Daughters of Rebecca by Iris Gower Page A

pottery. You do realize that we are not the biggest potters in the vicinity? Next door to us is the largest, most productive pottery in all of Swansea. Have you been to see the owners there?’
    â€˜I have indeed,’ Dafydd Buchan smiled, ‘but in my humble opinion the Mainwaring pottery is by far the most artistic and innovative.’ His tone belied his words. There was nothing humble about Dafydd Buchan.
    Llinos raised her eyebrows, thinking that the honeyed words were just so much flattery. ‘Watt, perhaps you’ll show Mr Buchan our methods.’
    â€˜Yes, of course.’ Watt got to his feet. ‘If you’llcome this way, Mr Buchan, I’ll be happy to give you a tour.’
    â€˜And in return,’ Llinos said, ‘I hope I might be allowed to look around your pottery in Llanelli some time.’
    â€˜It would be my greatest pleasure to see you there.’ Dafydd Buchan took her hand, bending towards her, his eyes on hers.
    She stepped back unconsciously and took a deep breath. ‘Right, then, I have work to do. I will speak to you later, Watt.’
    Llinos followed the men to the hallway, her heart beating absurdly fast. As the maid opened the front door Shanni swept into the house bringing the chill of the wind with her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. She stopped abruptly, almost cannoning into Dafydd Buchan.
    â€˜This is my impetuous ward, Shanni.’ There was a smile in Llinos’s voice: Shanni seemed as struck as she was by Dafydd’s magnetism. ‘Shanni, this is Mr Buchan. He’s come to see how our pottery works.’
    â€˜Oh, good day, sir,’ Shanni blinked rapidly. ‘It’s nice to meet you again.’ She stood in the hall twisting her fingers together, and Llinos sensed that Shanni was discomfited by the presence of the visitor.
    â€˜I’m happy to see you, too, Shanni. I hope you’ve been practising your music.’ He was smiling as he walked away, standing a head taller than Watt. Shanni stared after him, her mouth open.
    â€˜You’ve met Mr Buchan before?’ Llinos asked, as she led Shanni into the drawing room.
    â€˜I think I might have met him at Madame Isabelle’s little tea party.’ She spoke hesitantly, as if wondering at the wisdom of her words.
    Llinos’s curiosity was aroused: if Madame Isabelle was inviting a known troublemaker to her home perhaps she was not a good tutor for Shanni after all. She watched from the window as Watt led Dafydd Buchan across the yard and into the first of the painting sheds.
    â€˜Strange man, Mr Buchan,’ Llinos said. ‘He’s very full of himself. Tell me all about him, Shanni. How does he know Isabelle?’
    Shanni shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They live in the same area and I suppose that’s how they know each other. Apparently he’s a wonderful orator.’
    Llinos was surprised. A short time ago Shanni would not have known the word ‘orator’, let alone understood its meaning. ‘Go on.’
    â€˜He cares about poor folk. He wants social justice, a more equal society. That is what we all should be striving for.’
    â€˜Is that your opinion, or the opinion of this Dafydd Buchan?’
    â€˜It’s wrong what is happening to people who are just trying to make an honest living for themselves,’ Shanni said. ‘The farmers can’t earn enough to pay all the tolls demanded of them. It’s no wonder there’s discontent in the world.’
    Shanni was saying almost the same words as Watt had spoken earlier. Was she getting too insulated in her own comfortable home, Llinos wondered, too wrapped in her own bitter memories of the past? Was she out of touch with the people?
    â€˜I shall have to come with you to one of Madame’s
soirées
,’ Llinos said. Anger was building inside her: everyone was treating her as if she was against justice for the poor. That simply was not