Truly

by Mary Balogh

  Marged was to be there, he thought as he approached the house. The thought had been there, hovering in the back of his mind, ever since he had decided to come. She would have nothing to do with him. It would be far better for his peace of mind to stay away from places where she was likely to be. But he knew that it was the sure knowledge she would be there that had influenced his decision to come.

  He would see her again—in a place where perhaps she could not openly snub him. Though one never quite knew with Marged.

  Even then, when he reached the farmhouse, he was not sure he would have had the courage to go inside. He paused outside the door, hearing the sound of voices. But then he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the fluttering of fabric. He turned his head to see that someone was standing at the far side of the farmyard, close to the chicken coop. A small woman. Ceris Williams, he believed, though he could not see quite clearly in the darkness. But she had seen him and curtsied to him. He inclined his head in return.

  And so he had no alternative but to lift his hand and knock on the door. And when it opened and he saw the kitchen crammed with people, all of them with turned heads to see who the late arrival was and all of them falling silent with amazement and embarrassment, his course was set. He had to step inside, take off his hat, and acknowledge with nods all those whose eyes he met.

  Chapter 9

  He had spoiled the party, he thought a few minutes later after Ianto Richards had rescued him by coming forward to welcome him. He made his way to the fireplace where Mrs. Howell was seated—a path opened before him as if by magic—and wished her a happy birthday and talked to her with the conversational skill learned long ago and practiced so often that it had become almost second nature to him. And then the Reverend Llwyd was at his side and engaging him in conversation.

  The silence had dissolved into the buzz of conversation again. But it was a self-conscious conversation, Geraint thought. For such a large gathering and such an occasion, and in the presence of such a feast as he could see loaded onto the table, it did not appear to be a merry party. It had been before his arrival, he would wager, and would continue to be after he took his leave.

  He must take his leave. He had done his duty. He had made his point. Now it was time to leave the occupants of the house to enjoy themselves. Aled, he noticed, had kept his distance and had kept his eyes averted. Some friend he was.

  He remembered suddenly running home to the moors one day, excited with the news that there had been a wedding in the chapel and that everyone was going to the house of the bride'ts father to feast. There had been two long tables of food set up outside the house. He had managed to snatch up a large bun that had fallen to the ground and Mr. Williams had spied him and tossed him a handful of small coins. He had shown his mother his treasures and had broken the bun carefully in half to share with her.

  It was almost the only occasion when he had seen his mother cry. She had sat holding him, telling him about the parties she had attended as a girl, when she had been the daughter of the minister—the one who had preceded the Reverend Llwyd. They had been the most wonderful of occasions, she had told him, pain and wistfulness in her voice. Not only because of the food and the merriment, but because of the laughter and the company and the wonderful sense of belonging, of being with people who cared.

  Yes, he thought now. He had been outcast then because the people who cared had put limits on their caring, cutting off those they believed had transgressed their stern moral code. And he was outcast now—perhaps more justifiably so. But even so, he had tried and was trying to show friendship and the willingness to reach out in sympathy and they were giving him no chance.

  But before he had the opportunity to take his leave, Mrs. Howell spoke up.

  "Marged." she said, "sit down at your harp, girl. It is time for the singing. A few folk songs on your own, is it? And then we will have a xymtmfa ganu, a singing together. We will sing to be heard across the hills. We will sing to be heard by Eurwyn's gran, who cannot travel any more than I can these days, and by his mam, who stayed at home to keep her company. Come, fa eh."

  Marged smiled and kissed her cheek before seating herself and drawing the harp toward her. She completely ignored him, Geraint noticed, though he was standing close.

  "I would rather have the gymanfa ganu right away, Mrs. Howell," she said. "But for you I will sing folk songs."

  She spoke in Welsh, the first that had been spoken since Geraint's arrival. Aled was the only one—and Idris—with whom he had spoken Welsh since his return to Tegfan. Perhaps everyone thought that he had forgotten the language he had heard and spoken every day for his first twelve years. Marged's choice of language now was perhaps a deliberate snub.

  He knew that her singing voice was still lovely. He had heard it in chapel on Sunday. But there was something about harp music and something about the Welsh folk songs she chose that made it sound hauntingly lovely tonight. He listened enraptured and felt again that tightening in his chest and aching in his throat. Had he really believed until very recently that he could live happily in England for the rest of his life? Had he really believed that he could ignore his Welsh heritage?

  Had he really believed that Marged was just a bittersweet memory of his past?

  He stayed for the gymanfa ganu even though he kept telling himself that he should leave so that everyone else could relax and enjoy the singing and the feast that was to follow it. He kept telling himself that he would stay and listen to just one more hymn—he would not sing himself, though he remembered the tunes and even most of the words. But the harmony all about him was just too soothing to his rough and battered nerves. And after a while everyone seemed to forget his presence and relax anyway.

  Aled slipped outside during the singing. He stood quietly outside the door for a while, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. She might have gone home, but he did not think she would do that without a word to her mother and father. And then he saw the lightness of her dress down by the gate leading into the pasture. She was standing with her arms along it, her back to him.

  "Ceris," he said softly as he came up behind her. He did not want to startle her.

  She set her forehead down between her hands and said nothing.

  "You will be cold," he said. He noticed for the first time that she had not brought her cloak with her. He shrugged out of his coat and set it about her shoulders. She whirled around then, perhaps to shrug free of his coat. But he did not drop his arms. He kept them about her and tightened them, bringing her close against him. She did not struggle. She rested her forehead against his chest and sighed.

  He turned his head to rest his cheek against the fop of her head. It had been so long.

  "There is one thing I regret more than anything else in my life," he said. "I should not have been so concerned about paying off my father's debts and getting the business back on its feet before marrying you. I should have listened to you when you pleaded with me to marry you. poverty and all. You would have been my wife now. We would have had some little ones together."

  She did not say anything for a long while. He held her to him, listening to the singing from inside the house, feeling that happiness was this, this fleeting moment. And unhappiness was the same moment.

  "I am glad you were so stubborn," she said. "I am glad we never married, Aled."

  He swallowed awkwardly. "I love you, cariad," he said.

  "No," she said. "It is something other than love that rules your life, Aled. It is hatred and the desire for revenge. It is the desire for destruction and violence."

  "It is the desire for a better life," he said, "and the conviction that we have a right to it. It is the belief that I owe it to myself and to my neighbors and to my unborn children—if ever I have any—to do something to bring about that better life. It is something I cannot allow others to do for me, cariad."

  "Neither could Eurwyn," she said bitterly. "But he died and left Marged and his mam and gran to manage without him. And no one
has a better life as a result of what he did."

  He lifted one hand to cup the back of her head. "It is what you are afraid of?" he asked softly. "That I will die and leave you alone? It is better, you think, not to marry me and not to have my little ones if I recklessly court death?"

  She was crying then and trying to pull away from him. But his arms closed about her like iron bands. And he kissed the top of her head, the wet cheek that was exposed to him, and finally the wet face she lifted to him. He kissed her mouth with hunger, parting her lips with his own.

  "Tell me you love me," he whispered against her lips. "It has been so long since I heard you say the words. Tell me I am your cariad."

  But she struggled then and freed herself and turned back to face the gate, his coat held about her shoulders with both her hands.

  "No," she said. "You are not my love, Aled. And I do not believe Marged is my friend any longer. I am sorry for it. Marged is causing mischief and you are talking of breaking down tollgates with perhaps hundreds of men to make a mob. Someone will get hurt. It may be you or it may be Marged. But worse, it may be someone else, hurt because of you or Marged. I cannot love you any longer. No, let me put it differently. I will not love you any longer. But you knew that. We have argued it out before. Let there be an end now. No more scenes like this. It is over."

  "And yet," he said, "you still love me."

  "You were not listening." She released her hold on his coat and let it slide to the ground.

  "Ah, yes," he said sadly, "I was, cariad."

  She said nothing more. And he could think of nothing more to say either. She would not give up her conviction that protest and violence were never justified, and he would not give up his conviction that they were and that if he wanted to see change and thought someone should do something about effecting it, then he must be willing to do his part. He could no longer stand back and let the Eurwyns of this world do his fighting for him. He must fight for himself.

  Even if it meant giving up the one good thing in his life that had given it meaning and direction for the past six years. For four of those years he had worked long, hard hours in his forge, making himself worthy of her, making for her a secure future and preparing a comfortable home. And now for two he had taken the course best calculated to drive her away forever.

  But there was nothing he could do to change that. For if he could not offer her his integrity, then he had nothing worth offering at all.

  He stooped down to pick up his coat and set it over the top bar of the gate. And he turned to walk back to the house. He stopped, though, when he reached the door and looked back. She had not moved except that her head had gone down again. He could not see clearly in the dark. He could not see if her shoulders were shaking. But he had the impression that she was crying again. Or perhaps, like him, she was too deeply dejected to cry.

  He changed his mind when his hand was already on the latch of the door. He strode away from it and instead look the downward road home. It was a chilly night, but he scarcely noticed the absence of his coat.

  Ceris did not move for a long time. She was trying to conjure up another face, another body, other hands, another kiss. Anything to dull this raw pain. And to ease the guilt. He had come calling twice in the past week and had talked politely with Mam and Dada before asking them if he might take her walking — as if she were a girl instead of a woman of twenty-five. But Mam and Dada had been pleased—as pleased as they could be when they wished she would settle her differences with Aled and marry him. And as pleased as they could be when he was English and when he worked for the Earl of Wyvern. But, as her father had said, it was an honest living. He could not be blamed for what he was required to do.

  She had walked out with him twice, and on the second occasion—just two evenings ago—he had taken her home and stood outside with her and asked if he might court her. They were his exact words. She had said yes.

  He had asked if he might kiss her and she had said yes again. And so he had, drawing her against his body, his hands at her waist, and setting his lips against hers. She had felt him grow instantly hot and had stepped back hastily.

  But she had agreed to the kiss and to the courtship. He had behaved correctly and courteously. And she had acquiesced. In effect she had agreed to consider marriage with him.

  And yet now, what had she done? Would there be no end to this—passion?

  Or to the guilt? She had felt guilty saying yes to Mr. Harley—to Matthew. Guilty because for so long she had thought of herself as Aled's. And now she felt guilty because she had allowed Aled to hold her and kiss her. Guilty because she had agreed to a courtship with Matthew.

  You would have been my wife now. We would have had little ones together.

  I love you, cariad.

  And yet you still love me.

  She could feel the power of his arms and the hunger of his mouth. She could hear his voice loud in her memory.

  And she tried desperately to think of the man she had agreed to consider marrying.

  The whole tone of the party had changed. For everyone, though soon enough everyone else adjusted to the unwanted presence in their midst and resumed their conversations and their joking. It was different, of course. There was more self-consciousness in the merriment, but even so the evening was not ruined—for everyone else.

  Marged could not return to even a semblance of normality. She experienced all the expected feelings—shock that he had had the gall to come, indignation that he should try to spoil one of the few evenings of enjoyment they ever indulged in, a more personal fury, hatred. But there were other feelings too, more disturbing because they were apparently uncontrollable—a grudging admiration for his handsome face and figure and his immaculate dress, a very physical awareness of him, a feeling that every move she made, every word she spoke was open to his scrutiny and therefore must be perfect.

  When Mrs. Howell asked her to play the harp and sing, she did so for him. Oh, not willingly. She kept her eyes away from him and tried to focus her mind on Mrs. Howell, but all the time while she sang she wondered if he liked her playing, as he had used to do, if he found her voice pleasing, if he remembered the songs she chose. She wondered if her hair was as smooth and as shiny as it had been when she left home. She wondered if she looked all of the ten years older than she had looked at sixteen. He looked older, but then age had only improved his appearance. But he had told her she was lovelier than she had been and that her voice had matured and was lovelier.

  The more she tried to ignore him and focus on the singing about her and the occasion they had all gathered to celebrate, the more she felt as if only he was in the room with her.

  She hated the feeling.

  She had hoped he would have the decency to leave before or during the singing. And then she hoped he would leave when supper began. Surely he did not intend to eat with them. But he did so, held perhaps by the fact that her father and Ninian Williams made conversation with him. And then Ceris. She was offering him a plate of food and smiling shyly at him and talking with him. And he was bending his head to hers, to hear what she was saying above the din of the room, his hard blue eyes almost gentle on hers. Marged felt a pang of something unpleasant and recognized it for what it was.

  She was appalled. Jealousy?

  She went to the table and spent some time choosing the foods she would sample, concentrating on the choice as if it was a matter of some importance. And she winked at Idris Parry, whom she spied beneath the table. She had noticed him there earlier. He had sneaked into the house, though he had had no need to do so since his parents had been invited. They had been too ashamed to come, though. Ashamed of their poverty and shabbiness.

  She felt a special partiality for Idris. She was fond of the little girls too and they were far more affectionate when she went up onto the moors with food for the family. Idris was a wild little imp, who roamed free and was rarely at home. But her heart ached with tenderness for him.

  She reached out to take a
scone, but her hand remained suspended over the platter How strange that she had never noticed the similarity before, it was so strong that it was almost like looking back over time. They even looked alike. Idris was almost like a reincarnation of Geraint as he had been. That was why she was so fond of him?

  The thought saddened her immensely.

  And then the Owen brothers arrived, one on each side of her, and proceeded to examine every item on her plate and discuss between themselves, over the top of her head just as if she was not even there, exactly how many pounds each item would add to her weight.

  "Roly-poly she will be by next Sunday," Dewi said. "She will be able to roll down the hill to chapel and save the energy of walking."

  "But a nice soft armful she will make for some lucky man, mind," Dylan said.

  "Well, it will not be you, Dylan Owen," she said sharply. "And you had better be standing to one side of the path when I come rolling by, Dewi, or I will flatten you." She picked up the largest scone on the platter and deposited it ostentatiously on top of the other food on her plate.

  "Fuming she is," Dewi said. "Look out for Marged when she is mad, Dyl. It would be safer to wave a red flag to our dada's bull."

  "We had better keep her happy, then," his brother said, picking up a jam tart and adding it to her pile. "Enjoy yourself, Marged, and do not burst at the seams."

  Marged found herself giggling. She kept up the banter with them for half an hour while they ate, and other young people joined them. She deliberately kept her back to Geraint and hoped that perhaps before she turned he would have taken his leave without her even noticing. Though she would have known, she thought. She could feel him behind her almost as if he had a hand against her back, though he was still standing close to the fire, some distance from the table.

  Finally people began to leave, especially those with young children, though several of the youngsters protested loudly. She would slip away with them, Marged thought. If the Earl of Wyvern was going to stay to the end, then she would leave. Once numbers had dwindled, those remaining would gather in one group about the fire. She had no wish to be drawn into a group that included him.