'Hush. Hush now.'

'How dare you try and buy me off?' she screamed in a whisper. Then, slipping into tragic mode, 'See what you've reduced me to! And all because I trusted in a Welshman's honour.'

That hit home. As he was fumbling for his purse, Mary spotted a reddish stain on the sheet. It had to be wine, because she hadn't had her courses since Ma Slattery's. But this fool mightn't know the difference. She pointed one trembling finger and burst into fresh tears. He'd give ten shillings for a virgin, whether he meant to or not.

The man seized her wrists. 'I swear I'll make it up to you, if you'll only be quiet.'

Mary writhed in his grip. 'And what if there should be a child?' The word came out like a whip.

His white eyebrows almost met.

Mary left the room with a pound, and a giggle in her throat.

All day in the coach she played red-eyed. The Welshman sat cramped in between two dusty masons, staring at his boots. His scratch wig was on crooked, and stubble covered his cheeks.

Today the roads were as rough as fields. They passed a pothole so deep that the farmer insisted on getting down to look at it. Climbing back in with wet boots he reported that there was a donkey drowned in its hollow. 'What an ass,' he said to Mary, working for a laugh. She pretended not to have heard him. She had money in her pocket and a bag full of clothes; she glowed all over.

John Niblett's face appeared upside down in the window. 'Only an hour to Monmouth, now,' he called cheerfully.

But this didn't look to Mary like the sort of landscape a city could emerge from. She'd always thought of the world as flat, but this countryside rose and fell, rumpled and wrinkled, as if a restless giant were sleeping under a blanket of frost. Apart from the track of other wheels under their own, there was no human mark on this hill they were skirting. What troubled her most was the crows. Mary could hardly believe there were so many of them in the world. The outskirts of a city should have been speckled with sparrows, should have echoed with the shriek of gulls, but for the past hour Mary had seen and heard nothing but the choking cries of crows.

As the wagon lurched past a field of stones, before the light quite faded, she let out a painful sniff and asked to borrow the Welshman's writing things. He handed over his box of quills, ink, and paper at once. Was he surprised she knew how to write? As Mary began her laborious task, leaning on her knees which heaved when the wagon did, she was aware of the Welshman's uneasy eyes. My deer old frend, My deer old frend, she wrote. Let him sweat. Let him chew his fingers over the possibility that she was going to swear a rape against him. He'd been hot enough and no questions asked last night; let him do his fretting now. she wrote. Let him sweat. Let him chew his fingers over the possibility that she was going to swear a rape against him. He'd been hot enough and no questions asked last night; let him do his fretting now.

The road was more like a ditch, really. Niblett got off to lead the horses down a woody hill; the coach leaned over to one side, and Mary feared it might break through the trees like a hunted animal. She clung to the pen. My deer old frend Jane, I rite you this leter on what may be my death bed. My deer old frend Jane, I rite you this leter on what may be my death bed. Mary could spell pretty well, but she doubted Susan Digot could, and it was as her mother, her imaginary, dying mother, that she wrote now. She felt queasy from the motion and lifted her head. A skinny doggish sheep was nosing at a stream that ran across their path; the water was brown. Mary could spell pretty well, but she doubted Susan Digot could, and it was as her mother, her imaginary, dying mother, that she wrote now. She felt queasy from the motion and lifted her head. A skinny doggish sheep was nosing at a stream that ran across their path; the water was brown.

She returned to her letter. The favor I ask of you for the sake of frendship is not small. The favor I ask of you for the sake of frendship is not small. As they edged down the valley past a number of furnaces, the smell of hot metal thickened. They overtook a shepherd, huddled in his sheepskin cloak; man and beast clearly wore the same cover in this part of the world. The wagon jerked towards a solid bridge of stone arches over a rushing river; this was the Wye, the farmer told Mary. It was almost twilight now, that bare hour before darkness when the last brightness was sucked out of the sky. On the far side of the bridge she could just make out a cluster of houses, seamed with whitened wood. This had to be the very edge of the city. As they edged down the valley past a number of furnaces, the smell of hot metal thickened. They overtook a shepherd, huddled in his sheepskin cloak; man and beast clearly wore the same cover in this part of the world. The wagon jerked towards a solid bridge of stone arches over a rushing river; this was the Wye, the farmer told Mary. It was almost twilight now, that bare hour before darkness when the last brightness was sucked out of the sky. On the far side of the bridge she could just make out a cluster of houses, seamed with whitened wood. This had to be the very edge of the city.

She squinted at the paper in the gloom. The ink had better dry fast; she'd no sand for blotting. As the coach lurched from side to side she gripped the quill like a knife and tried to think what a mother would write on her deathbed. My dimise I fear will leave my onlie girl alone in a cruel world and quite frendless. My dimise I fear will leave my onlie girl alone in a cruel world and quite frendless. The words blurred as Mary scribbled. For a moment, she almost believed her own story. She thought of a mother who'd never see her only girl again. The words blurred as Mary scribbled. For a moment, she almost believed her own story. She thought of a mother who'd never see her only girl again.

'Monmouth,' bawled John Niblett.

Thank the Mighty Master for that much. At last Mary could get out of this chamberpot of a wagon in which she had spent the longest week of her life. She pressed her cheek to the window, and something fell inside her.

Monmouth? This wasn't a city, nothing like a city. It was barely a town. What had she done?

The Welshman was holding out his hand for his writing things now. As she scribbled her mother's name at the bottom, Mary suddenly registered the fact that he was getting down here too. Pox on the man; could he be a local? Of all the stinking towns on the fringes of England, did he have to come from this one?

She should have thought of that before bedding him. She should have paid more attention. She would just have to hope that his house was far out in the country and that their paths never crossed again.

Mary handed the man his box and averted her eyes.

Downstream of the bridge, trees rose from several muddy islands in the river. Crows were gathering at the tips of the highest branches. One let out an imperative cry and set off for the next tree, flapping heavily, its feathers set apart like blunt fingers. Restlessness infected another, then another. Shapes Mary had taken for leaves came to life and flew in circles. Soon they were all whirring from tree to tree, like needles darning the torn sky.

The wagon creaked across the bridge. At first glance, Mary took in a few pitiful rows of houses; a single spire. This was all there was to Monmouth, clearly. She'd come all this way to end up in a crow town, where there were more birds than people.

PART TWO.

Monmouth

CHAPTER FOUR.

The Whole Duty of Woman

'SEE THE mark of her tears here.' Mrs. Jones passed the letter to her husband. mark of her tears here.' Mrs. Jones passed the letter to her husband.

He held it towards the candlelight for a moment, then handed it back and edged around the bed.

'To think of Su Rhys's little child grown up into such a tall, handsome girl, and her not here to see it.' A sigh whistled in the little gap between Mrs. Jones's front teeth. 'There was no lingering, though, thanks be to the Maker. The girl told me the fever took dear Su off quick as lime in the end.'

Mr. Jones nodded soberly, sat down, and hoisted his leg to remove his single red-heeled shoe.

'Listen, Thomas, there's one part that wrings my heart.' She read through the letter in a rapid mutter. 'The larning she has from the charity school is reading, writing, sowing ... can cut out a fine shirt and hem cuffs and set her hand to all maner of plain work ... my poor Mary will make a good sarvant being quick and industrous of a humbel disposition without gall or guil.' 'The larning she has from the charity school is reading, writing, sowing ... can cut out a fine shirt and hem cuffs and set her hand to all maner of plain work ... my poor Mary will make a good sarvant being quick and industrous of a humbel disposition without gall or guil.'

'What's heart-wringing about all that?' he asked, pulling his night-shirt on over his head.

'I'm coming to it.' Mrs. Jones leaned closer to the narrow candle. 'If you, old frend, perform so Christian an act as to take my poor motherless dauter into your servise, I have no apprehension that she will do anything to forfet yor trust, and yor reward will be in heaven.' 'If you, old frend, perform so Christian an act as to take my poor motherless dauter into your servise, I have no apprehension that she will do anything to forfet yor trust, and yor reward will be in heaven.' Her voice grew muffled. Her voice grew muffled. 'Pray dear Jane let my spirit rest easy, knowing my onlie girl is safe in your hands. 'Pray dear Jane let my spirit rest easy, knowing my onlie girl is safe in your hands.' She brushed her knuckles against one eye.

'Come to bed now, my dear,' he said, arching his tired back.

'Aye, presently. You know, the girl's not got a penny. She hadn't eaten since Cheltenham! I told her to order chops at the Robin Hood and say the Joneses would be good for it.'

He nodded again, fitting his nightcap over his stubbled scalp.

His wife held the letter stiff, poring over the uneven lines. 'Yor obedient sarvant and eternal frend Mrs. Susan Saunders, Rhys as was,' 'Yor obedient sarvant and eternal frend Mrs. Susan Saunders, Rhys as was,' she murmured. Then she folded it up very small. 'Such an awkward scribble, for her that was the neatest of all us girls at dame-school. Do you remember how neat in her person Su Rhys was, my dear?' she murmured. Then she folded it up very small. 'Such an awkward scribble, for her that was the neatest of all us girls at dame-school. Do you remember how neat in her person Su Rhys was, my dear?'

He nodded.

'Saunders, I mean. How fine she looked on her wedding day, do you remember?'

'I wasn't one of the party,' he reminded her. 'I didn't come home from my apprenticeship in Bristol till the year after.'

'Of course.' Mrs. Jones smacked her temple. 'I have my memories but they're jumbled up like laundry.' She looked down at the folded note, and shut her hand over it. 'I wrote Su a letter when I heard she was widowed, I think, and then another to tell her about her father passing on, but nothing since. I kept forgetting, in the press of business. There's always so much to be doing-'

'Aye, that's true,' he said gently. 'The years pass faster than a person can count.'

'She didn't make the bargain I did, poor Su.' Mrs. Jones's voice was quivering again. 'To think of that clown Cob Saunders leaving Su to scrape a living from shoddy piece-work!'

Her husband let out a little grunt of contempt. 'She picked a weak beam there.'

'But how fast a body can come down in the world! Never married again, it seems, just wore herself out tending the little girl. Just exactly six months my junior, Su was, remember?'

'Was she?'

'And bones in a London churchyard now.'

Mr. Jones watched his wife, bent over the candle. Was she crying, or was it only the light that wavered? He smoothed the cold blanket over the clean line of the stump below his left hip.

'Only think of it, though, Thomas.' His wife's voice shook like a rope. 'To feel your dying come upon you, and your child to be cast adrift on the world. That must be near as bad as, as-'

He couldn't let her go on. 'Maybe it's time you had someone to help you,' he remarked, 'now our busy season's coming on us.'

Her face turned towards him, outlined in yellow light; he couldn't see whether it was wet.

'Has she Susan's hands?' he asked, for something to say.

Her voice brightened. 'She has. Fine thumbs for a needle, I took particular notice. But surely, Thomas, we can't afford a fourth servant?'

'We wouldn't have to pay her till the end of the year,' he improvised, 'and by that time we ought to have got some very profitable orders. The Morgan girl's coming-out trousseau, for instance.'

'Oh, tush!' said his wife shyly, 'they might go to Bristol for that.'

'But Mrs. Morgan looks very favourably on your work. Besides, my dear,' he added with a small shrug, 'if we're ever to expand our trade and attract the attention of even greater names than the Morgans, we must take a chance or two. He who would succeed must first aspire,' He who would succeed must first aspire,' he quoted. he quoted.

Mrs. Jones sucked in her breath with pleasure. Her cheeks were the faint tinge of apple-flesh. At times like this, the decades fell away and he caught sight of her old unobtrusive loveliness. As if her hoity friend Susan had ever been a patch on her!

Privately, Thomas Jones thought it was Cob Saunders who'd made the fool's bargain. In their boyhood Cob had been the champion of the schoolyard, but it was his crippled friend Thomas who'd come top of the class. Cob was a pleasant fellow, but he never could tell a wormy apple from a whole one. Any man who'd pick Susan Rhys over Jane Dee could be said to have deserved what he got: blundering into a riot and dying of gaol fever. A quarter of a century ago, when Thomas Jones had come back from Bristol a new-made tailor, and found Jane Dee unaccountably still single, he'd been convinced it was an instance of the Divine Plan, and he held to that belief today. It was yet another way the Maker meant to reward him for the loss of his left leg.

His wife had that fretting look on. 'And if we found we couldn't afford the girl after all, but?'

'We could pay her what she's owed and turn her off at once.'

'To be sure. How right you are, Thomas, as always. Shall I send Daffy to the Robin Hood tonight, so, to tell her to come in the morning?' she added in a rush.

Mr. Jones inclined his head. 'It will benefit the trade.'

'Do you think so?'

He never answered questions twice. He smiled slightly.

His wife knotted the strings of her nightcap under her pointed chin. 'I feel badly now, that we told Daffy we couldn't take his cousin.'

'But Gwyneth is a farm girl.'

'That's true.'

'What would we have done with her?' he asked patiently. 'Haven't we Mrs. Ash for the child, and Abi and Daffy for everything else? Whereas this Saunders girl, she could sew for you and lend a hand with the patrons. An educated London girl will give an air of bon ton. bon ton.

His wife could always hear when he was trying out a new phrase, picked up from the Bristol Mercury. Bristol Mercury. And he could never deceive her, he knew, when he did her a favour and called it reasonableness. She smiled over her shoulder, forgetting to cover the gap in her teeth. 'You won't regret this, husband.' And he could never deceive her, he knew, when he did her a favour and called it reasonableness. She smiled over her shoulder, forgetting to cover the gap in her teeth. 'You won't regret this, husband.'

He patted her place in the bed. She blew out the candle and took off the rest of her clothes in the smoky darkness.

He lay beside her, very still. It was safer not to touch his wife. He knew he couldn't put her through all that again, not six months after the last catastrophe. There was a limit to what the frailer sex could endure. So he stretched his leg out very quietly and listened to his own breath. Gradually Thomas Jones was getting the mastery of himself.

Then his wife turned over and laid her soft hot hand on him.

The light of a frosty morning silhouetted the Robin Hood. In the yard of the inn, Daffy Cadwaladyr introduced himself. 'Short for Davyd,' he said pleasantly.

The Londoner looked as if she'd never heard a sillier name in her life.

He heaved the bag onto his shoulder; its contents rumbled. 'What have you got in here then, cobblestones?'

Now she stared at him as if she'd been kicked. Her eyes were black as mineshafts, and her face was all angles. She was too bony to be handsome, he decided; a man needed a bit of flesh to get a hold of.

'Only asking a civil question,' he muttered.

Mary Saunders made no answer to that. She followed a few paces behind, all the way up Monnow Street, as if she feared he'd make off with her precious possessions. The worn soles of Daffy's boots skidded on the icy stones. He'd been saving up for a new pair for Christmas, but then he'd come across an encyclopaedia in ten volumes, going cheap. Boots might last ten years, at best, but knowledge was eternal.

It was Mrs. Jones who'd sent him down to carry the stranger's bag, though why a servant should start off by being treated like a lady, Daffy couldn't tell; if she hadn't the strength to hoist her own baggage she wouldn't be much use in the tall skinny house on Inch Lane. Nor had anyone informed him why there was suddenly to be a new maid in a family where none had been needed, a fortnight back.

Scraps of meat and paper were frozen to the cobbles. Peddlers were drifting in, bent under their loads. There were cages of old goats and six-week kids, and the fishmongers who came every Friday to sell salmon to the Papists were setting up their stalls already. 'Market Square,' he said over his shoulder, without stopping.

'This?' Mary Saunders's voice was deep and hoarse.

'Aye.'

'It's not a square,' she protested, 'it's a crude sort of diamond.'

Daffy turned to stare at her. Did London folk all talk in such a croak? Her dark hair was pulled back under a cap and her creased kerchief was tucked up to her neck, as tight as a noose. She had the look of a prude about her, except for that gash of a red mouth. 'It's only a name,' he said coolly.

'Also, I was wondering,' she called after him, 'why is the water so brown?'

'It's from the coal pits,' Daffy told her; 'they stain the streams. But it won't do you a tittle of harm.'

She looked as if she doubted that very much; as if there were poison creeping through her veins already.

Daffy hurried on down Grinder Street. He was mightily tempted to carry on to the Quays, duck between the piles of sacking and the wine barrels, and lose her there. Instead he turned down between the narrow walls of Inch Lane and stopped under the blackened sign that said Thos. Jones, Master Staymaker Thos. Jones, Master Staymaker on one side, and on one side, and Mrs. Jones, Purveyor of Fine Clothes to the Quality Mrs. Jones, Purveyor of Fine Clothes to the Quality on the other. The Roman letters were splendid, if he said so himself; he'd copied them out of on the other. The Roman letters were splendid, if he said so himself; he'd copied them out of The Signmaker's Sampler The Signmaker's Sampler-borrowed from a painter friend down Chepstow way-and burnt them on with a poker.

The girl's lips were pursed as she stared up at the sign.