What About Cecelia? (17 page)

“Yes, it was scary. That boat is so small and
the wind was so strong.”

“Well Miss, I wish we had some of that wind now.
It's too weak for the ferry to cross the Severn. That 'small' boat
is too big to scull across the channel. You'll miss the stage in
Chepstow unless the winds pick up soon. If we miss the tide, it
will be even later.”

Cecelia shrugged, as long as Captain Wood wasn't
following her, and there was no reason for her to believe he was,
time didn't matter. Swansea and her aunt would still be there
tomorrow or the day after. The ferry captain continued, “Miss,
after you went to the inn, this young man came through. He was in a
dreadful hurry, he was. Said he was looking for a Miss Wood. You
wouldn't know her by any chance?”

She paled and shook. Then she blurted out, “Miss
Wood? No I don't know her. Not at all. No one of that name, and
definitely not me.”

“No matter, Miss. It's not my business. Just he
said, that if I was to hear of her, I should send him a message at
Penyclawdd. You wouldn't know anything about this perchance?”

“No, no, nothing to do with me. I'm a Miss
Arnold. Miss Jane Arnold. Never heard of a Miss Cecelia Wood.”

The ferryman smiled at her. He hadn't mentioned
Miss Wood's first name, “If you say so Miss Arnold. You know that
young Captain was a handsome looking devil. Make some woman very
happy when he marries her.”

“A captain was he? I wouldn't know any military
men.”

“In any road, Miss Arnold, we'll call at the inn
when the wind is strong enough for us to cross.”

“Do you mind if I wait here? That inn was so
noisy this morning and it is so peaceful watching the river.”

An hour later as the sun warmed the inlands a
stiff breeze came up the Severn. The ferry was quickly full of
passengers and cargo, including 'Miss Arnold'. Cecelia watched
anxiously as the boat scudded across the channel. Much to her
surprise, she found sailing on a broad reach
^vi
in a steady wind to be an
exhilarating ride. It wasn't until the boat was almost docked in
Beachly that she had an unpleasant surprise.

The ferry captain came over to her and said,
“Miss Wood?”

She answered, “Yes, what is it?”

“I thought that might be your real name.”

“No it's not, I'm Jane Arnold.”

“If you say so, but next time you take a false
name 'Miss Arnold', make sure you don't answer to your real
one.”

“I tell you I'm Miss Arnold.”

“Right. It doesn't matter to me what you want to
call yourself, Miss Wood. I'm going to escort you to the Anchor.
There is, or was, a man who was looking for you there. I hope he's
still there for both your sakes.”

“Please no. Please.”

“I'm sorry, but you're a young woman without an
escort. You're not even 21 are you?”

“I'm almost 19.”

“Last time I counted that high, almost 19 was
less than 21. Miss Wood, it's my duty to see you are properly
turned over to an adult relative, if I can. Failing that I'll see
you're looked after on the stage.”

The ferry captain asked one of his crew to carry
Miss Wood's bag and the three of them set off to cover the short
distance to the Anchor. Cecelia felt her heart race and her face
flush as they approached it. It felt as if she were on the tumbrel
approaching Tyburn field. When they arrived at the Anchor, they
found that Captain Wood had left early in the morning in a great
hurry. To her very great surprise, she felt disappointment instead
of relief.

“Miss, you can catch the stage from here to
Swansea, if that is where you are bound.”

“It is, my aunt lives there. Don't worry about
her being respectable, her husband is in the clergy, a vicar.” The
ferry captain waited a few minutes while Cecelia arranged for her
place on the stage. Then he asked the landlord to make sure she was
aboard it when it left.

After a slow and tedious journey, with several
changes of horses and innumerable stops for passengers or parcels,
the stage finally arrived in Swansea. It pulled up in front of the
White Swan. Cecelia, like the other passengers, got out, retrieved
her luggage and set about her business. Cecelia wondered aloud how
she would ever find her aunt in this big city. Then she realized,
that she didn't need to find her aunt, her uncle would do just as
well. Surely the local clergy knew each other, if not personally,
at least by reputation. St. Mary's church was not far from the
White Swan so she went in search of a vicar or curate.

It did not take her long to find one. Mr.
Andrews, a young and impressionable curate, met her as she was
poking around the church.

“Miss, how can I help you?”

“I'm Miss Wood. Miss Cecelia Wood. My uncle is
Reverend Thomas Hopwell.”

“Yes, I'm pleased for you. So what do you want
me to do about it?”

“I just arrived from Bath. I was supposed to
meet my aunt in town, but we seem to have missed each other.”

“Ah, I see. That could be a problem.”

“So I was wondering if you knew where his parish
is.” Mr. Andrews wasn't sure. “I don't know, but I'm sure my vicar
does. If you'd walk with me.” He led the way into the vicarage and
explained Miss Wood's dilemma to his superior. Cecelia smiled
sweetly as she told the Vicar the same fallacious story she used
with the Curate. Namely, that she missed connecting with her aunt
in Swansea. After some thought, the Vicar answered, “St. Fili's.
It's in Rhossili. It's on the far end of the Gower. Fifteen miles
away.”

“Then I'd best get going, I knew I might have a
bit of a walk. What's fifteen miles?”

“Miss Wood, I can't let you do that.” Mr.
Andrews asked his vicar for permission to visit a fellow member of
the cloth. His vicar ambled over and inspected Miss Wood. She
passed his inspection as a nice, quiet, modest girl, the kind that
might be an ornament to the cloth of a young clergyman. In addition
to her clearly elegant demeanor, she was a vicar's niece. This
might make her a fitting partner for a young priest like Mr.
Andrews, who was clearly destined for high rank in the church.

Two hours later a gig pulled up in front of the
vicarage in Rhossili. The tall heather covered Rhossili down
towered over the small whitewashed stone building nestled on a wide
ledge below it. The vicarage overlooked the grand sweep of Rhossili
bay out to the west. Mr. Andrews told his guest, “This isn't the
richest parish in Glamorgan, but I can see why your uncle likes
it.”

“It is beautiful. So desolate. So romantic.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Mr. Andrews, can I trust you?”

“Absolutely, what is it?”

“I'm being pursued by this man, a Captain Wood,
Captain Ge-,” here she gave a gulp, then continued, “Captain George
Wood. If he should find you please do not let him know where I
am.”

Since Miss Wood was a beautiful young woman, and
Mr. Andrews was an unattached and unsophisticated young man with
aims of his own, this was not a difficult promise for him to make.
“Of course. I promise that Captain Wood will never hear where you
live from me.”

“Thank you.”

Cecelia hopped down from the gig and ran to the
door. She gave it a quick knock, and burst in immediately
afterwards shouting, “Aunt Hopwell, Uncle, I'm here!”

“What! Who?”

“Don't you recognize me, I'm your niece,
Cecelia?”

Her aunt slowly rose from where she was sitting
and coaching her eldest boy in his reading. “Cecelia? Cecelia Wood?
What in the world are you doing here?”

“Aren't you glad to see me?”

“Yes, but I thought you'd send a letter
first.”

“Why? Did you expect I'd be arriving with a
husband in tow?”

“I don't know, but Rhossili, as much as I love
it is an isolated place.”

“I'm here. You knew I was coming once my father
died with Penyclawdd entailed away from me.”

“Yes, but Cecelia, what are we going to do with
you?”

There was a calmer knock on the door. It was Mr.
Andrews. “Mrs. Hopwell, might I stable my horse here? Thirty miles
is a bit long for it without a rest and a thorough rub-down.”

“Oh, I don't know what I'm doing. Go ask Mr.
Hopwell. He's in one of the barns.” Mr. Andrews left to seek out
his fellow clergyman and see to his horse's wants.

Dinner at the vicar's was a hectic affair, much
more like the informal dinner's at Penyclawdd than the elegance she
had grown used to in Bath. In Bath and with the Somersets the
dinners were elegant and structured dinners. The vicar's extended
household did not run to many servants. The presence of several
small children at the table ensured that the meal was lively, if
disorganized.

After dinner Cecelia's aunt did the unusual step
of calling Cecelia and the children away from the dining table to
the parlor. This left the vicar and Mr. Andrews alone to discuss
church matters over port. It was not long before the two men
rejoined them. Mr. Andrews begged his leave, “There is a fine moon
tonight, so I should return to my duties at St. Mary's”

Cecelia curtsied to him, and replied, “I cannot
thank you enough for your help. Please remember what I said.”

“I will.” He then turned to Mrs Hopwell and her
husband and asked, “With your permission, I'd like to visit again
sometime. Our theological discussions were most interesting, and
did my duties tomorrow morning not require me to return I would
like to pursue them further.”

“Please do. It's always pleasant to talk with
another member of the clergy.” Mr. Hopwell showed Mr. Andrews to
the stable and helped him hitch up his gig. While they were gone,
Cecelia's Aunt turned to her and asked, “What did you tell Mr.
Andrews?”

“Nothing.” She avoided her aunt's eyes.

“Nothing? Answer me truthfully.”

“I warned him that a Captain Wood might come
looking for me and asked him to keep my whereabouts private.”

“Cecelia, that smacks of deception. Why?”

Cecelia started to cry, and tried to answer
through her tears, “I, I can't face him. Not after I destroyed his.
I'm a home-wrecker.” Then she gave up into tears. All her aunt
could do was to comfort her and try to reassure her that it would
be fine in the end.

The next morning was bright. Cecelia rose early
and walked to the top of Rhossili down. She could see from the
morning smoke of Swansea around to the sweep of the southern Welsh
coast by Kiddwelly. Directly south, the tip of Worms head snaked
its way into the Atlantic Ocean at the mouth of the Bristol
Channel.

She told the seabirds that wheeled over the
broad breadth of Rhossili beach below, “This is almost as romantic
and beautiful as Hatterrall hill. I could just stay here and enjoy
it forever.” She missed her book of poetry, left in Bath to be
returned to the circulating library. This would be the perfect
place to sit and read Byron.

A chilly wind from the sea swept over the down,
and brought Cecelia's musings to an end. Chilled and hungry, she
returned to the vicarage to break her fast. “Oh Aunt,” she gushed,
“I was up on the down this morning and it is so beautiful here. I
could just stay and read poetry forever.”

Her uncle pointed out, “It's not so beautiful in
a winter storm. Cold, soaking wet and your book would soon be blown
away.”

“Still, it is lovely.”

Prosaic as ever, her aunt injected, “Yes it is.
Dear Cecelia, after breakfast would you escort the children to the
parish school.” Her son started to object, “I can go myself. I
always do.”

“I know, but I'd like your cousin to get to know
her way about, and this is a good chance for her to start. Besides,
from what your late Uncle Wood said in his last letter, she's a dab
hand at games and racing. So you should enjoy her company on the
walk.”

At the end of breakfast, the vicar Thomas
Hopwell, called his wife Martha into his study to discuss some
'matters of spiritual import'. Cecelia gave them a worried look,
but her aunt reminded her to look after the children and see they
made it to the village school. No one seemed to think that it was
in any way unusual for her aunt to have a discussion over
'spiritual matters' with her husband so she relaxed.

Closing the door behind her, Martha asked her
husband, “What matter of spiritual import? Are the dissenters
setting up a new chapel in your parish again?”

“No. What are we going to do about Cecelia? Nice
enough girl, and I know she can be a good hand around our farm, but
she cannot stay here forever.”

“I know.”

“Did you ask her why she came here from Bath?
What was all the hurry and why wasn't she escorted properly?”

“I tried and she broke into a flood of tears.
Something about being in love with a Captain who is engaged to
someone else, and being a home-wrecker. I couldn't understand what
she was saying.”

“She reads too many novels. It's made her
imagination much too fanciful.” He lowered his voice, “Is she
intact?”

“I'd think so. She's been managing the farm at
Penyclawdd for the last couple of years. Knows what that's about
when it comes to the details of breeding.”

“Good, so we can work on finding her a husband.
Wonder if any of the Talbot boys are interested? I'd rather one of
them than that curate.”

“You may leave the match-making to me,
Thomas.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Now, what about finances?” With a growing
family and the parish worth only £102.15.0 per annum, money was
never far from either the vicar's or his wifes' minds.

“Doesn't she have some portion due her from her
poor mother?”

“Probably, my brother Giles wasn't profligate,
so I'm sure she has something.”

“Why don't you take her into Swansea today and
start with the arrangements to get it sent here. Even if it's only
a few pounds, it will make a big difference.”

“I was also wondering if she could be an asset
with the farm. Do you think she'd be willing to help with the
stock?” One way the vicar, like many of his
colleagues
^vii
, made
ends meet was to run a small farm as well as perform his calling.
It supplied that much needed extra bit of blunt that came in so
helpful from time to time. In addition, it helped him stay closer
to his flock who were mostly farmers or farm-workers.