Seacliff

by Andrews, Felicia

  Whenever they approached a cluster of homes it seemed to be a signal for work and play to halt. Young children lined the road laughing and whistling, their round faces ruddy, their traditional dark clothes billowing behind them in the wind. Older men fresh from the mines that scarred the slopes glanced up at the commotion, coal dust streaking their pallid foreheads and cheeks. They doffed floppy wool caps when they realized the status of the travelers. Women curtsied halfheartedly; their hair was bound in scarves and their skirts were hidden behind aprons. The Welsh emphasis on education was marked by the large numbers of schoolhouses set on well-kept plots of their own. The steeples of a number of churches loomed above each community like sentinels, the largest of them buttressed and towered and forbidding.

  There were ruins of ancient castles, of fortresses, of Roman baths, overgrown now, reclaimed by the land.

  Caitlin sighed loudly and laid a heavy hand on the brass latch. The coach was large and richly appointed, bearing Morgan’s crest on each of the doors. On the driver’s bench, Davy was dressed in scarlet and black livery, his neck chafed by a stiff, high collar. His tricorne had settled near the back of his head, and from it waved a thick white plume, blown about by the wind. She glanced up at him, caught his gaze, and smiled wanly.

  He nodded once toward the mountains. “By sunset, mistress, if I reckon it right.”

  “I know,” she said, and sighed again. Her stomach lurched lightly, and she pursed her lips against a faint taste of bile. She’d eaten quickly in order to get the household moving again, but Oliver had insisted on changing his clothes in a place where he was assured of some small comfort. The inn was not large, but at least, he said, it was far better than changing under some fool tree or other.

  She wore dark brown, as she had since they’d left Eton.

  “It be fine, mistress,” Davy said then, quietly. “He’d want you to feel right about comin’ home again. He really would. I know that for a fact.”

  She started, amazed that Davy had divined her conflict so readily—and dismayed that it showed so openly in her face. But she made no response because she did not trust her voice. On the one hand, her mourning was still deep, still churning in her breast. Yet she had also realized by the second day away from Eton that she’d already reconciled herself to his passing. Not that the shock of knowledge had lessened, nor was the guilt she felt at not being with him when he died any weaker; but her grief was now tempered by the sure understanding that he was, after all these years of waiting, at last with her mother, the only woman he’d ever wanted or loved.

  So, then, her excitement was unbidden but muted. Once they’d crossed into Wales and had made their way northwest toward Cardigan Bay on the west coast, she’d felt an electric thrill that prompted her to shift from one window to the other. Like a child would point at a flock of thin-coated sheep or at an arm of forestland stretching down a hillside and cry “Look!” Every tiny house, every stone-embedded road set her heart to racing in spite of herself. Her eyes sparkled with sad and joyous tears. It was as if she’d been gone for a dozen years and returned to discover something new, something more grand than she had noticed before.

  Then a glance would catch at the black arm band on her dress and she would turn sober, sit back, and fall into gentle memory.

  But the closer they came to Seacliff, the more somber she grew; and that morning she’d awakened in a nervous, short-tempered mood. Gwen was of no help. She traveled in the more Spartan coach with Bradford and Mary behind theirs. They’d barely passed a dozen words over the past two days, and though on her own part Caitlin put it down to mourning, she knew something else was bothering the woman.

  “Sunset,” Davy said, his voice rising in pitch. Then he took off his hat and wiped a sleeve over his brow. “Before, maybe.” He sniffed, and clucked patience to the team of blacks he was handling. “Mistress?”

  She looked up, blinking.

  “It’s not your doin’, y’know.” He looked pained, as if he had no right to say what he wanted to say. He drew in a sudden deep breath, and seemed to change his mind. “Was Bradford’s fault fer not givin’ you the letter, that’s what it was. ’Sides, the master didn’t hold fer buryin’ anyway. He says t’ me once, ‘Davy me lad, outta the house and into the churchyard where I can be with the Missus. Don’t you dare let that girl of mine make a pageant of my goin’.’ I …” He stopped abruptly and looked away, clucking again at the horses, which were already in their traces and anxious to be moving.

  After a long moment Caitlin said, “I know, Davy. But still …” It was hard. Not being by his side when he died, and not being there for the funeral. She knew Davy was right about what her father had wanted, but she could not help thinking that her absence would drive another wedge between herself and her people. It was one thing for Oliver to keep her away for most of each year; it was quite another for her to miss the passing of her own father. Though word of Bradford’s error would soon spread among the villagers, she knew they’d have their own thoughts about why she’d not come.

  Nevertheless, she was grateful for Davy’s attempts to comfort her. Now if only Oliver would finish his dressing so they— “Cor,” Davy muttered then, “will you look at that, now.” She turned quickly, just as the front door of the inn opened, and Oliver stepped out.

  He was wearing a scarlet-jacketed uniform embroidered with gold thread. A triple row of silver buttons marched steadfastly down his chest to the cutaway waist. Behind him the material stiffened and flared, and was edged with white and silver piping that trapped the fleeting sunlight and threw it back in lances. His white wig was perfectly curled, and over it he wore a wide-brimmed black felt hat adorned with a ruby-studded band and a massive black plume. His black boots were mirror-polished, their gold buckles almost too large to hold in one hand. There was no question but that he cut a dashing, even imposing figure. Despite her annoyance, Caitlin could not disguise a soft smile as the innkeeper’s children followed him silently, awed by his impressive presence.

  When he reached her he stopped and bowed slightly. “Are you ready, madam?”

  “I am,” she said. “You’re making me seem rather plain, I’m afraid.”

  He preened, barely raising a hand. “The best way I could devise to pay tribute to your father. And there is nothing here that could throw a shadow on your loveliness.” He glanced around the yard, ignoring the children and the innkeeper at the door. “However, I think it best we begin the last leg, my dear. I’m sure the household is waiting for us.”

  He opened the coach door for her, and gestured impatiently to Davy to remain where he was while he unfolded the steps himself.

  Caitlin, however, suddenly balked and shook her head. “My dear?”

  “Oliver, I can’t. I … I can’t stay inside there one more minute.” Ashamed, she lowered her eyes and sighed. “I need the air, Oliver, please don’t make me ride inside.”

  She gauged his reactions carefully, knowing he would be thinking about her weeping all over his uniform, or worse— losing her luncheon. But what she’d told him was true. She did need to ride topside today. She needed to see the valley unfold before her; she needed to feel the wind in her face and her hair, needed to smell Cardigan Bay, hear the thunder of the surf as it smashed relentlessly against the rocks. She needed the time, and the memories… and most of all, she needed to see Seacliff before Oliver did.

  “Please, Oliver, indulge me just this once.”

  He reached into his side pocket with a white-gloved hand and withdrew a handful of coppers. He tossed them carelessly to the children. When their squealing laughter filled the air as they scrambled through the mud for the money, he looked down at her and smiled as if her needs always came first.

  “Very well, my dear. I understand how you feel. Your country, your land… Believe me, I understand.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “But do remember where I am should you need a shoulder.”

  She thanked him in a small voice and looked back to the second
coach. Gwen’s face was not visible, and she stifled an impulse to run back and join her there; if Gwen had something on her mind, sooner or later it would surface, and they would talk. Meanwhile she took a deep breath and accepted Davy’s hand to the bench. The four blacks tossed their heads as they sensed movement in the air, their harnesses rattling like so many ill-tuned bells. Davy sighed loudly.

  “We’re on, mistress,” he said at last. “Then on it is,” she told him solemnly.

  The long whip curled through the air and cracked just over the heads of the lead horses. They started, pulled, and within moments clattered through the narrow yard gates and onto the roadbed of crushed stone by now driven hard into the earth by a thousand hooves. The wheels creaked, the blacks stepped high and proudly, and the wind carried the sound of a ragged child’s cheer as they left the village behind and set off across the lowlands toward the slopes of the mountains.

  David Evans stood before the great front doors of Seacliff and with a grand gesture indicated the entire valley at Caitlin’s feet. He was a short man, swarthy, with ice-blue eyes that were darkened now with concealed pain.

  “Darlin’,” he said, “this will be yours, you know, when I’ve gone to your mother. “ A glance back, then over his shoulder. “He’s a fair man, your husband is, but I don’t think he knows the land the way you do. Inside,” and he thumped at his chest, “inside, where it counts.”

  “But Father, the law says—”

  “Be damned with the law!” he snapped, nearly shouting. “The major can wave about all the papers and hire all the solicitors he wants, but it doesn’t change the fact that this land will never be his the way it will be yours. You must work with him then, child, be with him to explain and to help. When I’m gone—”

  “Father, please, I don’t like you talking like that.”

  His smile was gentle, his expression melancholy. “Darlin’, there’s no other way to talk, now. It’s comin’ and I feel it. I’ve seen sixty winters, and that’s considerably more than most men see. I can’t be greedy now, can I? It’s time, but I’m leaving all this to you. Don’t forget that, child, when you’re away with him and the heathens, don’t forget that.”

  With the heathens.

  Caitlin smiled to herself. Her father had said that the day she and Oliver left for their first stay in Eton. It would be nearly ten months before they returned, and by then David Evans had finally succumbed to the ravages of his illness and was in his bed. For three years he’d clung to life, praying aloud for a grandson and not understanding why his daughter hadn’t yet given birth.

  It’s Oliver, she’d told him once; he says he’s too old to nurture children, that I’ll still be young enough to bear children for another when he’s gone.

  Evans had scoffed. He reminded her he was just over forty when she was born, and Morgan seemed to him a fit enough man to bear the responsibilities of family.

  No argument flared. He’d fallen into a deep sleep, and he never brought up the subject again.

  And now, she thought as she gripped the edge of the seat tightly, they’d have no conversations about anything anymore.

  Then, with sudden vehemence, she shook herself, realizing they were almost upon the valley’s remarkable entrance.

  To either side the land rose abruptly. Huge, magnificent boulders jutted out from the hillsides, narrowing the road into a shadowy gap and creating sharp echoes of the coach’s passing. The sun was temporarily blotted out, the shade cool and welcome. One hundred feet and more the rocks climbed the perpendicular slopes, and she remembered more than one afternoon spent climbing to the summit and pelting passersby below with eggs stolen from a nearby farm. And it was especially daring, and exciting, when the riders were English soldiers.

  The road curved to the right. The rock faces blurred into a wall of gray, streaked through with deep reds, pale whites, and here and there a fleeting, mossy green. The boulders and the road looked like a tunnel without a roof, she thought as Davy maneuvered through the gap expertly. He called to the horses to calm them of their nervousness.

  And then they were on the other side.

  “Slow, Davy,” she said over the sound of the wind.

  He looked at her questioningly, then nodded his understanding and clucked to the blacks. They slowed instantly, and the road finished its banking, straightened, and the rocks fell away as if crushed by the fists of an angry giant.

  “Ah, Davy,” she sighed. Lifting her hands to her head, she combed them through her wind-tangled hair and wished profoundly her homecoming had not been occasioned by grief.

  “Aye, mistress,” he said somberly. “Aye.”

  The mountains’ western slopes were gentle and thickly forested. In the valley below, the land was a series of varishaded green and gold squares marking the tenant farmers’ fields. Herds of cattle wandered behind low walls; a flock of sheep followed tinkling bells across the pastureland to the south. A stream that was little more than a ribbon of glittering silver meandered lazily from north to south. It threaded past individual cottages two stories high, homes of stone and earth, barns and stables and outbuildings beyond number. The air was cotton-soft and even at this distance smelled of the brine of the sea.

  She managed to draw a deep breath and hold it until her lungs felt near to bursting. Then she released it with a rush that left her feeling dizzy but deeply content.

  Several miles ahead, in the center of the steep valley, the houses of the village lay like carelessly tossed diamonds on a swatch of green velvet. Chimneys and a church spire pointed toward the heavens; gardens blossomed in profusion; and though no more than four dozen large families provided Seacliff with staples, their homes sprawled in such a way that they seemed ten times that number.

  She looked to her left as the road swept downward, to the hills that separated the valley from the rest of the shire. She knew that a trip of less than a hundred miles would take her to the great boiling waters of Bristol Channel, the arm of the Irish Sea that divided Cornwall from Wales.

  Then, with a visible effort, she glanced to her right.

  In the far distance the hills rose into rugged mountains whose peaks were cloaked in everlasting mist, whose glens offered refuge, and where even now a handful of men took to hiding to avoid impressment into the English army. They were outlaws, but only in the eyes of men like Oliver Morgan. To the Welsh they were, at the very least, prudent, and at the most, romantic heroes.

  And on the slope of the hills, less than a mile from where she rode, she could see through the small groves of venerable pine and oak to a sprawling stone house. Its thick walls glittered with mica, its multipitched roof made a cheerful red amid the gables and chimney pots. A gated low wall surrounded it, and the wall in turn was flanked by towering trees that broke the wind before it reached the front door. Behind the house was the forest; ahead, a vast downward sweep of land that reached almost to the valley floor. It encompassed several small farms, a foundry, and at the base, on land claimed by no one, the ruins of an ancient Druid place of worship—a dozen ringstones that mocked distance by their size, and time by the preternatural power of their past.

  Aside from the Evans estate, this was the largest, most prosperous holding in this portion of the shire.

  It was Falconrest, and it was the home of Griffin Radnor.

  As it swept by her in a blur of foliage, Caitlin suddenly could not recall ever feeling quite so lonely.

  “It’s been a bit of a while,” Davy said to her.

  She looked to him, ready to frown before she understood he was referring to how long it had been since they’d shifted households to Eton.

  “It has,” she agreed.

  Then he nodded toward Falconrest. “Would he have been there, do you think, mistress? At the funeral, I mean. He should have done, considering his position, but I wonder if he was.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said distantly. And then, when she realized she’d sounded almost wistful, she added, “What the man does is none o
f my concern.”

  Chagrined, Davy returned his attention to the horses.

  “Nor,” she added sternly, “is what that… that man does any of yours, Davy Daniels. As far as we are concerned, he is just someone else who lives in our valley. And that is the way it should be. You mind me, Daniels. That is the way it should be.”

  He was stung by her rebuke and its curious ferocity and concentrated on his driving, his hands working the reins, his left foot nudging at the brake to keep the coach from sliding on the still rainslicked roadbed of crushed stone and gravel. He’d been hoping for some sort of sign, anything that would tell him what Gwen suspected was true—that his mistress still carried feelings for the Falconrest master. But evidently it wasn’t true, which meant there would be no one to save her from Sir Oliver once he got his hands on Seacliff. No one. And gloom descended over him like a stifling cloak. He began muttering to himself about the injustice of the English and the perverse ways of women.

  Caitlin heard the mumbling and bit her lower lip. She’d offended the young man, she knew it, and instinctively reached out to apologize. But an abrupt rush of tears blinded her, and she wiped at them angrily with her handkerchief. She commanded herself to stifle the tears; later, when you’re inside and alone. You can’t cry now. The village is too close.

  Then Davy inhaled sharply and she stared at him, saw him gazing fearfully off to the right and turned to see what had startled him. A hand fluttered to her throat, and her eyes widened.

  My God, she thought; my God, how did he know?

  9

  As the road wound down into the valley it dipped below an embankment of new grass and soft gold and blue wildflowers. The embankment rose steeply to a stone wall that held at bay the encroachment of brambles and the dangling thick branches of overhanging trees. In a gap between two immense oaks stood a great white stallion, its mane, forelock, and tail of such a stormy gray that they appeared black. As Davy inadvertently slowed the coach in astonishment, the stallion snorted and tossed its sculptured head. The man astride it, as if on cue, leaned forward anxiously.