Truly

by Mary Balogh

  She shook her head slightly.

  "The blacksmith?" The disguise had been impenetrable in the brief glimpse he had had of the man close to—and even then his eyes had been more on Ceris than on the man with whom she rode—but all night he had been haunted by the conviction that it was the blacksmith.

  She stared at the ground between them.

  "Did you spend the night with him, Ceris?" He knew that she had. He had had to return on foot from that road whereas she had had a ride. The chances were good that she would have been home long before he reached the end of the lane leading to her father's house. But he had spent the rest of the night watching it, anyway, waiting for her to come home, trying to persuade himself that she was inside, fast asleep all the time. She had returned, walking up from the direction of Glynderi, at dawn.

  She said nothing.

  '"You told me yesterday," he said, "that you were a virgin. Could the same be said today?"

  She looked up at him again. "No, Matthew," she said softly. "I am sorry. You will want to withdraw the offer you made me yesterday, and I must change my answer. I am sorry."

  "Would you have gone to warn them last night if he had not been with them?" he asked her. He could hear the bitterness in his voice.

  "They are my people, Matthew," she said. "I do not like what they are doing, but they do it in the earnest conviction that it is the only way to protest the intolerable conditions of our lives. I went because they are my people."

  "And because you love him." He could not leave it alone. "Say it, Ceris. You stayed with him last night. You would not do that for less than love, would you?"

  "I am sorry, Matthew." Her eyes filled with tears. "I should never have said yes to you. 1 was fond of you and I thought that would be enough. You deserve better."

  She had been fond of him! His hands clenched at his sides.

  "You do not need to come farther with me," she said. "It will be better if I go alone from here."

  He nodded and watched her turn away. And imagined her small, shapely body spread naked beneath the blacksmith's.

  "Ceris," he called after her. She turned to look back at him. "Tell your lover that I am going to catch him and see that he is prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Enjoy him while you may. It will not be for long. He will spend the rest of his life in transportation."

  She looked at him for a long time, saying nothing, before turning away again and walking off across the hill. He sat down on the ground and set his elbows on his raised knees and the heels of his hands against his eyes. He should have had her yesterday when he had had the chance. If only he had known how things were going to turn out, he would have enjoyed her to the full. He would have done to her some of the things he liked doing with whores who were willing to earn something in addition to their basic fee. Her blacksmith would have found her slightly worn and bruised when it came his turn last night.

  It must have been the blacksmith. Harley raised his head and draped his arms over his knees. He had been a large man, the right build. The blacksmith was one of Rebecca's daughters. And Rebecca herself—or himself, of course— had waited on the hill until the blacksmith came safely back up with Ceris. He had put himself in greater danger by waiting, especially given the distinctive shade of his disguise. Why would he have waited? Because he too knew Ceris and was anxious about her? Because he felt a loyalty to his "daughter"? Because that particular daughter was a close friend of his? Was Rebecca also from Glynderi, then, or close by?

  Or was Rebecca closer yet? The idea seemed as preposterous now as it had seemed last night when it had first flashed into his mind. But it might as well at least be pulled out and given some consideration. He ran mentally over some facts, in random order. He was not yet trying to make a coherent whole out of them.

  Rebecca had had someone else up on his horse with him. A young man or lad, it had seemed. But he had sat sideways on the horse, his arms about Rebecca's waist. A woman? It seemed very possible. The Earl of Wyvern had been from home last evening when Harley had looked for him, and no one seemed to know where he had gone. His valet had thought he had retired early. The Earl of Wyvern had returned home not long before dawn. He had not seen Harley as he rode across the hill higher up than the Williams farm. He had been wearing neither greatcoat nor cloak nor hat, but there had been a rather fat bundle behind his saddle and he had been running the fingers of one hand through his hair, rather as if he had just removed a hat.

  Had he been coming home from a romantic tryst with a whore or mistress? Harley did not know where he was likely to find either in this corner of nonconformist Wales. But he did know one thing. He had learned it in talking to one of the older gardeners after Wyvern's arrival from England. As a boy, before his legitimacy had been established, Wyvern had had two close friends. Aled Rhoslyn, now the blacksmith of Glynderi. And Marged Llwyd, now Marged Evans, who lived—without a man—at the farm of Ty-Gwyn, higher up the hill from the Williams farm. Eurwyn Evans had died in transportation after trying to destroy the salmon weir. His widow must be an angry young woman as well as an attractive one—and probably a lusty one.

  When he first arrived at Tegfan, Wyvern had disapproved of rising rents, the strict enforcement of tithe collection, and the high and frequent tolls the people had to pay at the tollgates. He had ordered the destruction of the salmon weir and directed the removal of the gamekeepers' mantraps. He had offered employment to the farmer who had lost his farm last year when he was unable to pay the rent. But Wyvern had made no attempt at further changes lately. Not since the Rebecca Riots had flared in this part of the country, in fact. Waldo Parry was now working for Marged Evans, Harley had heard.

  Despite a stern, cold manner, Wyvern had been far more ready to believe his lies this morning and release Ceris than Sir Hector had been. Sir Hector had not called him a liar, but he had still believed that Ceris might have seen someone close enough—her kidnapper, for example—to identify or might have heard something that could be useful as evidence. He had still wanted to keep her in custody for questioning. It was Wyvern who had said that they could not so insult his steward as to interrogate Harley's fiancee.

  What did it all mean? Harley asked himself at last. It made no sense to think what he was thinking. Or did it? Certainly he knew what he wanted to believe. Wanted quite desperately to believe. It would be wonderful. It would get rid of Wyvern and leave Harley free to continue as before under his new employers, Sir Hector Webb and Lady Stella. And it might also get rid of the blacksmith. Then Harley could watch Ceris suffer.

  He wanted to see her suffer.

  He wanted them all to suffer.

  But how could he prove it?

  Chapter 24

  It was destined to be a wholly turbulent day, Geraint realized soon after Aled had left. His friend had been satisfied that Ceris Williams's name had been cleared and that there was no fear of her being arrested again. He had been less satisfied with the alibi that had been presented to clear her. Geraint had not realized before last night that there was a romantic attachment between the two of them. Neither had he realized that Aled had been shot the night before. It seemed that Ceris had dressed the wound and that there was no sign of inflammation this morning. But Aled had been in pain. That had been obvious from the paleness of his face.

  There had been no time for Geraint to mull over in his mind the events of last night. Or the events of the morning. It had been a close-run thing. Ceris Williams's courage had been unexpected, Harley's lies in order to provide an alibi more so. Why had he lied? Because he loved Ceris? There appeared to be a love triangle at work in that situation, something that might yet cause trouble.

  And there had been Marged's visit and her rash and altogether characteristic attempt to save Ceris by taking her place. And her offer of herself to him if that was what it would take to win her friend's freedom—an offer he had found rather unpalatable. And yet he could not help feeling a fierce pride in her and an almost agonized love of her. It had been a
real agony this morning to play the part of the Earl of Wyvern, to be cold, to feel her touch and show no reaction to it. And yet his body—and his emotions—were still feeling the effects of several hours of lovemaking with her that had been both tender and passionate.

  He wondered if there was going to be any way out of the pit he had dug for himself.

  But he was not to have time to think further. His butler arrived with a visitor's card on a tray. After one glance at it, Geraint brightened and directed that Mr. Thomas Campbell Foster of The Times be shown in. This was the journalist to whom he had written, a man he knew personally and respected for his work. The man on whom he pinned much hope.

  "Thomas." He crossed the library to his visitor, right hand extended, as soon as the latter was shown into the room. "This is a singular surprise, though a very welcome one. What brings you to this forsaken corner of the British Isles?" He must not forget that it was Rebecca who had written to Foster, not the Earl of Wyvern.

  "Wyvern." Foster made him a half bow and grinned. "I had been expecting barren wasteland and wild savages, I must confess. It has been a pleasant surprise to find lovely scenery and a language that sounds very musical even if it is unintelligible."

  Geraint crossed to a sideboard to pour his friend a drink and motioned him to a leather chair at one side of the fireplace. "Have a seat," he said, "and tell me what brings you here. Is it business or pleasure?"

  "Business actually," Foster said after seating himself and accepting the offered glass. "I had an eloquent and impassioned letter from Rebecca inviting me down here to witness at first hand what is happening."

  "Ah," Geraint said, sitting down opposite the journalist. "Rebecca."

  "I do not know how to contact him," Foster said. "I suppose he will contact me when he hears of my arrival. In the meantime I thought to speak with all the landowners in the area to hear their version of events. I suppose the two versions will conflict. But the challenge of journalism is to try to separate truth from prejudice and hysteria and report accurately what is fair to both sides. I learned to my delight that your Welsh property is in the very center of this new wave of rioting. And so I came to you first, Wyvern. Are you willing to grant me an interview?"

  Geraint crossed one leg over the other and pursed his lips. "This new wave of rioting, as you call it, has begun since my arrival here," he said. "It might even be said that I provoked it in a way. I instituted a few reforms and tried to bring about a few more on a larger scale by talking with my neighbors and advocating joint action. I met hostility from all quarters and was forced to abandon my crusading zeal. And then Rebecca appeared. Perhaps I inadvertently stirred something up."

  Thomas Foster was looking at him with interest. "This is unexpected," he said. "Are you suggesting that you believe the rioters have some right on their side?"

  Geraint thought for a moment. "I suppose it is never right to act against the law and to destroy public property," he said. "But I must confess that I find myself in some sympathy with Rebecca and his followers. They seem to have almost no alternative. They have met with deaf ears for long enough. I am not sure if you are aware, Thomas, that for the first twelve years of my life, before my grandfather discovered that I was his legitimate heir, I lived here among the poorest of the poor. That was a long time ago, but I can remember how it feels to be poor and helpless. If my grandfather had not made his discovery, I am not sure now that I would not be a follower of Rebecca myself." He smiled. "I was always something of a leader. Perhaps I would even have been Rebecca."

  Thomas Foster whistled and settled more comfortably in his chair, all sense of formality forgotten. "Tell me more," he said. "This is fascinating and will make wonderful copy in The Times. A peer of the realm who is in sympathy with rebels, partly because he grew up as one of them. Tell me everything you know and everything you feel, if you will."

  Geraint laughed. "If you have an hour or two to spare," he said. "Shall I replenish your drink first?"

  Well over an hour later Geraint was sitting at his desk writing a letter to Mr. Thomas Campbell Foster from Rebecca, inviting the journalist to join her and her daughters and children two nights hence for a meeting.

  It was safe to disclose both time and place, Geraint decided. Foster was a man of integrity and a man after a fascinating story. He was not going to turn informer. Indeed, he would protect his sources against all pressure. Geraint could remember a time when Foster had spent a few nights in Newgate for refusing to disclose the confidences of an accused murderer.

  There were many places in the hills where a large crowd might gather undetected. If they were far from any road or tollgate, there was not even the chance of a stray constable detecting them. Foster could gather all the information he needed from such a meeting—from Rebecca, from her daughters, from any man in the crowd who cared to speak up and voice his grievances. Geraint half smiled. Or from any woman. He could not imagine Marged keeping quiet.

  Perhaps after the meeting they would march on a gate and destroy it. Perhaps Foster would come with them so that he could witness and report exactly what happened.

  Foster had told him earlier that there was talk of setting up a commission of inquiry to come down to Wales in order to interview as many people as possible to find out the truth behind the complaints and unrest. If Foster was given a good enough story to publish in the foremost London newspaper, then perhaps that possibility would become more of a certainty.

  He could only hope, Geraint thought as he signed the letter with a flourish. Hope and keep working toward his goal, though doing so was becoming more dangerous every day.

  Ceris and her mother were both working in the kitchen when Aled was admitted to the Williams farmhouse. Both were as pale as ghosts. Ninian Williams came in from outside before any words could be exchanged. He looked thunderous.

  "Well, Aled Rhoslyn," he said, "my daughter was betrothed yesterday to Matthew Harley. I will hear today that she is betrothed to you or I will see you outside with your fists at the ready."

  "Yes, Ninian," Aled said, his eyes on Ceris. She was stirring a pot of soup that was suspended over the fire, her eyes downcast. "But it takes two to make such an announcement. I will talk privately with Ceris, will I?"

  "My daughter lied to us last night," Ninian said. "And then she shamed us and herself and her chapel by fornicating with you while she was betrothed to another man. I am not sure there can be forgiveness for such behavior. We will have to speak with the Reverend Llwyd. But marriage between those who have fornicated together is one step in the right direction. My daughter's consent in the matter is unnecessary."

  His dear, gentle Ceris. Obviously after her ordeal of the morning she had made a clean breast of everything to her parents. And Ninian was reacting as any father might be expected to react. He had probably been scared out of his wits when Ceris was dragged off to Tegfan.

  "Oh, Ninian." Mrs. Williams lifted her apron over her face. "There is hard you are being on your own daughter. And you a follower of Rebecca yourself if it were not for your legs."

  "It is not the following of Rebecca I object to, woman," he said. "It is the lies and the fornicating."

  "Ceris," Aled said. "We will step outside together and talk about it, is it?"

  Her hand paused in its stirring motion though she did not look up. "Yes," she said. She set down the spoon, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned to the door. Aled followed her out.

  "You stay within sight of the house, mind," Ninian said.

  Aled nodded.

  She crossed the yard to the gate leading to the lane. But she did not open the gate. She turned to lean back against it and raised her eyes to his at last.

  "Aled," she said, "I told the truth when I said I would not be ashamed today. I should be, but I am not. But you owe me nothing. What I did, I did freely and knowingly."

  "Cariad," he said, coming to stand close to her despite her father's eyes, which he could almost feel on the back of his neck. "Geraint told me
that you were very brave. I am proud of you."

  "Geraint?" She frowned for a moment.

  "He was my friend," he said. "He still is my friend."

  "And your enemy too," she said sadly. "We live in hard times."

  "Did they hurt you?" he asked. "I wish I could have been with you to take the burden from you."

  "The constables were a little rough," she said, "though not deliberately hurtful, I think. The earl stopped Sir Hector Webb when he would have struck me. I cannot believe the earl is altogether a bad man, Aled. I think that in some way he is as much a victim of circumstances as we are."

  It was something he had to say, though he did not want to know about it. He was afraid to know about it despite the way she had started their conversation. "Harley lied to set you free," he said. It was not a question.

  "Yes." Her eyes grew sadder. "We betrayed each other last night, Aled, and of course the betrothal is at an end. But I believe he must still care for me a little to have done what he did this morning. I cannot hate him. But I do not love him and never did. I just—wanted to be married and thought it might work with him. I was foolish."

  "We will marry, then, cariad?" he asked her. He found his heart beating faster and his breath becoming labored. "Your dada demands it and the Reverend Llwyd will too if he finds out. And indeed it is the only right thing to do when we have been together as we were last night. If I must, if it will make you feel better, I will give up following Rebecca. I will talk to the Reverend Llwyd and set a date for wedding you, will I?"

  She was smiling, though her eyes were still sad. "That is the nicest, most loving thing you have ever said to me," she said. "A precious gift. Let me give you one of equal value in return. I will marry you, Aled, and make your home comfortable and bear your little ones and love you dearly for the rest of my life. And if sometimes you do things that your conscience leads you to do, I will respect you even if I cannot agree. As I believe you will respect my values. You must go with Rebecca if you feel you must, and I will sit at home and pray for your safe return."