness knocked out of me.’

The old woman spoke softly to her as she shook her head. ‘But those bruises on your wrists? No woman deserves to be treated like that. You must leave him. Why do you stay? Do you have nowhere to go?’

‘I do, yes. My mam’s always offering for me to stay with her, but I know he will come after me causing all sorts of trouble.’

‘What is it you really fear, then? That he’ll drag you back home and give you an even bigger thrashing for leaving him in the first place?’

Anwen’s words hit home. ‘Can’t you cast a spell to make him nicer to me?’

There was pity in the woman’s eyes as she smiled, then shook her head. ‘I don’t do that kind of thing, no matter what the villagers say. I only collect wild herbs and make lotions and potions to heal folk. Look, I’ve made an ointment you can use on that bruising. It’s made from elder leaf and daisies, cariad. It will get rid of that bruising in no time at all.’

Seren nodded, severely disappointed that Anwen didn’t have something in her apothecary cabinet to help her conceive.

As if reading her thoughts, Anwen said, ‘Look, there is a potion I could make up for you to encourage a pregnancy, but that wouldn’t solve your problem. Believe me, there’s no magic cure to tame a beast who beats his wife! And having a new babe to contend with as well as a six-foot-tall brute isn’t going to solve your problems!’

Seren felt the grief rise up like a wave of despair and she began to sob profusely. Anwen was right, why was she putting up with such behaviour from her husband? But deep down she knew the answer to that. It was because she feared Morgan would bring trouble to her mother’s door if she ever left him, and she didn’t want that for her at her time of life. Her mother had been widowed after her father had died in the Gethin Pit explosion at the end of last year. Life hadn’t been the same since then, and, come to think of it, hadn’t Morgan suddenly become handy with his fists after her father’s death as there was no man in the family to challenge him any more? Her father would have sorted him out, he’d been fit for his age and all, but she realised she mustn’t dwell on it as there were others who’d lost menfolk in the village who were far worse off, other widows left behind with several young mouths to feed.

*

Anwen watched from her kitchen window until Seren was a dot on the landscape. Who knew what that poor girl had in store for her when she returned home? She’d warned her to leave early enough so Morgan wouldn’t have got home from work himself yet, but according to Seren he often went straight to the pub anyhow. She wished there was more she could do to help her out, but other than offering her a place at the farm, what could she do? It could be an idea in an emergency, though, and as far as she knew, Seren didn’t tell him about her visits to the farm.

It was at a time like this that she wished she were a bloody witch! Then she’d command all sorts of forces to r. . .