Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  Though she would have recognized him anywhere, his expression made him seem like a stranger. He was no longer the flippant aristocrat or the menacing rake, but the embodiment of a legendary Celtic bard—a man with gifts and griefs beyond those of the common man.

  The vulnerability in his face called to Clare, whispering that perhaps she and Nicholas were not so different after all. And such thoughts were dangerous.

  He began singing in Welsh, his low voice filling the room with a baritone as sweet and rich as dusky honey.

  May time, fairest season,

  Sweet are the birds, green are the groves...

  After two more lines, the music shifted from joyous spring to a minor key lament.

  When cuckoos sing in the high tree tops,

  Greater grows my grief.

  Smoke stings, sorrow cannot be hidden,

  For my kinsmen have passed away.

  Softly he repeated the last line, all the world's anguish in his voice.

  Though the tune was unfamiliar to her, Clare recognized the words as a poem from the medieval Black Book of Caermarthen, one of the most ancient Welsh texts. Tears stung her eyes, for the familiar words had never touched her so deeply.

  When the last notes had faded away she sighed, mourning all that she had lost, and all that she would never have.

  Hearing the sound, Nicholas's head whipped up, his fingers clashing the strings in a harsh chord as vulnerability instantly transformed into hostility. "You should be asleep, Clarissima."

  "So should you." She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "Why do you call me that?"

  His expression eased. "Clare means clear, bright, direct. Clarissima would be the superlative form in Italian. Most clear, most direct. It suits you."

  She came forward and perched on the edge of a chair near him. "I didn't know you were so musically accomplished."

  "It's not a widely known fact," he said dryly. "In ancient times, a Welsh gentleman had to be skilled in the harp to be considered worthy of his rank, but that has changed in these uncivilized days. Behold my secret vice."

  "Music is not a vice—it's one of life's great joys," she said lightly. "If this is a sample of your wild and wicked ways, I have to wonder if you're the rakehell that the world thinks."

  "My serious vices are public. Since playing a harp has distressingly angelic overtones, I conceal it so as not to ruin my reputation." He plucked a brief, bawdy refrain. "You and I both know the value of reputation."

  "An amusing explanation, but pure rubbish." She regarded him thoughtfully. "Why did you look daggers when I found you?"

  Perhaps it was the midnight intimacy that made him give her a real answer instead of more flippancy. "A gentleman appreciates music, as he does art and architecture, but he doesn't waste his time performing it. If, God forbid, a man of breeding insists on playing an instrument, he should choose something like the violin or pianoforte. A gentleman most emphatically does not waste his time on anything as plebian as a Welsh harp." He pinched a string and ran his fingertips down so that it wept like a heartbroken elf.

  Clare shivered at the agonized sound that came from the instrument. "I assume that you're quoting the old earl. But it's hard to believe that he could dislike your music. You play and sing superbly."

  Nicholas leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs at the ankle, the harp loosely clasped in his arms. "Most of the Welsh common folk would rather sing than eat. Gypsies will dance until their feet bleed. My grandfather did not approve of such excesses. The fact that I wanted to play a harp was proof of my tainted, common blood." Idly he plucked a series of wistful notes. "This was one reason I learned to speak Welsh. Cymric is an ancient, primitive tongue, a language for warriors and poets. I needed to speak it to do justice to the harp."

  "Where did you learn to play so well?"

  "From a hill shepherd called Tam the Telyn."

  "Thomas the Harp," she said, translating to English. "I once heard him play when I was a child. He was marvelous. It was said fancifully that he was the harper of Llewelyn the Great, come back to remind us of Wales' ancient glory."

  "Perhaps Tam really was one of the great bards returned—there was an uncanny quality to him. He made this harp with his own hands, in the medieval style." Nicholas stroked the carved forepillar. "The soundbox is hollowed out of a single piece of willow, and like the ancient harps it's strung with wire rather than gut. Under his instruction I made one like it, but the tone wasn't quite as rich. Tam left me this when he died."

  "You're better than any harpist I've ever heard compete in an eisteddfod. You should enter one sometime."

  "Not bloody likely, Clare," he said, nostalgia vanishing. "I play for myself alone."

  "Is that because you can't bear the thought that people would admire you? You seem much more comfortable with scorn."

  "Quite right," he said silkily. "Everyone has to have an ambition, and mine is to be a soulless monster, an affront to all decent God-fearing people."

  She smiled. "I can't believe that anyone who makes music like you do is soulless. My father never would have thought so highly of someone who was truly wicked."

  He strummed the harp again, calling forth a gentler air. "If not for your father, I would have run away from Aberdare. I'm not sure that he did me a favor in persuading me to stay, but I have to admire his skill at taming a wild child."

  "How did he do that? My father talked very little about his work, since he considered that he was only God's instrument."

  "Did you know that my mother sold me to my grandfather for a hundred guineas?" Before Clare could express her horror at his casual words, Nicholas struck the strings again. Deep, doom-laden notes shivered through the air. "When I came to Aberdare, I was seven and had never spent a night in a house. Like a trapped bird, I became crazed, fighting desperately to escape. They locked me in the nursery and barred the windows to prevent me from battering my way out. The old earl summoned your father, whose spiritual achievements he respected. Perhaps he thought Reverend Morgan could cast out my demons."

  "My father was no exorcist."

  "No. He simply came into the nursery with a basket of food and sat on the floor by the wall, so that his head was near the level of mine. Then he began to eat a mutton pie. I was wary, but he seemed harmless. Also, I was getting hungry because I hadn't eaten in several days—whenever a footman brought food, I'd thrown it at his head."

  "But your father didn't try to force me to do anything, nor did he scold when I stole a mutton pie from the basket. After I'd wolfed it down, he offered me a drink of ale and a currant griddle cake. He also gave me a napkin, along with a gentle suggestion that my face and fingers would be improved by wiping."

  "Then he began telling me stories. Joshua and the walls of Jericho. Daniel in the lion's den. Sampson and Delilah—I particularly liked the part where Sampson pulled the temple down, since I'd felt like that ever since I'd come to Aberdare." Nicholas rested his head against the back of the chair, firelight gilding the chiseled planes of his face. "Your father was the first person to treat me like a child rather than a wild animal to be subdued. I ended up curled under his arm, sobbing."

  Clare felt like crying herself as she imagined the desolate, forsaken boy. To be sold by his own mother! Swallowing the lump in her throat, she said, "My father was the most compassionate man I've ever known."

  Nicholas nodded. "The old earl had chosen well—I doubt that anyone but Reverend Morgan could have persuaded me to accept the situation. He told me that Aberdare was my home, and that if I cooperated with my grandfather, eventually I would have more freedom and wealth than any Gypsy had ever known. So I went downstairs to the old earl and proposed a bargain."

  He made a face. "Obviously I have a propensity for strange bargains. I told my grandfather I would do my best to be the kind of heir he wanted—eleven months a year. In return, I must have one month to return to the Rom."

  "Naturally the earl didn't like the idea, but Reveren
d Morgan persuaded him that this was the only way to get me to behave. So your father became my tutor. For the next two or three years, he came to Aberdare almost every day that he wasn't on a preaching circuit. Besides the usual academic subjects, he taught me how to act like a Gorgio. Eventually I was fit to be sent to a public school where I could be beaten into the semblance of a proper English gentleman." He gave her an ironic glance. "Before I left, I gave him the inscribed book that you used to try to blackmail me."

  Refusing to feel guilty, she said, "So you preserved your heritage by returning to your mother's people every year. That was a remarkably clear piece of thinking for a child."

  "Not clear enough." He plucked a mocking spray of notes. "I thought that I could don the Gorgio life like a suit of clothes and be unchanged when I took it off. But it wasn't that simple—if one is always acting a role, eventually the pretense starts becoming real."

  "It must have been difficult straddling two different worlds," she said. "Did you ever feel that you were neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring?"

  He laughed without humor. "That's a fair description."

  "The more I hear, the less surprising it is that you hated your grandfather."

  Nicholas bowed his head and picked a series of single notes that ran up an octave and down again. "To say that I hated him is... too simple. He was my only kin, and I wanted to please him, at least some of the time. I learned manners and morals, Greek and history and agriculture, yet I could never satisfy him. Do you know what my unforgivable crime was?"

  When Clare shook her head, he said, "Hold out your hand."

  When she extended it, he held his hand next to hers. Beside her milky Celtic complexion, his was like rich coffee with cream. "The color of my skin—something I couldn't change even if I wanted to. If my coloring had been lighter, I think that eventually my grandfather would have been able to forget my heritage. Instead, every time he looked at me he saw a 'damned black Gypsy,' as he so charmingly put it." Nicholas flexed his long, supple fingers, studying them as if for the first time. Bitterness in his voice, he said, "Ridiculous, and certainly unchristian, to hate someone for the color of his skin, yet such trivial things can change the pattern of a life."

  "You are perfect exactly as you are," Clare said intensely.

  He looked startled. "I wasn't fishing for compliments."

  "That wasn't a compliment—it was an objective aesthetic judgment," she said loftily. "A well-bred female would never compliment a man in such a vulgar fashion."

  He smiled, his expression easing. "So I am now classified with Greek urns and Renaissance paintings."

  "More interesting than either." She cocked her head to one side. "Was life easier when you traveled with the Gypsies?"

  "In most ways. My mother was an orphan with no close family, so I would join whatever kumpania was closest to Aberdare. They would always take me in, like a stray puppy." He hesitated. "I enjoyed the visits, but as time passed, I started to see my kinfolk with different eyes. Though the Rom think themselves completely free, in fact they are trapped by their own customs. Illiteracy, the treatment of women, the pride in dishonesty, usually at the cost of those Gorgios who could least afford it, the cleanliness taboos—eventually I could no longer accept such things without question."

  "Yet you have provided a Gypsy campsite at Aberdare."

  "Of course—they are my kin. Any of the Rom can stay as long as they wish. In return, I ask them not to pester the people in the valley."

  "That must be why there hasn't been any trouble with Gypsies for years," Clare said, intrigued. "When I was little, I remember that my mother would bring me inside and bolt the door whenever they came to town. She said that Gypsies were thieves and heathens and that they stole children."

  He chuckled. "The first two things may be true, but the Rom have no need to steal children—they have plenty of their own."

  "I used to dream about being stolen by the Gypsies," she confessed. "I thought it would be nice to be wanted so much."

  Unfortunately, Nicholas caught what she had revealed by her remark. "Did you feel unwanted, Clarissima? I sometimes wondered what it would be like to have Reverend Morgan for a father. A man of unshakeable virtue, compassionate, with time for everyone who needed him." He struck a soft, wistful chord. "Yet saints may not be the easiest people to live with."

  She felt as if he had stabbed her. How dare this rake see what no one else ever had—what she scarcely admitted even to herself. Lips stiff, she said, "It's very late. Now that I know you're not a ghost, I need to get some sleep."

  "How quickly you flee from a question," he murmured. "You're obviously one of those people who enjoys probing others, but doesn't want anyone to see inside her."

  "There's nothing to probe." She stood. "I'm a simple woman and I've led an uncomplicated life."

  He laughed. "You are many things, but simple isn't one of them. You simmer with intelligence and suppressed emotions." He strummed the harp in a deliberate tempo that made her think of a cat stalking a bird. "Do you need to feel wanted, Clarissima? I want you. You have the mysterious, subtle complexity of fine wine—a drink to be savored over and over again. Lovely ankles, too—I'm glad you decided to use the cue for playing billiards."

  Not dignifying that remark with a reply, she tugged her shapeless robe around her and walked toward the door. He plunked at the harp strings with every step.

  She moved faster, and so did the harp.

  She stopped, and the notes did also.

  She whirled around. "Don't mock me!"

  He stilled the strings with one hand, then set the harp on the floor. "I'm not mocking—I'm inviting you to share in the banquet of life, which includes laughter." He rose to his feet, his face a collection of dramatic planes and shadows in the firelight. "It includes desire as well. Passion is the best way I know to forget life's sorrows."

  She shivered. "I see why you're called the Demon Earl, for you talk the devil's theology."

  "In the course of my education, quite a bit of religion was shoved down my throat. I don't recall hearing that pleasure is inherently wicked. Evil is hurting others, while passion is a source of mutual joy." He started to walk toward her. "It's past midnight—another day. Shall I collect my next kiss?"

  "No!" She whirled and dashed out the door.

  The last thing she heard was soft laughter. "You're right—it would be a pity to use it so early. Until later, Clarissima."

  As she hastened through the hallways to the safety of her room, she thought a little wildly that whoever said it took a long spoon to sup with the devil was right, for Nicholas's thinking was beginning to make sense to her.

  Not only was she halfway to perdition—she was beginning to look forward to it.

  Chapter 9

  When they came into sight of the mine, Nicholas reined in his horse and studied their destination. It was not a pleasant scene. The tallest structure was a chimney that poured dark smoke into the cloudy sky. Waste stone was heaped around the grimy buildings, and no trees grew for hundred of yards.

  Clare said, "The main shaft is right in the middle of those buildings. It's used for ventilation, access, and lifting the coal out." She gestured toward the left. "You can't see it from here, but there is also a small older shaft, called the Bychan. These days it's used mostly for ventilation, and sometimes for access to the south end of the pit."

  Though they were over a quarter of a mile away, the pounding of a steam engine was clearly audible. "Is that racket from the engine that pumps water from the pit?" Nicholas asked.

  "Yes, it's an old Newcomen engine. The modern Watts engines are much more powerful."

  He set his horse in motion and they rode down the hill. "Is the engine one of the problems?"

  She nodded. "Not only is it too small for a mine this size, but it's almost a hundred years old and unreliable."

  "Why hasn't it been replaced? When Michael Kenyon bought the mine, he planned to modernize the equipment so production c
ould be increased."

  "Lord Michael did make some improvements in the first few months, but he soon lost interest and left the running of the mine to George Madoc," she explained. "The mine has several old adits—underground tunnels that drain water from the lower levels—so Madoc decided that it would be a waste of money to buy a better pump. That's also his excuse for using an old-fashioned whim gin to raise and lower loads. A modern steam winding engine would be faster, more powerful, and much safer."

  "Short-sighted thinking on Madoc's part. New equipment would be expensive, but would pay for itself fairly soon. I'm surprised that Michael didn't maintain control of the mine's daily operations—he always had a shrewd head for business."

  Nicholas glanced at Clare. "As you know, the Davies family used to own the mine, but my grandfather considered it more bother than it was worth. Michael became interested in the mine when he visited me. He thought that with better management it could be very profitable, so he made an offer. My grandfather was delighted to be rid of the nuisance of running the mine as long as he retained ownership of the land."

  "So that's why the mine changed ownership," she said dryly. "No one bothered to explain to the people who worked there. It was said that Lord Michael took a passing fancy to the valley, so he bought a house and a business on impulse."

  "There's some truth to that—Michael did fall in love with this part of Wales the first time he visited Aberdare. As a younger son, he wasn't in line to inherit any land from his family, so he bought Bryn Manor at the same time he acquired the mine." A thought occurred to Nicholas. "Has he neglected the house as thoroughly as he has the mine?"

  "As far as I know, Lord Michael hasn't set foot in the valley for years. At least another fifteen jobs were lost when Bryn Manor was closed." Clare accompanied her second sentence with a pointed glance.

  Nicholas winced. "The gentry hasn't done very well by the valley, has it?"