“Why, ’tis Crickhowell. I thought you might like to ride up to Cwmdu and call on your mother.”
She turns to him, eyes wide with delight, a smile transforming her face. She nods keenly.
“Well, there we are then. Only one night, mind. Can’t afford more. The grazing’s a bit costly in that area, see? Right, then we continue west, oh … we’re onto the next map now.” He folds up the first one and opens another. “Not that I’ll be taking these with me.” He gives a short laugh. “I should know my way by now. Might be my first drove as porthmon, but I’ve been on plenty, man and boy. Not likely to get lost!” He straightens up, looking at her again, and says, “I think you’ll make a fine drover yourself, Mrs. Jenkins. For a woman, that is.”
Morgana punches him playfully on the shoulder.
“Course, there are those as say ’tis bad luck to employ a woman. Oh, they’re happy enough for them to follow behind on foot, knitting stockings to sell, earning a few pennies weeding along the way. But working the herd…” He shakes his head. “There will be one or two will complain, no doubt. You just leave them to me. This is my drove, and I’ll decide who works it. You’ll be paid a drover’s wage, same as the others.” He hesitates, then adds, “There’s no one could manage those ponies better than you. That’s the truth of it.”
She meets his gaze. This is not something she is embarrassed to hear.
From the hearthside comes the low rumbling of Mrs. Jones’s snore. Bracken stretches out on the cool flagstones at her feet. It has been a tiring day for all of them, but a satisfying one. A successful one. A good one. Cai feels they have taken an important step, he and his strange little wife. A step into their new lives together. He bites his bottom lip, contemplating what to do next, uncertain.
At last he folds up the maps, quickly putting them away.
“Wait there,” he says. “I’ve something for you.” He leaves the kitchen, running up the stairs to his bedroom and returning two minutes later. He stands in front of Morgana awkwardly, shuffling his feet, a small parcel in his hands.
“I want you to have this,” he says, not yet giving her the paper-wrapped object. “I meant to give it to you a long time ago. Well … on our wedding day, in fact. ’Tis traditional you should have one, and I know we did not have a proper courtship. It has bothered me, sometimes. You’ve been … very fair … about that. Here.” At last he all but shoves it into her hands.
Morgana unwinds the wrapping and finds inside a small, carefully carved lovespoon. The wood is dark and smooth, the bowl of the little spoon worked into a shallow dip the size of her thumbprint. The handle is of a barley sugar twist, beautifully carved. The end of the handle is fashioned into a curious hollow block which rattles when she shakes it. There is a fine leather thong threaded through the handle so that the spoon can be worn around the neck.
Seeing her confusion Cai finds it necessary to explain further, chattering on, nervous about what her reaction to the gift will be.
“I made it for you while we were engaged, but had not the opportunity to give it to you before our marriage. And then, on the day, well, the moment did not seem quite right.… And since … As I said, ’tis a tradition, a token of my … affection, if you like.”
Morgana turns the spoon over and over in her hands, letting her fingers glide over its polished surface, examining every detail. Her mouth is a little open, her cheeks a tad flushed, but he cannot quite gauge her response.
“There is something else about it. See, here.” He takes it and surprises her by putting it to his mouth. He blows into the top of it and produces a clear, loud note. Morgana gasps. He does it again. “It’s a whistle, see? I added this bit after … well, I added it later. I thought you mind find it useful, on the drove. If you need to call me, to signal, I don’t know, something about the herd, or if you are in trouble, or … Here, you try.” He passes it back to her.
Morgana takes the spoon as if it might bite her and stares at it.
“Go on,” says Cai. “Give it a go.”
Slowly she lifts it to her lips. Her first attempt is so tentative that the whistle makes only a breathy gasp.
“Go on, my wild one, put some effort into it!” Cai teases.
Morgana takes a deep breath and blows, this time producing a shrill blast that surprises her so much she drops the spoon. Mrs. Jones wakes shrieking from her slumbers.
“Duw! What in the Lord’s name was that? Heaven protect us, Mr. Jenkins, I swear I heard the last trumpet sounding!” she cries, her hands clutching at her racing heart. Bracken leaps and barks around the room. Morgana stands as if turned to stone. Cai bends down, picks up the spoon, and hands it back to her.
“Well, will you wear it, Morgana? For me?”
By way of answer she snatches the gift from him and throws her arms about his neck, hugging him tightly.
Cai laughs and twirls her around and around, holding her close, luxuriating in the feel of her body against his, and the knowledge that she has accepted the gift gladly, understanding the caring that lay behind its invention.
“Well, well,” says Mrs. Jones, barely recovered. “A person shuts their eyes for five minutes and when they wake up the world has gone mad!”
Eventually, above the noise and gaiety in the room comes the sound of a carriage approaching. Cai lets go of Morgana and steps over to the window.
“Isolda,” he says simply, feeling his shoulders droop. He knows it is an uncharitable thought, but he does not welcome her arrival, and would give a fair amount for this moment, this mood, with Morgana to be left uninterrupted by the formality of entertaining a visitor. What is more her arrival forces him to turn his mind to the matter of her offer of money. His visit to the bank a few days earlier had been both humiliating and fruitless. His options are few. It is becoming obvious to him that he has little choice but to take the loan from Isolda. The thought fills him with unease.
Even so, he goes to the front door to welcome her, Morgana following him with the dark expression she seems to reserve solely for Isolda Bowen.
Outside, the driver helps his mistress from the carriage, and now Cai sees that Isolda’s black thoroughbred is tied to the rear of it.
“Cai, Morgana, please forgive the intrusion at such an hour. I had planned to call earlier in the day but had business to attend to which delayed me.” She strides to the horse, unhitches it, and leads it forward. “Now, I know you will protest, but I shall hear no argument from you, Mr. Jenkins. I want you to take Angel so that you are suitably mounted for the drove.” She holds up a hand to stave off his response. “No! Do not deny me the chance to do this small thing by way of thank you for all the kindnesses you have shown me over the years. You cannot pretend that your old cob, dear as I’m sure she is to you, is up to the work. Angel is fit and strong and I am certain he will go excellently well for you.”
Cai glances at Morgana and is a little cast down to see open loathing on her face now. Why does she hate the woman so? He still cannot find a satisfactory answer to this question. He looks at the magnificent horse before him, with its sleek black coat, its strong, lithe limbs, its powerful chest and noble head. It would, indeed, be an asset to him.
“’Tis true, Honey is a little beyond her best years…” he says.
“Then you’ll take him? Marvelous!” Isolda declares, flinging the reins at him and clapping her hands in delight.
Angel whirls about and whinnies, seeming to sense he has been passed from his mistress’s care.
“Hush now, bach.” Cai soothes the anxious animal. He turns to Morgana, about to encourage her to come forward and inspect the wonderful horse, but her expression stops the words in his mouth. It is as if the closeness between them that had felt so enduring only moments ago has been broken somehow by Isolda’s brief presence. Morgana folds her arms across her chest, swings around, and marches back into the house. He sighs and turns back to Isolda, but before he can form an apology or excuse for his wife’s behavior she puts her hand gently on his
arm.
“Do not concern yourself, I am not offended. Morgana is your wife, she is young, she has not yet learned to mask her feelings. I am pleased, in fact, to have the opportunity to speak with you alone.”
Cai knows what is coming. He finds himself looking at the horse, minutely adjusting its bridle, in an attempt to cover his own awkwardness.
“I had planned to call on you,” he confesses.
“Ah, then you have reached a decision about my offer of a loan?”
“I have.”
Isolda waits, eyebrows raised. Cai clears his throat, the words catching as he speaks, as if deep down he is fighting against what he knows he must do.
“I would be most grateful…” he begins, “that is, it would be of great assistance to me…” At last he faces her. “If your offer still stands, I would like to accept.” Seeing how pleased she is he hurries to explain himself, so that she be in no doubt about how he has come to allow himself to accept her help. “I approached Evans the Bank,” he rushes on, “I put my case to him. He knows I’m good for the money, but still he would not take the risk, he said. What risk, I wanted to know. How was my proposition anything other than sound business? Any man, any farmer, can suffer a loss, a misfortune. That does not, surely, render all his future enterprises risks.”
“It doesn’t matter. Mr. Evans was shortsighted. I know you will make a fine porthmon. I have every confidence in you, Cai. I have always believed in you.”
“It will mean the difference between success and ruin, nothing less. But your money will be safely returned to you, with fair interest, I promise you that.”
“I do not doubt it.”
Cai nods and feels the tension go out of his shoulders. Perhaps he need not have worried. Perhaps, after all, Isolda is merely being both neighborly and business-minded and nothing more is expected of him than to honor the debt.
10.
Cai holds the reins of Prince’s harness lightly, letting the little pony steer the trap himself as they make brisk progress along the lane toward Tregaron. Despite their haste, he knows they will arrive late. Morgana sits beside him, her cape covering Catrin’s best evening gown, her hair, tamed for once by Mrs. Jones and a deal of effort, covered by the deep velvet hood which falls low over her brow, so that when Cai glances across at her he cannot see her eyes, cannot read her expression. Neither of them is looking forward with pleasure to the evening ahead. The prospect of dining at Isolda’s house in the company of the Cadwaladrs brought on a burst of temper from Morgana when he insisted they both attend. It was only when he took her hand in his, kissed it gently, and asked her softly to go with him that she sweetened and agreed to do so. In truth, he would far rather be spending the evening in front of his own fire, but he knows he is bound to attend. Already he feels the obligation of accepting the loan from Isolda beginning to chafe. How many polite dinners will he be required to endure, he wonders. How many times must he answer when she calls? He promises himself the minute the drove is complete and the money is in his possession he will pay her what is due. Pay her and be out of her debt.
When they arrive at Isolda’s house a stable boy springs forward and takes hold of the pony. Cai helps Morgana down, his hands on her slender waist. Her hood falls back as she jumps from the seat of the trap and for a moment he is captivated by the sight of her. Her hair is pinned high on her head, her complexion a little flushed from the speed of their journey. The dark red silk suits her well and, thanks again to Mrs. Jones’s expertise, shows off her trim, girlish figure to best effect. He wants to pull her close. To kiss her. To reassure her. But here, away from the sanctuary of Ffynnon Las, exposed to other eyes, he feels inhibited. How will she fare spending a formal evening in such company? He is conscious of his own nervousness about how she might behave. He has been so at ease with her at home; they have grown close, especially now that the previously unspoken matter of her curious talents is no longer a barrier between them. Now they are honest and open with each other. At least, that is how he wishes to be. He has not yet found the moment to tell her about the money he has accepted from Isolda. When he announced he was going to Carmarthen to purchase more cattle to take on the drove she and Mrs. Jones assumed the bank had agreed a loan. He knew this, and he allowed them to believe it, so that now an untruth exists between them, and he is sorry for it. He must put it right. He knows Morgana dislikes Isolda, and is certain she will disapprove of him taking her money, but business is business. He has done what he believes is best. He will look for the right time to tell her the truth, and will be relieved when he no longer has to swallow down the lie.
Isolda greets them in the hallway.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins,” she purrs, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you both here.” She offers her hand to Cai, but for once her attention is taken by Morgana. Cai experiences a rush of pride at her reaction to his wife. “Why, Morgana,” she says, “what a transformation. That gown is perfect for you. I always thought the color a little overpowering for Catrin.” She smiles broadly as she leads them to the dining room. “Come, we were on the point of going to table when you arrived.”
“I am sorry not to be punctual,” Cai says, hoping he won’t have to provide an excuse. He does not wish to recall the cajoling necessary to compel Morgana from the house.
“There is nothing to apologize for.” Isolda moves closer to him and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial level. “We should happily have waited, but Mrs. Cadwaladr declared herself faint and it was suggested she might be in need of something to eat, unlikely as that may seem.”
Cai is uncomfortable to be sharing a joke at the expense of his neighbor, and would rather not have Isolda loop her arm through his. But she is their hostess, this is her house, and he is determined the evening will go without mishap. He pauses to take Morgana’s hand and give her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.
The long dining table has been impressively set with the finest silver, china, and cut glass. Four elegant candelabras hold tall, tapering candles down the center, between abundant arrangements of roses and orange blossom. Dozens of additional candles and sprays of delicate ferns decorate the room. New curtains of shimmering Chinese silk, the cost of which would be beyond the purse of anyone else Cai knows, gleam at the darkening windows. A fire glows in the expansive hearth. The whole effect is opulent and extravagant. Amidst it all sits Mrs. Cadwaladr, whose best efforts at sophistication have not come off well. Reverend Cadwaladr rises to his feet. His face is even ruddier than usual, a fact Cai attributes to the glossy claret in his glass.
“Our Ffynnon Las friends have arrived.” Isolda signals to the servants to fetch the first course.
Cai notices immediately that Morgana stiffens at the sight of Reverend Cadwaladr. He takes her hand and leads her to her chair as greetings are exchanged. He is surprised to find that the reverend, for his part, barely acknowledges Morgana’s presence. He supposes the preacher might share his own nervousness at his wife’s unpredictable nature. After all, on each occasion the reverend has encountered her at chapel there has been some manner of scene or upset. As Morgana takes her seat Cai has the wearying feeling that the evening will be a long one.
As if to compensate for his reserve toward Morgana, Reverend Cadwaladr’s manner toward Cai is effusive. “Mr. Jenkins, a pleasure indeed to have the opportunity to dine with you before the drove,” he says. “Mrs. Cadwaladr and I wish you the very best in your endeavor, naturally. As do all in Tregaron. A great deal rests with you, young man. Your first drove as porthmon, and the hopes and livelihoods of many hereabouts in your hands.…’Tis a burdensome responsibility, is it not?”
“I try not to see it as such,” Cai tells him. “I prefer to put my attention to the practical matter of the drove itself. I must not allow myself to be distracted from the task at hand.”
“Ah!” Mrs. Cadwaladr leaves off plucking grapes from the silver platter beside her to express her concern, “but I hear that your wife is to accompany you on the drove
. Will that not, in itself, be a distraction, Mr. Jenkins?”
“I value Morgana’s support. And she is a capable horsewoman. I know of no other who could manage the ponies as well.”
Mrs. Cadwaladr shakes her head. “But is it seemly? Your own wife, the mistress of Ffynnon Las … I mean to say … working as a drover…” She leaves the thought unfinished, her expression clearly showing how distasteful she finds the idea.
Cai glances at Morgana and can see that she is already tiring of being discussed as if she were not present. She frowns at him darkly.
Isolda is quick to support Cai. “I’m sure Mr. Jenkins has given the matter considerable thought,” she says. “It is not for us to tell him how to organize his drove. Nor his marriage.”
There is something mocking in the way she says this, but there is nothing in her words at which to take offense. Nonetheless, Cai senses a needling, a lurking criticism which only increases his discomfort. He has little time to dwell on her tone, however, as the reverend has chosen another subject to voice his opinion on, with his customary volume and lack of tact.
“I hear you have acquired some fine new cattle to replace the ones lost. I am told they look very well indeed and stand to make you a fair profit. How fortunate you are, Mr. Jenkins, to have found such a kind benefactor in Mrs. Bowen.”
Cai can feel Morgana’s gaze burning into him. How could Isolda have spoken to Cadwaladr of what he understood to be a private arrangement? He is too shocked to be angry.
“Oh,” Isolda laughs lightly, “I would hardly call myself a benefactor, Reverend. My loan to Mr. Jenkins was merely a neighborly gesture, and sound business sense. I have every confidence I will receive a good return on my investment.”
Cai forces himself to respond, though he can feel himself coloring beneath Morgana’s scrutiny. This is not how he would have had his arrangement with Isolda revealed, but it is too late now.
“I am, of course, extremely grateful for Mrs. Bowen’s generosity,” he says as levelly as he is able. “I will indeed see to it that her faith in me proves justified.”
The Winter Witch Page 17