The Wild Seed Read online

  About the Book

  Catherine O’Connor had a wild streak in her, as vivid and colourful as the red hair that cascaded over her shoulders. When she met Boyo Hopkins, one of Swansea’s richest and most powerful men, she defied convention by falling into a passionate affair with him although she discovered, too late, that he was married.

  Boyo’s first love had been April Thomas of Honey’s Farm, and as a young man he had been devastated by her death. And now Catherine, April’s younger step-sister, found herself threatened by Boyo’s jealous wife, Bethan, who was plotting to take the cattle and lands of Honey’s Farm away from her. As Bethan slowly planned Catherine’s downfall, she retreated into a world inhabited by the ghosts of her forebears. Anyone who helped Catherine had to be destroyed – including her handsome young kinsman Liam Cullen who had come over from Ireland and fallen in love with Catherine himself.

  The Wild Seed concludes the story told in The Shoemaker’s Daughter, The Oyster Catchers, Honey’s Farm, Arian and Sea Mistress.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  About the Author

  Also by Iris Gower

  Copyright

  THE WILD SEED

  Iris Gower

  To Emma, Anna and Adam with love.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The girl in the bed looked gloriously abandoned, her long, fiery hair rippled over her shoulders, partly covering the curve of her creamy breasts. Her eyes were closed, she was rosy in the glow from the gas lamp; content beneath the thickness of the satin quilt.

  It was quiet in the room except for the rumble of wheels on the cobbled street outside the Swansea Hotel and the hiss of the coals shifting in the grate.

  ‘It’s getting dark, cochen; time to go home.’

  She stirred, her eyes opening; wide, green, mysterious eyes that seemed to look into his soul. God in heaven, how he loved her. Perhaps he had always loved her and had never recognized the feeling until now.

  ‘Oh, Boyo, don’t say that, it’s so cold and wet outside and it’s so wonderful having you here; so homely, so comfortable, so right.’

  He knew exactly what she meant. He sat on the bed beside her and took her hand. His own was smooth, the nails clean, well-manicured; it was the hand of a gentleman. Except that Boyo Hopkins had been born in sin, brought up in a workhouse, given the name of ‘Boyo’ because he had known no other. Now he was called Boyo Jubilee Hopkins after his grandfather, he was a man of substance, of standing in the community.

  ‘I must go.’ He spoke regretfully, his once rough accent barely noticeable now. He rose and stood before the long oval mirror that graced the huge bedroom. He was, to all intents and purposes, a man of refinement and if now and again the rough edges of his origins were revealed, they were more than compensated for by the sizeable fortune he possessed.

  ‘Boyo, why can’t we be open about our love? Why are we here in some strange hotel? You should come to see Mam and Dad. We are so isolated on the farm that a visit from you would be like a breath of fresh air. Are you ashamed of me now you’ve come into money?’

  He turned and looked at her. Her skin was fresh and dewy, she was everything that was young and beautiful and she had been a virgin until he had taken her to his bed.

  ‘Of course I’m not ashamed of you,’ he said, and he meant it. He would like nothing better than to take her out, to flaunt her openly, to have the envy of other men.

  ‘It’s time you were married, time you were showing a wife off to the world,’ Catherine said. It was as though she had picked up the thread of his thoughts. ‘I know you are only a few years older than me, love, but you don’t need to make your way in the world, do you? It isn’t as if you can’t afford a wife. Perhaps you don’t want to marry me, is that it?’

  He rose to his feet. ‘Duw, don’t be silly, girl.’ He was slipping into the Welsh, an indication that he was agitated.

  ‘We must get to know each other, catch up on the past.’ He knew he sounded defensive.

  ‘Would things have been different, I mean, if you and I had remained friends, if we hadn’t lost touch, lost some years when we should have been together?’ Her voice trailed away wistfully.

  Boyo shook his head and remained silent. He should tell her the truth, say the words he was afraid to say, that he was married already. He thought back to his wedding, a quiet affair, conducted in a small church in the tiny village of Ilston. Bethan Llewellyn had been a spinster, a mature woman. She was a lady from good farming stock, she possessed what he’d never had: breeding. On their marriage, Bethan’s father had given Boyo a gift: a fine hotel situated near the coast. A gold-mine which Boyo did not need or want. Shortly after their marriage, he had returned the deeds to Bethan.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  He turned and looked at the girl, now sitting on the edge of the bed, her feet, bare and pink, not quite reaching the carpet, and his heart melted. Six short days ago they had met again, brought together on the cold spring breeze of the beach at Swansea. They had stared at each other, recognition dawning with a sense of wonderment and joy.

  He smiled, ‘I was thinking of you, of our meeting on the beach.’ He touched her hair, red in the firelight, glowing, alive.

  ‘Nice thoughts?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She came to him and wound her arms around his waist, putting her head against his heart.

  ‘Tell me something, Boyo, why do you call me cochen? Why don’t you use my proper name?’

  He sighed. ‘You don’t seem like the Catherine I once knew. I remember the child running wild on Honey’s Farm. Now you are a woman, a flame, a glorious red-head, that’s what cochen means.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He bent and kissed her. Her lips parted invitingly, he felt his blood stir; would she always have this effect on him, however many times he lay with her? He disentangled himself.

  ‘We have to go, love.’

  ‘I know, but I miss you already. Will I see you, tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow.’

  Outside the hotel, he waited for the man to bring his horse around and then he lifted Catherine and set her on the saddle.

  ‘It’s not a fine carriage,’ he apologized, ‘but old Jason here will serve us better on the rough ground.’

  He took her home to the farmlands above Swansea. Honey’s Farm stretched for miles across the hillside, the rich earth planted now with seed which the summer sun would bring to fruition. Boyo felt a pain within him as he thought of the days of his youth. He had spent a great deal of his spare time at the farm, eating with Fon and Jamie O’Conner, sharing their warmth and hos
pitality. Now, he would be ashamed to face them.

  He kissed the sweetness of Catherine’s mouth and released her, feeling suddenly cold. ‘Go in, your parents will be worrying about you.’

  ‘They wouldn’t be if they knew I was with you. They always liked you, even when you were Boyo the tannery worker.’

  ‘Hush, go on now, I’ll watch until you are safely indoors.’

  He stood for a long time, looking at the darkness of the farmhouse against the rising moon. His heart ached suddenly for the boy he had been, he had worked hard but he had been happy, without responsibilities; free.

  Across the dip of the valley was Glyn Hir, the tannery Catherine had spoken of. It had been his home. Ellie Hopkins, old Jubilee’s beautiful young widow, had made sure that he did not work too hard and that the other men treated him fairly. For a long time, Ellie had worked alongside him in the mill, grinding the oak bark for tanning the leather.

  It was on his sixteenth birthday that the voluptuous Rosie, Ellie’s maid, had taken him to her bosom, literally, teaching him all he needed to know about love, the pure and the carnal. He remembered it as if it were yesterday, the smell of the wood fire, the sound of a fiddle playing in the distance and Rosie, soft and warm and so willing in his arms.

  And then, unexpectedly, he owned a fortune. Ellie had learned that Boyo was Jubilee’s grandson. The money and land she had inherited from Jubilee, she felt, was rightfully Boyo’s. She had been generous, had signed it all over to him. He wondered now if he would have been happier had he remained a working boy.

  He sighed and turned away from the warmth of the light in the farmhouse windows. Bethan would be waiting and Bethan was his wife, his friend.

  He was betraying her, reneging on their pact of trust and mutual respect, but he was not betraying her love; he reassured himself on that point. They had both known from the start that theirs was not a marriage made in heaven but a marriage of friendship, as well as the merging of two great fortunes.

  By the time Boyo reached the large house on the hillside overlooking the sweep of the bay, he felt the peace that coming home always gave him.

  He rode around the building to the stables and dismounted from his horse, experiencing the sense of pride that settled on him whenever he returned to the house he had made his own.

  It was poised like an eagle’s nest over the fine bay of Rhosilli, with the sound of the sea and the wind and the calling of the birds.

  The groom took the reins, tipping his cap before throwing a blanket over the animal’s heaving flanks. ‘Wet evening, sir, getting misty, too. The fireside’s the best place on a night like this.’

  ‘You’re right, Roberts, I’ll be glad to get indoors out of it.’

  He walked through the back of the house, past the kitchens where a fire blazed in the blackleaded range and where the cook and the kitchen maids were working in the cheerfully spotless room; the low hum of their voices was somehow welcome and soothing. The inviting smell of roasting meat made him realize, suddenly, how hungry he was.

  He opened the doors of the large drawing-room and Bethan rose to greet him, smiling at him over her spectacles. She was by no means a pretty woman but her elegant bearing and the dignity in the way she held her head, facing the world fearlessly, had the strangest ability to bring out all that was best in Boyo.

  He leaned forward and kissed her, she was as tall as he was and large of bone. She was angular, with no soft curves and yet she was regal; awesome. A wave of affection washed over him. It was followed swiftly by feelings of guilt. He had no intention of hurting Bethan, of breaking the vows he’d made at the altar; he could never leave her and yet how could he bear to deny the fate that had brought Catherine O’Conner back into his life?

  ‘Darling, you’re cold and look at the mud on your boots! Boyo, are you aware that you stink of horses? Go upstairs and get washed and changed, supper is almost ready.’

  He tweaked her nose, ‘Hush, you sound like an old hen.’ As soon as the words were spoken he wished he could snatch them back. Had they been put there by Catherine or had the thought been with him since he’d first set eyes on Bethan?

  She was not one jot aggrieved. ‘Get on with it you big fool! Have you forgotten that my father is joining us this evening?’

  He had forgotten and his mouth twisted into a rueful smile.

  ‘You idiot!’ Bethan made a mock sweep at him with her hand and he caught her to him, holding her close, his face buried in the warmth of her neck.

  ‘See how I am abused and in my own home too?’ He appealed to the empty room behind him and Bethan twisted out of his arms, her eyes full of laughter.

  ‘Poor old soul, is his evil harridan of a wife being unkind yet again?’

  ‘Yet again,’ he agreed, his tone sombre.

  ‘Anyway,’ Bethan moved from him towards the fire, settling her spectacles on her nose, ‘what kept you so late?’

  Boyo knew it was an inquiry made out of genuine interest with no hint of suspicion behind the words. He swallowed hard, ‘I went over to Honey’s Farm.’ It was easier to tell the truth or part of it. ‘I looked down on my past, on the sweeping fields and across the valley to where the tannery once stood.’ He felt inexplicably sad. ‘It’s just a ruin now.’

  ‘You grow, you move on,’ Bethan said reasonably.

  ‘You are right, of course. Well, no more brooding over the past, I’m going to make myself presentable for my father-in-law.’ Boyo moved to the door, determined to shake off the strange feelings that were haunting him.

  He stood in the bathroom and looked round at the black-and-white-tiled walls and the large bath that would have dominated a lesser room. All this luxury still gave him a sense of pride, a feeling of achievement. Until he was seventeen years old he’d never possessed anything except the clothes he stood up in.

  As for love, he’d lost the only girl he could ever love when April had died, or so he’d believed then. Her young life had been extinguished by the epidemic that had swept through Swansea some years before and he had been devastated.

  Boyo’s life had been empty until he met Bethan. She had offered him warmth, kindness and he had clung to her like a drowning man clings to a spar. He had married in haste, was he to repent at leisure? For now there was Catherine.

  His heart had turned over when he’d first seen her again, April’s sister, grown into a lovely woman. He had never given her a thought, not in the seven or so years since he’d last seen her. But now, he could not imagine life without her.

  It was not fair, of course not, Catherine was young, much younger than he was in every way. As she’d pointed out, there were not that many years between them, but life had made Boyo old before his time. As for Catherine, she had her whole future before her, she should be free to find a good husband and bear him children. The thought was almost a physical pain.

  He rose from the steaming water and stood looking at his naked frame in the mirror. He was taller than average, well-built, muscular; the hard work he’d done as a boy had seen to that. He wondered if he was handsome; his jaw was firm, his eyes clear but there was an almost brooding quality about him that he recognized as his need to conceal his thoughts and feelings from others. It was a way he had developed of protecting himself. Sometimes, when at a fine soirée peopled by the rich and successful of the town, Boyo would think ruefully of the ragged tannery worker he had once been. He would have been given short shrift by these same people who now accepted that he was one of them.

  Later, dressed in a pristine shirt and immaculate suit, he made his way downstairs to the dining-room. The candles were lit on the long table. Silver and glass gleamed in the flame and across the room a fire burned brightly in the ornate grate. His was a comfortable life, a life in which he had become content. Why then was he jeopardizing everything by falling in love so suddenly and so devastatingly with Catherine O’Conner?

  ‘Daddy will be here any minute,’ Bethan bustled into the room bringing with her the clean scent of
lavender. She came to him and he kissed her cheek in the usual familiar gesture that had become a habit.

  ‘The peach room is made up for him, he likes it in there with the curtains open. He likes to sit up in bed and watch the moon over the sea.’

  ‘Your father is a man of impeccable taste,’ Boyo said and meant it.

  Dafydd Llewellyn was from old Welsh stock, reputed to be linked to Welsh princes somewhere in the distant past. It was easy to believe; he was a man of regal bearing, he spoke Welsh as he spoke English, without blemish. That he was learned became obvious as soon as he opened his mouth and yet Dafydd patronized no-one.

  The great brass bell outside the door jangled loudly and Bethan’s face lit up. ‘There he is, I can’t wait to see him again.’

  Within a few minutes, Bethan returned, her arm linked with her father’s. The man had such presence that Boyo was filled with the urge to bow over the man’s hand as if he were a saint, or indeed of royal blood. Instead, he smiled and went forward holding out his hand. The hand-shake was warm, firm, in spite of Dafydd’s advanced age.

  Supper was a pleasant, leisurely business. The first course was soup, rich and hot with pepper and leeks. The fish fell from the bone, whole turbot decorated with nuts on a bed of sliced boiled eggs. The beef was braised in a dark gravy and served with cabbage and carrots and the very first of the new potatoes grown in the Gower farmlands.

  Dafydd declined the pudding filled with sultanas and currants and covered in steaming custard. His eyes under their heavy lids were difficult to read; Boyo saw his father-in-law as some ancient Merlin, mysterious, wise and invincible.

  ‘How is business?’ Dafydd relaxed in his high-backed chair and regarded his son-in-law carefully. ‘Leather still bringing good prices?’

  ‘Very good,’ Boyo said. ‘It seems that large manufacturers are buying skins in great quantities for huge suites of furniture for hotels.’

  Both men knew that Boyo need never worry about business again. His fortune, once great, was now, by dint of clever investments, bringing in enough money to keep Boyo in luxury for the rest of his life. Combined with Bethan’s profits from the Gomerian Inn, the couple were among the wealthiest in the Principality.