My scowl must have put Matty off, for she kissed my cheek and stood, declaring she could not keep her eyes open a moment longer. And there I was, alone and uneasy with a guilt I refused to shoulder. And yet . . .
Very well. Perhaps Gwendolyn Maddox should be admired for her determination to carry on Welsh traditions. But she had no right to treat her daughter-in-law like an enemy just because she was not Welsh.
Now there was a thought that filled me with a surge of righteous indignation, followed by a frisson of cold terror. If Gwendolyn Maddox was determined not to dilute the Maddox bloodline any further than it already was, there was only one way to do so. She had to get rid of me. Permanently.
Absurd!
But . . . closer to reality—if Gwendolyn Maddox espoused Welsh independence, she was a traitor and could be hanged.
When you grow up. Rhys’s words cut sharply through my childish surge of ghoulish anticipation. Growing up meant being reasonable, keeping calm when the world was falling apart around me. Seeing both sides of arguments, finding reasonable solutions. Being gracious, kind, living by the biblical admonition to “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
I sighed. Judged by those criteria, Rhys was not the only one with doubts about my maturity. But, I was rapidly discovering, contemplation of the specter of death could be remarkably aging. I was still sitting there, lost in an attempt to see Glyn Eirian from Gwendolyn’s point of view, when Rhys came in and sat on the sofa beside me.
He said nothing, his piercing blue eyes searching my face for I knew not what. Was he still examining me for signs of guilt? Still wondering if Hugh and I had truly spent the night throwing branches on the fire rather than kindling a fire of a different kind?
I straightened my shoulders, clasped my hands tightly together in my lap, and said, “I am infinitely grateful for the tale you and Lord Dawnay have spread about.”
“Mostly Dawnay’s work,” he returned, his face more stone-like than usual. “It would seem he has a good deal of experience in extricating himself from difficult situations.”
Finding no answer that was not awkward in the extreme, I moved on to the next act for which my husband deserved my thanks. “And thank you for bringing my cousin Matty to me. I had not realized how alone I felt until she walked through the door.” This was only partially true, of course, as I had suffered from homesickness since the day I left Hawley Hall, but now, when I was determined to demonstrate more maturity, was not the moment to say so.
Again, my husband searched my face. “I can only hope her presence will help. Your time here has not been easy, and I am sorry for that.”
Sorry? If he was truly sorry, he would not let his mama rule the roost!
And there went all my resolutions to be a better person. I glared at my clasped hands, willing the fire in my eyes to fade to the ashes of the meek. It did not quite happen, control of my temper going only far enough to allow me to raise a face to Rhys that was as devoid of emotion as his own. “You did not tell me you were leaving Glyn Eirian,” I said. “I thought you were avoiding me, reenforcing everyone’s certainty that I had betrayed you.”
Emotion at last! Rhys sucked in a sharp breath, firelight flickering over a face that had suddenly come alive. Silence stretched between us. He finally drew a deep breath and said, “I was angry, I admit it. I wanted to believe the story you both told, but doubts lingered. I feared . . . Let us say simply that it seemed best for me to leave until my temper cooled, until I could see the matter more objectively.”
“And even if you believed me,” I offered, “you were still angry with me for being foolish enough to ride out with Lord Dawnay.”
“Yes!” he said, the word exploding from his lips. “Devil take it, yes. How could you have been so stupid?”
Head hanging, I said, “I have asked myself that a thousand times. I have gone over every justification from naivety to the arrogance of assuming I would have no difficulty handling the likes of a London rake. And I did not!” I added hastily, realizing my words could well cause a worse explosion. “You must believe me, Rhys. Nothing happened between us. Yes, I wish I had been wise enough to avoid putting myself in a compromising situation, but if someone had not deliberately marooned us on that island, there would be no scandal. Lord Dawnay and I simply went for ride, as we might have in the Midlands or in London, and we would have returned safe and sound, my virtue intact.”
Rhys, of course, took my words the wrong way. “Meaning you did not return with your virtue intact?” he inquired in an ominous growl.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, no! I simply meant we would have returned without creating a scandal.”
He stared at the carpet, raised his head to seeming great interest in the paintings hanging against the striped silk wallcovering, glanced up at the coffered ceiling. “Did you miss me?”
“Most awfully,” I admitted on a rush, ruthlessly shutting out my ill-conceived imaginings about whose bed I’d thought he was in.
“Would you care to make up for lost time?”
I threw myself at him, positively threw myself. Should I have been reluctant? Made a show of anger over his doubting me for so much as a minute?
Not when the facts against me were so damning. Not when he had been so magnanimous about the whole debacle.
Not when it was the last thing in this world I wanted. I had chosen Rhys Maddox, and I would keep him. And to the devil with all who would break us apart.
Rhys’s arms had not yet closed around me. I held my breath, burrowing deeper against his chest. Dear God, don’t let him put me away. Let him feel how much I care. Finally, after what seemed an age but which was likely less than a minute, his arms tightened around me and his chin came to rest on the top of my head. “Ah, Jocelyn, you’ve turned my life topsy-turvy.”
“And you, mine.” Oh bother! When would I learn to recognize the times when it was best to keep quiet?
Fortunately, Rhys laughed, though after his chuckles faded, he did not hesitate to point out that his whole world had been upset by his wayward wife. “It’s not just the house, you minx. It’s the village, the mine, the foundry, even church and chapel. There’s not a pie you have not stuck your thumb in, Woe to the lot of us before you’re done.”
Glowering, I pulled back from my position on his chest. “How can you say so?” I said with a decided pout. “I have barely begun.”
“Exactly. We all cower before the broom that sweeps clean.”
“Not your mother,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the top button of his vest.
“She has to be more stiff-necked than the others, else the English heiress sweep her straight out the door and into the some modern-day nunnery for aging chatelaines.”
I gaped at him. “You cannot be serious.”
“I fear I must be serious. My mother is not as amenable as my grandmother. I doubt she will be able to live beneath this roof if she no longer holds the whip hand.”
And why were we discussing Gwendolyn Maddox when all I wanted to do was take my husband to my bed?
“Um–Rhys?” As much as it pains me to admit it, I batted my eyelashes at him like a sixteen-year-old practicing flirtation before her mirror. “May we discuss the fate of your mother at a later time?” Looking back, I realize my question was yet another example of the foolishness and hot blood of youth. I should have pressed my advantage and settled the problem of who gave the orders at Glyn Eirian. Instead, I allowed the moment to slip through my fingers. For one even more precious.
Rhys cupped my cheek in his hand, his eyes warming as he broke into a smile. “You are indeed a minx.” And then he kissed me. After several immensely satisfying minutes, we floated into my bedchamber, where Alice was conspicuous by her absence and Rhys demonstrated his expertise at removing a woman’s clothing in a minimum amount of time. Since I too was developing skill in that direction, we were both soon sprawled, stark naked, in a jumble of bedcovers and enthusiastically re-discovering each other after being apart for a
ll of five days.
Much, much later, when I was wavering on the verge of sleep, a biblical phrase pierced the torpor induced by immense satisfaction and physical exhaustion. Thy people shall be my people. I must—I would—remember that. And remember that numbered among Rhys’s people was his mother, Gwendolyn.
Perhaps, at long last, I was making progress toward growing up.
Chapter Seventeen
“Mercy me, who is that?” Matilda hissed, leaning close to my ear as we entered the drawing room after dinner.
My much-improved sense of well-being, sparked by my cousin’s arrival, suffered a blow as I followed her gaze to Daffyd Llywelyn, the towering warrior with a longbow on his back. The man whose presence reminded me of the secret he kept. Reminded me that only his silence kept my reputation from lying in tatters at my feet.
As was his custom each night, Daffyd stood tall and motionless on one side of the room’s main entry. His face rigidly blank, eyes straight front, dark hair gleaming in the firelight. A sword dangled from his belt, and his longbow jutted high above his back. I had to admit that if a thundering herd of invaders came charging up the stairs, Daffyd Llywelyn was most certainly the defender I’d want at the door. As it was, the only reason his presence seemed normal was because I had grown accustomed to it.
“Our own Welsh bowman,” I told Matty. “He is captain of a contingent of guards who fulfill my mother-in-law’s vision of Glyn Eirian as a Medieval fortress. They are, however,” I conceded, “quite helpful in rescuing the lost or injured. But why Gwendolyn thinks we need a warrior in the drawing room in this day and age remains a puzzle.”
“His name?” Matty demanded.
“Daffyd. In English, David. His surname is Llywelyn, which, I’m told, is one of the great names in Welsh history.”
“Daffyd Llywelyn,” Matty repeated slowly, savoring each syllable of the odd names. “Hmmm.” She winked at me. With a jaunty flounce, she turned to survey the rest of the room, and gasped. “Who, pray tell, is that?”
Grateful that her interest was no longer fixed on our stoic guard, I followed her gaze to a man who was not much more than half Daffyd’s size. “Trystan Parry,” I said, “our resident bard. That’s ‘poet’ to outlanders like you.”
Matty giggled. “He is quite the most beautiful male I have ever seen, but I think your Daffyd could likely pick him up and shoot him from his bow.”
My good humor restored, I returned her conspiratorial smile,. “I think you’re right, but he has a voice twice his size and proclaims his poetry with passion. You will likely enjoy it, even though you’ll not understand a word.”
At that, Matty widened her eyes at me, but since Gwendolyn was waving us to our seats with an imperious hand, she had only time to whisper one more question. “And the harpist?”
“That is Eilys,” I returned, my face firmly set to bland. “The mother of my husband’s daughter.”
Matty came closer to collapsing into her chair than sinking into it as a proper lady should, where she fell into a fit of coughing, whipping out a handkerchief to cover her reddened face. It wasn’t that I hadn’t mentioned Eilys and Carys during my flood of words when she first arrived, but there was something about a bald pronouncement in front of the actual persons involved that made the facts far more dramatic.
I’d done it again, of course. Slipped off the high horse I was attempting to ride, straight into the mire.
When you grow up.
Yet, pray tell, what was grown up about accepting that my bridegroom not only fathered a bastard but kept his mistress and love child under the same roof as his legitimate wife? Truly, there were certain parts of Welsh free thought far more difficult to understand than others. Grateful that nothing more was required of me than to listen to our performers, I simply sat and let the music and poetry wash over me while I contemplated my sins and those of the people around me. Occasionally, I cast surreptitious glances around the room, which is how I knew Rhys was keeping his head down, as he always did when Eilys played. Was he afraid I might catch him gazing at her with longing in his eyes? Trystan appeared to be bored, which rather surprised me as the two performers seemed close, rather than each considering the other a rival. Liliwen, too, let her attention wander, mostly to Trystan, though I caught a few vitriolic glances in my direction. I stifled a sigh. I really did not want to believe my sister-in-law hated me.
As for the others—Lady Aurelia, Emily Farnsworth, Dilys Trewent, and Gwendolyn—they seemed to be paying rapt attention to Eilys’s performance, though I could not help but wonder if inwardly their minds drifted to other matters, as mine was. And then, just for a moment, from beneath my lowered lashes, I caught a look no one was supposed to see. I saw naked longing in a man’s eyes, and that man was not my husband. The statue had come to life. For no more than five seconds Daffyd Llywelyn’s stoic face melted, and so much love, devotion, and admiration shone through that it was painful to watch. Daffyd and Eilys? Did she have any idea? Somehow I doubted it.
Ah, here was a bit I could seize and run with. All the way to the altar. And a nice cottage in the woods. Or at least a suite in a far, far corner of Glyn Eirian. And nowhere near any secret staircases. Euphoria surged and was promptly slapped down as the face of the modern-day Celtic warrior reverted to a blank, eyes straight ahead, shoulders stiff, head high. Had I imagined it? There could be little doubt I had reason enough for wishful thinking.
Trystan followed Eilys, proclaiming at length, yet I heard not a word as my mind whirled with speculation. My in-laws might wish to be rid of me, but I would turn the tables and get rid of Eilys instead. And in a far more benign fashion than they seemed to be using to get rid of me! Oh yes, in addition to making friends in village, mine, and foundry, I would add the union of Daffyd and Eilys to my list of projects.
The next morning was Sunday. During the long days I spent alone in my rooms, I had more than ample time to question my actions, both past and present. One of the realities that had finally occurred to me was that in my determination to free myself from Gwendolyn’s dictates, I had not played fair. If I asked Rhys to compromise on the matter of religion, then so must I. If he was to attend the Church of England once a month, then I must do the same with chapel. And, besides—very well, I admit it—I wished to observe Daffyd and Eilys when away from the stifling atmosphere of the castle. Would I see further hints of an attachment, however secret?
Fortunately, I had an excuse for announcing that today I would accompany Rhys to chapel. My cousin Matty was chapel to the core, her father’s family belonging to a long line of Nonconformists. (While, much as I loved him, I knew my papa would always choose the side with the most power.)
When Rhys noted our intention to join the chapel-goers, he merely raised an eyebrow and opened the carriage door to allow us to squeeze in beside his mother, sister, and Dilys. Gwendolyn sniffed, as if assaulted by a noxious odor, before maintaining a tight-lipped silence all the way down the mountain.
I was so delighted to be out of my room, so fixed on taking this opportunity to spy on Eilys and Daffyd, that it was not until I caught the swift glances, the suddenly bent heads as neighbor whispered to neighbor, that I recalled I was the object of exceedingly nasty gossip. Perhaps the story Rhys and Hugh had conjured out of thin air was not as effective as we had hoped. Yet surely the Welsh were known for being flexible in their judgments?
I sank onto the Maddox pew with infinite relief, wishing myself into invisibility. Hopefully, the villagers were only whispering because I was back in chapel, not about . . . the other thing. Ha! Foolishness personified, that was I. Well, no matter. I was here and would have to brazen it out.
The sermon was full of fiery condemnation of sin, particularly sins of the flesh. I shrank further and further into myself, while imagining, in vain, that all eyes were not fixed on me. In addition to this mortal embarrassment, my grand scheme of watching Daffyd and Eilys also came to naught. The Maddox pew was far upfront, and I saw the two of them only in th
e general crush after church. Daffyd, without his longbow, stood in a cluster with his guardsmen, while Eilys and Carys were settling into one of the many wagons that had brought the Glyn Eirian servants into the village. Yet another failure—the perfect cap to a miserable morning.
“Mrs. Maddox.” I turned to find Derec Pryce, the colliery manager, with a couple in tow. “Mrs. Maddox, may I present Owen Pugh and his wife Rhian? I have told them of your interest in learning about the needs of the village families.”
“It’s right good of you, Missus,” Mr. Pugh said, clutching his cap in his hand.
“It’s been far too long,” his wife declared, though I could plainly see she had doubts about my sincerity. Or at least doubts about my ability to affect any change in the face of Gwendolyn Maddox’s indifference.
Nonetheless, they were an interesting pair, each dressed in their Sunday best—proud, confident, and Celtic to the core. I could easily imagine some striking clashes under the Pugh roof when they happened to disagree. In this case, however, neither hesitated to indicate that the first lady of Glyn Eirian had neglected her duty to all but her own peculiar interests.
“I hope I may call upon you, Mrs. Pugh,” I said. “I am told you are a fount of knowledge when it comes to not only the miners but the village in general.”
She cast a quick glance at Mr. Pryce before declaring, “Too much praise, missus, but I’m glad to do what I can. I welcome your call.”
Matty and I were walking toward our carriage when it occurred to me that, in spite of the sermon, none of the congregation had been openly hostile. Some might have doubts about my character, but their greetings were scrupulously polite. Perhaps their first burst of gossip had satisfied the eternal thirst for sensation, and the Welsh truly were more forgiving of weaknesses of the flesh. Supposed weaknesses of the flesh!
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