“I can see Madoc will have to teach me Welsh before we come again.”
At least Janet would be able to appreciate the rest of the program. Her own family had been musical, after their fashion. When she’d been Dorothy’s age and a bit older, her father had sung to her about three little owls sitting in the forest. Her mother had been lead soprano with the church choir, Janet herself would probably have joined if she’d stayed in Pitcherville. As it was, she sang to Dorothy or herself and went to concerts at the university with her neighbor.
Now that Janet had time and opportunity to listen and the incentive of having married into such a family as Sir Emlyn’s, music had become one of her great joys. She had a good ear and was learning fast; her one regret was that she couldn’t share her pleasure with her tone-deaf husband. Madoc himself didn’t mind a bit.
Sir Emlyn was getting that look on his face which meant he was rehearsing in his head. Lady Rhys was down on the rug, tickling Dorothy with a blade of grass to their mutual delight.
“Go along with Gwen if you want to, Jenny. You might bring me back a cup of tea, and perhaps one of Betty’s cakes if there are any left. Emmy won’t want any.”
Naturally not. Sir Emlyn never could eat before a performance, even an informal one like this. He gave his two daughters a vague smile and waved them off; he could say more with his hands than with his mouth. They straightened their hats and went.
Naturally Gwen and Janet ran into any number of other people who weren’t listening to Bob either; naturally everybody wanted to stop and chat. When they finally got to the farmhouse and headed for the downstairs bathroom, they found half a dozen lined up before them. One was Mary, still in full cry. She had Mavis backed into a corner and was giving her the finer points on how to leap a Beltane fire. Mavis was looking a bit frantic, as well she might; a good deed was clearly in order.
“Oh there you are, Mavis,” said Janet. “We’ve been looking for you. Could you come along with us now, please?”
“Yes, of course. What’s up?”
“Nothing, really,” said Gwen once they’d got clear of the others. “Janet and I just thought you’d like an out from the Beltane fire. Come along to the manor, unless you’re really desperate.”
“I couldn’t be desperate enough to go back in there. What’s wrong with that woman, anyway? I’ve always thought of her as the original Minnie Mouse.”
Janet laughed. “So did I at first, woolly gray with a bright pink nose. But mice can be awful pests once you let them get inside the house. Has Mary always been like this, Gwen?”
“Actually, no. When I was a kid, I don’t recall Mary’s ever saying much except ‘Yes, brother.’ I believe they’re twins, though they certainly don’t look it.”
“But is it true, all that about her being a famous gem-cutter?” Mavis asked.
“I don’t know how famous; but yes, that’s what she does. Mary used to do work for Lisa’s husband. He was an importer of jewels—his father and hers had been in partnership or something. Anyway the Ellises bought the rough stones and the Rhyses cut them. I don’t know whom she works for now. I think Arthur Ellis pretty much ran his out of his pocket, so there wasn’t anybody to take over after he died.”
“What about Bob? Doesn’t he have something to do with the business?”
“Perish the thought, Bob’s a gentleman. He’s never done a stroke in his life, as far as I know, except talk and keep a firm clutch on the purse strings. The parents left something to both him and Mary, but Bob’s always had the handling of it. I don’t know whether he’s mismanaged their estate or whether it never amounted to much in the first place, but I have the impression that they’ve been living pretty much on Mary’s earnings lately. Perhaps that’s why she’s grown more self-assertive, in which case I’m all for her. Well, not quite all. Not enough to listen to any more of her silly gabble about the Beltane fires, at any rate. Thank goodness, they’ll be leaving tomorrow. I’m driving them to the station myself, to make sure they get there.”
Janet laughed. “We’ll go with you and wave them off. Not to be nosy, but what really happened to Lisa’s husband? Madoc doesn’t know, which I must say isn’t like him. He just says Mr. Ellis died somewhere abroad and nobody ever wants to talk about him.”
“I know. They won’t talk to me, either. Lisa keeps his photograph in her drawing room, but I have a feeling that’s mostly for Tib’s sake. On the other hand, I may be doing her an injustice. One never knows with Lisa. If anything gets too close to the bone, she just draws in her head like one of her tortoises. For all one can tell, she may still be grieving her heart out.”
“Eight years is a long time to grieve,” said Mavis, “though the shock of his being murdered—”
Gwen nodded. “It was pretty bad. I was in London at the time. I happened to turn on the news, and there it was. A British dealer in precious stones, named Arthur Ellis, found robbed and murdered in Marseilles. He was assumed to have been carrying jewels with him; the inference was that he’d got mixed up with a smuggling ring.
“So that’s why everybody’s so hush-hush about the way he died?” said Janet.
“Could be, though I still find it hard to believe. Arthur always struck me as such a Playing Fields of Eton type. I used to wonder how he and Lisa ever came to marry, though they seemed to get on well enough. Of course he wasn’t around much, that may have helped. That beastly Tom Feste used to drop bitchy hints about Arthur’s having mistresses scattered all over Europe, but I don’t think anyone took him seriously. I suppose Tom can’t help being spiteful about other people’s marriages when his own are always blowing up in his face.”
“How many has he had so far?” asked Mavis. “I never can keep track.”
“Legally, only three, with a few near-misses. I thought there might be a fourth coming along when Tom appeared here day before yesterday with a voluptuous blonde on the string, but I gather that one went bust.”
“I was wondering about that,” said Janet. “Dafydd had her with him in Tom’s car, you know, when he came to pick us up at the station.”
“Precisely my point. If Tom’s intentions had been serious, do you think he’d have let her within clutching distance of Dafydd?”
“Now, Gwen, don’t be mean. All Dafydd did was drive her to the station so she could catch a train to Swansea.”
“Then he must be coming down with something. Golly, I hope it’s not a sore throat. Here Mavis, you take this loo, I’ll nip upstairs. Coming, Jenny?”
“Yes, I want to pick up a cardigan for myself and something warmer for Dorothy. It’s starting to cool off a bit. Would you like a shawl, Mavis?”
“Don’t bother, Jenny. I can run in and grab a woolly at the farmhouse if the goose pimples start to rise. I’ll be in and out anyway, helping to set out the supper after the music. It’s just going to be a buffet of leftovers. Mam Elen thought another sit-down affair would be too much for Sir Caradoc and who needs it anyway? See you.”
The red room felt less welcoming without Madoc and Dorothy. Janet did what she’d come for and left quickly. There was no ghost in the hall, she wasn’t disappointed.
Mavis hadn’t dawdled either. She was wandering around looking at a collection of etchings that showed slate miners at work: splitting slates, loading tramcars in tunnels, swinging on ropes from the precipitous sides of open quarries. There was one of two men carrying a rude stretcher between them; the body, on it was covered up head and all. Plenty of miners must have been killed by falls or crushed by falling chunks of slate. A hard life, and nothing afterward for the widow and the kids. The coal mines had been worse, Madoc had told Janet. The Rhyses had done well to stick to farming.
Mavis was shaking her head over the print of the dead man being carried away from the quarry. “That’s how my own great-grandfather went. My mam’s grandfather, that was. Her uncle Ivor carried him home, with a neighbor helping. On their dinner break, so they wouldn’t get docked for taking time off from the job. Uncle Ivo
r was fifteen at the time. That’s why he emigrated to Patagonia when they were getting up a colony. Thank God my lot have something better to look forward to. Tell me, Jenny, what’s wrong with Dafydd? He’s not in some kind of jam, is he?”
“Frankly, Madoc and I have been wondering the same thing,” Janet had to tell her. “You have to realize that, silly as it sounds, we don’t know Dafydd all that well. Madoc was telling me only yesterday how little they’d seen of each other growing up. Dafydd’s six years older, you know, and went to school over here while Madoc stayed in Canada. Madoc’s the only one of the three who was born there, you know. And of course their interests have always been completely different.”
“Well, that’s how it is in families sometimes. Gwen, aren’t you ever coming? They’ll be starting up again.”
“Coming!”
Gwen cavorted downstairs with her face freshly done and her hat on backward; they returned to the revels. Sir Caradoc was back on his throne with a teacup and scone serving for orb and scepter. Sir Emlyn was standing beside his uncle, exuding that gentle patience which meant he was fuming to get on with the music.
The three harpists had taken a long break during the poetry reading; they were back in their places, tuning their instruments yet again. There were still people around the tea table; it was quite safe to stop for cups and cakes, not forgetting the promised extra for Lady Rhys. Gwen took only tea. She drank up in a hurry, collected the clarinet her mother and Dorothy had been minding for her, went to the dais, and took the chair that was set ready for her in front of the middle harp. To Janet’s surprise, Sir Emlyn now opened a case that had been on the chair till Gwen handed it to him, and took out a violin she’d never seen him with before. Gwen gave him an A, he lifted his bow, and began tuning up.
“I didn’t know Tad played too,” Janet whispered to her mother-in-law.
“Oh yes, Emmy was a child prodigy of sorts. He was fiddling professionally before he ever began to conduct. He still enjoys having a go now and then, the old sweetie.”
Lady Rhys blew her husband a kiss and raised her teacup in silent toast. He gave his bow a tiny flick. At once those who were still milling around took their places, even Mary the Fires. Dafydd went forward to stand beside his father. Sir Emlyn turned sideways so that everybody on the dais as well as those out front could watch his bow, and struck the opening note.
Janet recognized the tune; it was the well-beloved “Llwyn On,” “The Ash Grove.” She even knew the English words for one of its many versions. “All hail to thee, Cambria, the land of my fathers…” The violin carried the melody, the harps and the clarinet wove a magic veil around it. Then Sir Emlyn nodded to Dafydd, Dafydd gestured to the audience, and the whole meadow burst into song.
Nobody has ever been able to say for sure when the Welsh first learned to sing in harmony rather than in unison. Giraldus Cambrensis thought they might have caught the habit from the Vikings but had by this time sung this way for so long that it had become an innate characteristic of the race. According to him, even tiny Welsh babies instinctively babbled in parts as soon as they’d got past mere screaming. So far, Dorothy hadn’t shown any sign of doing so, but then she wasn’t much of a screamer either.
Whatever its origin, the sound was glorious to hear with Dafydd’s magnificent tenor soaring above all the rest, then blending gently into the harmonious whole Janet sang the English lyrics she knew, they seemed to work as well as any. She didn’t know how many stanzas there were, she only wished there’d been more. But Dafydd swung them into a melody sweet and plaintive, then on to something brisk and funny, himself singing a few solo bars and the rest shouting back, over and over till they ran out of breath.
Then Sir Emlyn played alone, then Gwen, then the two together. Then the harps joined in, then all the instruments stopped at once and Dafydd sang without accompaniment and Janet forgot all the times she’d wanted to swat him. Then everybody sang a capella, then the harps came in one by one, then the clarinet, then the violin, and so it went, on and on, until Sir Emlyn signaled an intermission and everybody went to get another cup of tea.
Now it was back to the music, but now it was different. Bob the Blob sang a solo, and sang it very well, Janet had to admit. He got his round of applause and left the dais well satisfied with himself as always, but this time with good reason. Now Dafydd was beckoning Owain and Mavis and their four up front with the two Patagonians and Sir Emlyn was jigging out a ballad for them to sing, first in Spanish and English by Mavis and the kids, then in Welsh by Owain and Dafydd, with everybody, even Madoc, belting out each chorus in the language of his choice.
There were more performances by various Rhyses, then Dafydd came down to escort his mother up to the dais. Light opera had been Silvestrine’s specialty back when she was performing; she still had a rich mezzo-soprano well suited to some of the familiar melodies of Victor Herbert, who, though not Welsh, had at least been a Celt. She sang alone, she sang with Dafydd, she sang with her husband’s accompaniment, she sang with her daughter’s. Then she said she was too hoarse to sing any more, and Dafydd brought her back to the rug amid tumultuous applause.
“Come along then, Jenny. You’re on next.”
Janet recoiled as though her brother-in-law’s outstretched hand had been a cobra. “Me? I can’t sing.”
“Of course you can,” said Lady Rhys. “You were caroling like a lark a while back. Go ahead, Jenny.”
There was nothing to do, even Madoc was urging her on. Janet went. Dafydd turned her to face the onlookers.
“I expect you’ve all met my beautiful Canadian sister-in-law by now. Jenny, what do you sing over there?”
“Whatever we like. We’re bilingual, more or less, like you, and nobody’s done a French song yet, so how about ‘Vive la Canadienne’ which means something like ‘Hurrah for the Canadian girl.’ She has pretty eyes and everybody’s going to dance at her wedding, and that’s about all there is to it. Surely you know this one, Dafydd.”
That was wicked of her. Dafydd must know lots about girls with pretty eyes, but little about weddings. People caught the joke and Janet forgot to be self-conscious. The tune was merry and easy. With Dafydd coming in on the chorus, she couldn’t help sounding good enough to be encored. Then Sir Emlyn started her off on the sad, tender ballad of “Evangeline.” Janet sang it well, but this was no way to end a joyous day. She turned again to Dafydd.
“Let’s do ‘Alouette’ and ask everybody to join in.”
“Couldn’t be better. I’ll start off, then you come in with the necks and beaks.”
So Janet explained about the lark that was to have its feathers either put on or taken off, she’d never been sure which, and away they went: first the head, then the nose, the beak, the neck, the back, the wings, the tail, and at last the feet, all tacked on one by one and repeated after the latest addition with a good, loud, drawn-out “ohhh” in between, and the fiddle jigging and everyone keeping up with it however they might, and Sir Caradoc beating the time with both hands and feet and getting up at the end to give hugs all around. And now that Wales had surrendered its heart to Canada, there was nothing to do but wish Sir Caradoc Happy Birthday yet once more, and go get another cup of tea.
Chapter 12
“IT’S HIGH TIME WE put Dorothy to bed,” said Madoc.
“It’s also high time I got out of this dress,” said Janet. “If we’re coming back for the Beltane fire, I’m coming in something warm and woolly.”
“Well, I’m not coming at all,” said Lady Rhys. “I’ve had quite enough excitement for one day, and more than enough food. I’m ready to curl up with a book in front of a fire that nobody’s planning to jump over. I daresay Uncle Caradoc feels the same way by now, though he’s borne up marvelously. What about you, Emmy? You do want supper, don’t you?”
“I do, but not another whacking great meal like the last one. There’s Alice coming out with a platter of something, they must be setting up a buffet in the barn. Why don’t you and
I snatch a bite now while Jenny’s putting Dorothy to bed, then go along and baby-tend so that she and Madoc can come back?”
“What a splendid idea. Aren’t you glad we’re such old fogies, Jenny?”
“Tickled to pieces. I’ll see you at the house, then. Don’t hurry, she’s going to need a bath. Madoc, you stay here and visit if you want.”
“You can’t manage the pram alone on this rough ground.”
Of course she could, but Mary, who’d been mercifully quiet during the concert, was now heading their way and any excuse to escape was better than none. They said good night to Gwen, who’d been coaxed into driving to Bangor for a night or two with an old school chum, exchanged pleasantries with some other people who were leaving, told a few more they’d be back in a while, and went on down to the manor.
A coddled egg would be a good supper for a tired baby, Janet decided. Betty, Alice, and Megan must all be up at the barn, so Madoc stopped in the kitchen to fix it while she took Dorothy upstairs. With her child in her arms the room felt welcoming enough, even though Danny the Boots hadn’t been around to light the fire.
That was all right, Janet could scratch a match as well as the next one. By the time Madoc came up with the egg, the room was toasty and Dorothy was sitting in the big china basin getting the day’s accumulations sponged off. When the grandparents arrived, she was into her sleepers, listening to her father’s bedtime story about an enchanted grizzly bear while Janet changed out of her party clothes.
“Well, this is cozy.” Lady Rhys took the armchair Madoc pulled up beside the fireplace for her, and propped her feet on the fender. “Go on, Madoc, what happened to the grizzly bear?”
“A princess kissed him and he turned into a frog.”
“What a disgusting thing to tell a child.”
“Not at all. She was a frog princess and they lived happily ever after, zapping bugs with their tongues. ‘Night, Dody, don’t give your grandma a hard time. My private stock of brandy’s on the shelf in the wardrobe, Tad, if you feel a thirst coming on. Ready, Jenny?”
The Wrong Rite Page 11
