Welshman's Bride

by Bancroft, Blair

  A whoosh of indrawn breaths from all but Rhys echoed through the room, the clash of wills so strong, I swear I caught the sound of ancient swords being drawn from their scabbards. Welsh against Welsh, which, I’d been told, was also very much a part of this nation’s past.

  “Jocelyn?” Rhys held out his arm. In my rush to escape the room, I seized it with a grip nearly as hard as a blacksmith’s clamp. My husband seemed oblivious to the tension, but as we turned toward the door, he patted my fingers. “Round One to us, I think,” he murmured for my ears alone. And we sailed out the door, making a long, winding trek to what, to my surprise, was as gracious and modern a home as could be found in all England. Here then was the newer home built from the profits of coal and iron.

  I could not, however, be comfortable with Rhys’s optimistic assessment of the situation. I did not wish to live a life of constant contention. I did not wish to divide my life into “rounds,” judging each nasty scene to decide who had won and who had lost.

  I wanted Rhys. But I was appalled by the baggage that came with him.

  Chapter Six

  I did not see Rhys again until he came to my room to escort me to supper. All my questions about his encounter with his mother faded into oblivion when I saw him. At first I could not understand why he looked so different. Certainly his forbidding look was nothing new. And yet . . .

  Ah! He had put off his London-tailored garments, his “English” clothing, in favor of jacket, waistcoat, and breeches of a rougher weave and less close fit, a neckerchief that bore no resemblance to the works of art deemed proper in the ton, and shoes that looked more like a lady’s half-boots than the highly polished slippers I was accustomed to seeing men wear in the evening. I had seen him in breeches at Almack’s, of course, but that anyone would wear such an old-fashioned garment by choice . . . Nor a nondescript blue waistcoat with a baggy and tail-less gray jacket . . . Quite frankly, my mouth was agape. My father at his most common had never dressed so poorly for dinner. Was this the real Rhys, a man all too happy to shed his English façade? Was this my husband’s way of showing his mother he had not been corrupted by English ways? And if so, why? What had happened to the aura of power that surrounded him in England? Had it been swept away at first sight of his mother?

  My questions were answered all too soon, as my chagrin, spiced by a dash of pique, was swamped by the realization I was expected to sit at my husband’s right, his mother maintaining her place of honor at the foot of the table, opposite my husband. My confidence in Rhys’s ability to deal with his intransigent parent exploded on the instant. To add to this indignity, Gruffydd the seneschal was seated on Mrs. Gwendolyn Maddox’s right. I was expected to dine with the butler? Clearly, my English upbringing was at odds with the way things were done in Wales. Or was I the fool, and this was my husband’s plan all along—marry the money, shove the English bride aside, and continue life at Glyn Eirian without so much as a ripple of change?

  I seethed as I smiled, answered when spoken to, and dutifully passed plates of meats, vegetables, and sundry items—some of them odd enough to churn my stomach. Fortunately, throughout the ordeal of dinner, the lilting music of a harp sustained me, a continual soothing background for my unruly thoughts. I could not help but think it odd, however, that Rhys never once looked in the harpist’s direction. Perhaps she was such a familiar accompaniment to the evening meal that he no longer heard her.

  As I attempted to identify a platter of food just placed in front of me, I dismissed all thoughts of the harpist until Lady Aurelia, who was seated next to me, leaned close and confided, “The Welsh love their bards and their harpers, my dear. I must admit they have a far greater affinity for history and ancient tales than we English. And their voices . . . dear child, you will not believe the glorious sounds to be heard in church.”

  I was so grateful for her speaking kindly to me, and in an accent that was still upper class English to the core, that tears misted my eyes. Home. I want to go home!

  No, I did not. I wanted to stay and fight for what was mine. I wanted to hear the tales of ancient Wales—if only Rhys would translate for me. I wanted to hear Welshmen sing. I wanted to learn enough about my new country that I no longer felt like an ignorant intruder.

  I wanted to be something other than just one more invader from across the border.

  I wanted to be head of my husband’s household, proud chatelaine of Glyn Eirian. I wanted to make this place my home, and home to my children. Rhys’s children.

  But how . . .?

  I knew I possessed a good portion of my father’s sharp wits and stubborn determination, but facing the near certainty that someone older and far more experienced than I wished to crush my intention of taking over the household’s management, was daunting. I could only hope that Rhys’s mother was merely acting hostess for tonight, that in the morning she would not only turn over her place of honor at table but the chatelaine keys that were the symbol of her rights as head of household. But somehow, from her inimical looks to Rhys’s refusal to meet my eye, I doubted I would be assuming my duties any time soon.

  My temper soared, then plunged as I realized that at Glyn Eirian I had no allies. Rhys might have defied his mother by haring off to London to find an English bride, or he might be in league with her to deny me my rights. She was, after all, his mother, and she had ruled this house for many years.

  I shrank into myself, my mouth a thin line, the music fading as my inner voice whispered, Compromise. You must learn to compromise.

  One of Papa’s expressions swept through my head, ousting that bit of highly sensible advice. When Hell freezes over. I ducked my head and pretended to concentrate on eating my dinner.

  The ladies did not leave my husband and Gruffydd to indulge in port, as was the English custom. When Rhys’s mother rose from the table, interrupting my still-writhing thoughts, everyone rose and resettled in a far more modern withdrawing room than the solar in the tower. It boasted gilded wood, brocaded furnishings, luxurious carpets, two golden marble fireplaces, and walls adorned with paintings by Italian masters. The light of a hundred candles sparkled off the Murano crystals in the chandeliers, illuminating the androgynous cherubs on the ceiling, seeming to make them dance. An elegant room, I had to admit, immediately crediting Lady Aurelia and not Gwendolyn Maddox for making it so.

  A handsome and graceful young man joined us, reciting a rather lengthy poem. In Welsh, of course. The harpist, a young woman not much older than myself, added a marvelous contralto to the rippling notes plucked by her fingers, performing several ballads that were as incomprehensible as they were hauntingly beautiful. I would learn Welsh, I decided. I must. Otherwise, I would remain a stranger forever.

  What was that? A fleeting moment, yet the significance struck straight to my heart. I had caught a glance that shot like lightning between the harpist and my husband. Oh. My. I gazed at the woman with narrowed eyes, seeing what I had overlooked while enjoying her performance. She was strikingly lovely as well as talented. Not beautiful, but a woman with remarkable bone structure, long, flowing hair the color of polished mahogany, with eyes to match, and full lips that begged to be kissed. If a man dared.

  And Rhys had dared. After the blazing look I intercepted, I had no doubt about that. And how infinitely cruel of his mother to command the woman’s services to welcome home his bride. The cruelty not to me alone.

  I stood, announced that I had found the long journey into Wales tiring, and excused myself. Please note I did not use the time-honored phrase, “beg to be excused.” That woman was not going to excuse me from my own drawing room!

  As I climbed the stairs, shame warred with stubborn defiance. Gwendolyn Maddox had run this household for decades. Who was I to come dashing in and replace her on the instant? Replace a woman steeped in Welsh tradition with an overly indulged English heiress, a merchant’s spawn at that, whose knowledge of the world came solely from the pages of books and whose housewifery skills might be totally useless this sid
e of the River Dee?

  I flopped into the chair in front of my dressing table, and allowed Alice to remove my jewelry and unpin my hair. I was over-reacting, making mountains out of molehills. Men were entitled to their peccadillos, Mama had informed me. In particular, she emphasized, there was no sense in dwelling on events of the past.

  Ha. The look I had intercepted had nothing of the past about it!

  I was imagining things. Rhys had given me no reason to suspect him of dissatisfaction, inattention . . .

  “Are you ill, my dear? Or simply exhausted?” While I was busy feeling sorry for myself, Rhys had entered the room, studying me with what appeared to be genuine concern. He was dressed as he’d been at dinner, a far cry from coming to me with his naked body flirting with his loosely belted banyan. A wave of disappointment rolled over me, as if I’d been denied a treat.

  Shameful hussy. “No, no, I am quite all right,” I told him. “Tired yes, but not . . .” My voice trailed away. How could I possibly say aloud that I was not too tired? And I wasn’t, for at the sound of his voice my body had reacted in a quite shocking manner.

  “Shall I dismiss your maid?” This was a question far more full of meaning than the innocuous words implied. My husband was offering his services in place of Alice.

  I nodded, caught my maid’s rather pert curtsy out of the corner of my eye, heard the door close with a soft click of the latch. Anticipation surged through me, transforming my ire into minor complaints Rhys and I would soon resolve in the intimacy of the bedchamber. But the romance of the moment shattered when Rhys said, “You will want to know the outcome of my conversation with my mother.”

  Startled, I looked up to find him standing some feet away, his hands clasped behind his back. Almost the same stiff posture he had assumed the day he offered me the prepared speech that seemed to be his idea of a marriage proposal.

  “Mother and I reached a compromise which I—”

  “A compromise! You allowed—” I broke off, appalled by my unruly tongue. Yes, I should have been consulted about any compromise, but I could not deny we both had much to learn about being married.

  Compromise. The very thought set my teeth on edge. Had I not already rejected such a cowardly move? And, besides . . . just how far was compromise supposed to go? Did it extend past Gwendolyn Maddox to the harpist as well? Was she to maintain her position as mistress to the lord of the manor?

  I had been silent too long. Rhys bowed his head, took a deep breath. “Jocelyn, your parents assured me you have been trained in every aspect of running a great house. I do not doubt that, but this is a Welsh household—”

  “You think that has escaped my notice?” Sarcasm dripped. I winced at the all-too-clear sound of a shrew.

  “The compromise I propose is designed to keep the peace,” my husband returned with more patience than I deserved. “I can only hope you will find it agreeable.” For a long moment his blue gaze caught mine, his strength of purpose rolling over me as inexorably as a cavalry charge. “My mother will remain in charge of the household until the turn of the year. During that time she will teach you our ways, our traditions. No, no.” Rhys held up his hand to forestall the protest hovering on my lips. “I do not require you to keep all those traditions. I am well aware that my mother is obsessive on the subject. But for now I ask you to tolerate her ways, learn all that is helpful, and take the rest with a grain of salt. Believe me, it took some doing to get her to agree, even though she knew quite well that she must. There is no tradition, Welsh or English, that gives her the right to maintain the keys to the castle.”

  Ah! At long last, words that made my heart sing. Not that I wished to bend to the proposed compromise, but Rhys had just acknowledged my rights, reassuring me that I had married a man of intelligence and wisdom. And forcing me to admit I had some catching up to do.

  And then I remembered the harpist.

  One problem at a time—that’s what Papa taught me.

  I stood, inclining my head in a suitably meek pose, though my pride fought my common sense tooth and nail as I managed a credible, “I have been well schooled in household matters by my mother, but we were assured that the homes of gentlemen in Wales were little different from those in England. It is apparent, however, that is not the case at Glyn Eirian. Therefore, I will welcome any instruction your mother might be willing to impart.”

  He chuckled, the beast. He was laughing at me. “That really hurt, did it not?”

  Conversation closed. With a huff I turned my back to my husband so he might undo my gown. While Rhys was making short work of my stays, the harpist’s striking features flitted across my mind , but the touch of Rhys’s fingers on my back sent my mind spiraling in a quite different direction. I suddenly found myself—head whirling, body tingling— standing in a puddle of garments, his and mine, some flung helter skelter half way across the room. I discovered what I had sensed in the untamed rough and tumble of Wales was true. There was a wildness here, humming all around us, loosing feelings we had ruthlessly suppressed in England.

  Or perhaps Rhys was simply happy to be home.

  Or he knew I could not have failed to miss the signs of a pouting mistress and felt obliged to make a greater effort with his wife . . .

  And then I ceased to think at all, except for a hot flash of defiance aimed straight at the harpist. He’s mine now. Sing and wail all you want, you shan’t have him.

  Mine. All mine.

  But when I woke in the morning with Rhys’s place beside me gone cold, his words on the evening of our marriage hissed through my head with all the venom of a nest of snakes. Welsh women are more elemental, closer to the earth. They are not afraid to feel.

  I did too feel! But give myself to a man without marriage, as the harpist had done? Absurd.

  It was a matter of class, I told myself in a manner so prim it shames me to recall it. Women of the lower orders had been giving themselves to men without marriage since the dawn of time. Their reward—money, power, favors of an almost infinite variety. While women like me saved themselves for marriage. Ostensibly to keep the bloodlines pure. Ironically in truth, for money, power, and an infinite variety of favors.

  And yes, I knew I was supposed to ignore the women in my husband’s past, and those in his future as well. Unfortunately, there seemed to be rather a gap between well-meant advice and reality. Though how much of my fury was the jealousy of a woman who cared for her husband and how much pure possessiveness I could not tell.

  With that thought I shot to a sitting position, ripped back the bedcurtains, and scowled at Alice who was tiptoeing about, readying my clothing for the day. “Oh missus, you startled me. Mr. Maddox said to let you sleep, that you’d had a long ni—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, coughed, amending her words to, “a long day yesterday. And you’re to meet Mrs. Gwendolyn Maddox in something called the Tapestry Room at ten o’clock.”

  It had begun. Already I was being ordered about.

  I was a bad person, small and petty. My own mother might very well have given such an order, which was in truth merely a request—the beginning of instruction to which I had agreed. While caught in the spell of Rhys’s blue eyes, I added on a silent mumble.

  Since the clock on the mantel was striking nine as I crawled out of bed, it was something of a scramble to present myself properly attired and still have time to eat a bite or two before the fateful moment. After I left the breakfast room, where I dined alone, a footman led me to a large, modern room that seemed to connect the ancient castle with its more recent addition. The immense tapestries lining its walls were old, very old, and undoubtedly priceless. The room appeared to be designed for the sole purpose of protecting them from the damp of the castle’s ancient stone walls, while at the same time keeping them near the Great Hall where they had once hung in all their glory.

  The tapestries were glorious, the colors still clear. Incredibly intricate scenes of mountainous landscapes, ancient battles, stag hunts, the pomp of princes, the gr
and panoply of marriages, births and deaths. As I entered the room, my mother-in-law waved her hand in a gesture inviting me to look my fill, and so I did. Until, having inspected the hangings on all four walls, I curtsied and said, “They are magnificent, ma’am. As fine as any I have ever seen.”

  “I doubt the English can claim any half so fine,” she declared, a flash of her amber eyes daring me to disagree with her.

  Determined to be on my best behavior, I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Before we tour the castle with Mrs. Blevins, you should meet the other residents of the household. Please be seated.” After I was settled in a Medieval cross-legged chair similar to her own, Rhys’s mother raised her voice a notch. “Gruffydd, you may send them in.”

  I was not prepared for the first person the seneschal ushered through the door, I confess it. He was—

  “Daffyd Llywelyn,” Gruffydd intoned. I looked up, and up again. The man was huge, making even this large room seem small. Like the seneschal, he wore Medieval garb, including cross-gartering on his legs. And towering well above his head was the longbow he wore strapped to his back.

  “Daffyd is head of our Guard,” Gwendolyn Maddox told me. Of course he was. Though why a Welsh home needed a Guard in this year of 1818 was quite beyond me. Was banditry common in Wales?

  Next came the young poet, Trystan Parry, who appeared less serious this morning, his eyes twinkling with good humor as he executed a deep bow. Feeling someone’s gaze upon me, I glanced to the doorway and caught a glimpse of Liliwen, evidently an interested spectator to this parade of upper staff. Perhaps her interest was personal—the poet was beautiful enough to turn any young girl’s head.

  Except mine, of course.

  “Eilys Pritchard and her daughter Carys.” I struggled to maintain my public face, but I doubt I managed it. The harpist? And a daughter? Surely my face would crack when I smiled at the child. The child of perhaps five with Rhys’s deep blue eyes. Dear God!