by Mary Balogh
It was his fault that the letters had not reached him.
It was his fault that Evans had been transported.
It was his fault the man had died.
Yes, he had in effect killed Marged's husband.
By the time he arrived home, Geraint was bone weary. Even so he doubted that he would sleep. But he must lie down. Perhaps somewhere between now and dawn sleep would catch him unawares and give him some moments of oblivion.
But when he had undressed and entered his bedchamber and threw back the covers to climb into bed, he found himself staring down at black ashes over which a pitcher of water must have been dashed.
Geraint began to realize the enormity of the problem.
His efforts to come to some arrangement with the other owners of the road trust and the man who had leased it from them came to nothing at all. No one was willing to budge an inch. And everyone was downright angry with him for even suggesting that change was necessary. Was it not enough that the lower classes were seething with discontent? Was it not enough that in other parts of West Wales the rioting and gate breaking had resumed after three years and even in their own area Mitchell's hayricks had been burned?
It was time to stand firm, not time to display even the slightest sign of weakness or wavering.
Besides, Geraint came to realize, the trust of which he was part owner was only one of several in the county. Even if he could gain concessions for his people in the immediate area of Tegfan, they would find the same oppressive tolls to pay as soon as they ventured farther afield—as they must in order to reach markets and in order to haul lime.
In fact, he came to realize that the whole problem was too large for him. If he lowered rents on his land, countless farmers on other people's land would still be suffering. If he gave back the tithe money in services to his people, no other landowner would do so for theirs. The poor would still grow poorer and the workhouses would become increasingly places filled with human despair. He toured the one in Carmarthen with Sir Hector Webb and an alderman of the town. They displayed it with pride. It haunted his dreams for the coming nights. The upland hovel he had shared with his mother had been paradise in comparison. At least they had been together and at least they had been free.
Eurwyn Evans had not been fishing for salmon. He had been trying to destroy the salmon weir that trapped all the fish on Tegfan land and denied the people of Glynderi and the farms beyond one source of food. He had been caught and tried — Sir Hector had been one of the magistrates involved—and sentenced to transportation.
Geraint instructed Matthew Hariey to have the weir destroyed. His steward protested but found himself impaled by the cold blue gaze of his employer. There was no love lost between the two of them, Geraint thought ruefully as he left the man's study. Hariey had had the sole running of the estate for two years and had done an admirable job when judged only by impersonal criteria.
Huw Tegid made similar objections to removing all the mantraps set up on Tegfan land. They were the best deterrent there was to poachers. There were not enough gamekeepers to patrol every corner of the land, and none of them liked to work nights, when poaching was most likely to occur. Like the steward before him, Tegid found himself facing an employer who chose not to argue with him but merely to look at him.
But Geraint felt frustrated. He would make changes on his own estate and gradually conditions would improve. Gradually his people would come to trust him. But it would all happen on a pitifully small scale. For the first time in ten years he felt again a confusion of identities. He was the Earl of Wyvern. In two years in England he had grown comfortable with the title. Now, after a mere couple of weeks in Wales, he was Geraint Penderyn again as well as the earl. He felt with his people. He felt angry with them. It seemed to him as if his real enemies were people like his aunt and uncle, the lessee of the turnpike trust, his steward, his gamekeeper, and—himself.
His two identities were in conflict with each other.
Chapter 11
There was a small forge attached to the stable block of the house though it did not have a full-time blacksmith. When there was work to be done, the Glynderi smith was summoned.
Geraint sat in the forge one afternoon watching Aled shoeing one of the workhorses. They did not converse a great deal—the noise of the forge made conversation difficult—but the silence was companionable enough. Geraint relaxed into it. It must be good, he thought, to have a trade, a skill, something one did well and enjoyed doing, something that occupied most of one's time. He imagined that Aled was a happy man. He wondered, though, why his friend was not married. He was twenty-nine years old. But then Geraint was not married either and was only a year younger. His thoughts touched for a moment on Marged but veered firmly away again. He had spent a week avoiding thoughts of Marged—without a great deal of success.
Aled stretched, his work done. A groom led away the horse, the last of the day.
"I should have charged admission to the show," he said, grinning.
"I could sit and watch work all day," Geraint said, "and never grow tired. I can recommend it as a wonderfully useless occupation."
"You will have to go watch your cook making your dinner, then," Aled said. "I am done here."'
"Sit down and relax for a while,"' Geraint said. "I want to talk to you." He got up himself and strode to the adjoining door into the stables to call to a groom to fetch him two mugs of ale.
"And me a good chapel man," Aled said.
"It is a good restorative, man," Geraint told him. "Think of it as medicine."
Aled seated himself on a rough workbench. "At least you choose to talk to me today instead of fighting me," he said. "I see that Wales is civilizing you again, Ger."
"Again?" Geraint laughed. "I was a marvelously civilized little urchin, wasn't I? Do you remember the ghosts?"
They both laughed at the memories that came flooding back. Poaching at Tegfan had been so bad at one time that the gamekeepers had been put on night patrol. Geraint and Aled had played ghosts one night, dressed in two old nightgowns, one Aled's sister's and the other Marged's. They had wafted through trees, wailing horribly whenever they had spotted a gamekeeper, it had all been Geraint's idea, of course.
"I feel the hair stand on end at the back of my neck when I picture what would have happened if we had been caught," Aled said.
They talked and laughed, reminiscing, until their ale came. It felt almost like old times, Geraint thought. And although he could not be quite sure that they were friends, still he felt closer to Aled than he felt to any of his friends back in London. It was a surprising and rather disturbing thought.
"Aled," he said at last, and his friend's instantly wary expression showed that he understood the conversation was moving past the preliminaries. "I have given orders to have the salmon weir destroyed and the mantraps removed from my land. There will be other changes as time passes. But they will not be enough. Most people here have closed their minds against me. And even if we could make a little haven of this part of West Wales, the injustices and the suffering would go on elsewhere."
Aled drank his ale and avoided Geraint's eyes. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"Something drastic has to be done," Geraint said. He realized as he talked that the thoughts had been germinating in his mind for days. Now they were taking definite shape as he talked. "Something is being done in other areas. Rebecca Riots. Why are there none here?"
Aled looked at him then, amazement and anger mingled in his expression. "Is that what this is all about?" he said, indicating his glass of ale. "You are looking for an informer? How in hell would I know why there are no Rebecca Riots here? And what are Rebecca Riots, pray? I have a tidy walk home. I had better get started."
"No!" Geraint said. "Sit there, Aled. You have been like a bloody eel since I came home, wriggling and slippery to the grasp. If there are no Rebecca Riots here, there ought to be. I hate the thought of destruction as much as the next man, but there is no surer way of
attracting outside attention, I believe. Any riot confined to one man's land will be seen as his problem. Any riot concerning the public roads will be taken far more seriously. And perhaps it will bring about change for the better."
"And perhaps it will lead men into a trap to their deaths or to hard labor half a world away," Aled said, his voice still tight with anger.
Geraint leaned forward and held his friend's eyes with his own. "A trap of my setting?" he said. "Come, man, you know me better than that."
"Do I?" Aled frowned. "You are a stranger I used to know, Geraint, a long time ago."
Geraint leaned back in his chair. "In one way I have changed," he said. "I have learned to read men's minds by listening to the tone of their voice as well as their words, and by watching the expression on their faces and the language of their bodies. There are plans in the making, aren't there? And you know about them. Are you one of the leaders, Aled? I would imagine you are, though you lack the fiery spirit to be the main leader, I believe. Are the plans very close to fruition?"
"Bloody hell,'' Aled said. "That is exactly where you have escaped from. You are the very devil. What kind of a story are you making up? And which magistrate are you going to take it to? Webb?"
Geraint was rocking on the back legs of his chair. He ignored Aled's words. His eyes were narrowed in speculation. "I wonder what the delay is," he said. "And I wonder if the pranks that were happening at Tegfan until they culminated in wet ashes in my bed last week were a result of the frustration of waiting. Marged was never very patient, was she? As soon as she had an idea she always had to carry it through now if not yesterday. I have realized that Marged must have been the mastermind—the mistress mind?— behind those accidents. But I suppose it would have to be a man to lead Rebecca Riots. The area would be larger and a larger number of men would be involved. A woman would not be accepted. Is that it, Aled? Are you all waiting for a leader? For a Rebecca?"
"Damn you," Aled said. "You had a lively imagination as a child. I see that by now you are creating fairy tales with it. Not truth, but fantasy."
Geraint held his eyes. The front legs of his chair had been returned to the floor. "You have one," he said. "You have a Rebecca. You are looking at her."
Aled went very still and his face paled. "You're mad, Ger," he almost whispered. "I always said you were mad. I was right."
"And I am right too, aren't I?" Geraint said. "It is a Rebecca you are lacking. Look back in your memory, Aled. Who is more likely to relish such a position than I?"
Aled seemed to have forgotten that he knew nothing about Rebecca Riots. "It would be absurd," he said. "The riots are a protest against landlords. You are one of the biggest landlords in Carmarthenshire."
Geraint nodded. "And I grew up as one of the poorest of the poor," he said. "I know both worlds, Aled. They should be able to coexist in peace and harmony but do not. I want them to do so but have been frustrated in my approaches to both worlds. I feel stuck firmly in the middle and impotent to change anything. But as Rebecca I could. I am accustomed to leading. I did it from instinct as a boy, and I have done it from training as a man. A rabble is not easy to lead or control. I could do both. And I know how to attract attention. As Rebecca I could write letters to the right people—to government figures, to Englishmen who are sympathetic to the poor and influential in Parliament, to certain newspapers."
"Duw save us," Aled said, still pale, "you are serious."
"Yes." Geraint nodded. "I am. But I need a bridge from one world to the other, Aled. There is an organization already in place, plans already made. There are, aren't there? And you know about them and can bring me in."
"You are mad," Aled said again. "Do you think anyone would accept you as leader, Ger? You are the enemy."
"No more than a few people need know," Geraint said. "Who is making all the plans? A small group, at a guess. Some sort of committee? I imagine that if they are wise they emphasize secrecy at every turn. If there are informers it is as well to give them as few people to inform against as possible. Rebecca's identity would probably be kept from the rank and file, wouldn't it?"
"This is your fairy tale," Aled said. "You tell me."
"What sort of disguise does Rebecca wear?" Geraint asked.
"From what I have heard," Aled said, "of distant riots, you understand, she usually wears a flowing white robe and a long blond wig and she blackens her face."
"Blackens her face." Geraint thought for a moment. "Not a very good disguise for her followers who might be close enough to have a good look at her. A mask would be better, something to pull over the whole head beneath the wig."
"You would be recognized anyway,"' his friend said.
"I think not." Geraint said. "The disguise is a good one for hiding form and figure. Everyone will assume that I am someone from another town or village, someone they have never met before. And who in his right mind would even dream that it might be me?"
"Your voice?" Aled said.
"You are the only one to whom I have spoken Welsh since my return," Geraint said. "Do I speak it with an English accent?"
"No." Aled frowned.
"Rebecca will speak only Welsh. And it is no problem to deepen my voice a little just in case."' Geraint said, doing just that. "No one will know. And no one would guess that I would disguise myself in order to lead my own people against me, would they?"
"Even those who knew you were mad as a boy would not realize that you are totally insane,'" Aled said. "You are, Ger. I am surprised that someone has not chained you to the wall of one of your elegant London mansions before now."
Geraint grinned. He had not felt so vibrantly alive for—he could not remember for how long.
"In the meantime," he said, "I am going to have to halt reform on my own land. I don't want anyone to become confused and perhaps pity me. The destroyed weir and mantraps will have to do for now."
Aled straightened up on his bench suddenly and looked wary again. "Oh, Duw, Ger," he said, "you had me going there for a while. That was an amusing fairy tale."
Geraint chuckled. "Too late, Aled," he said. "I saw the truth in your face, and I saw the excitement in your eyes. You need a Rebecca and you know I am the perfect choice—perhaps the only choice. Are you on the committee? And don't ask what committee."
Aled stared at him.
"Take me to them," Geraint said. "They can all hide behind disguises if they wish. You can keep the location a secret from me. You can even blindfold me. But let me talk to them."
He watched as Aled closed his eyes and paled again.
"Aled," he said, "why would I be setting a trap for you? You are the only thing I have resembling a friend here. Marged hates me bitterly and I understand why now. You can go and see for yourself that the salmon weir has gone. Is that not proof enough for you that I mean well? Will you not trust me?"
Aled was looking at him again, his eyes troubled. "I dare not trust you," he said. "There are too many people dependent upon my judgment." He grimaced. "But I suppose those very words show that I am wavering. Damn you, Ger, why did you not stay in England where you belong?"
"I think I came because you need a Rebecca," Geraint said quietly. "Do you believe in fate, Aled? Seemingly insignificant events can be enormously significant in retrospect. Two men passed me on the street in London, talking Welsh. One of them was saying something about missing the hills. And here I am. For almost three weeks I have thought that perhaps it was a dreadful mistake to come. Certainly my return has brought me no happiness. But now I know why I was made to pass those men and overhear a snippet of their conversation. I was sent here to be Rebecca."
"By Satan," Aled said.
"Perhaps." Geraint looked steadily back at him. Silence stretched between them. "Well?"
"You used to talk me into trespassing for the sake of trespassing," Aled said. "You talked me into playing ghosts that one night. You talked Marged and me into hiding you in that cupboard in the schoolroom one Sunday afternoon before Sunday s
chool. You talked me into participating in every mad scheme you ever dreamed up, Ger. Why not this one too?" There was no amusement in his voice, only a sort of irritated frustration.
"Where? When?" Geraint jumped to his feet.
"Soon." Aled got more slowly to his. "I'll let you know, Ger. But I wouldn't get my hopes too high if I were you. You will not find the other members of the committee quite as gullible as I am."
"Aled." Geraint held out his right hand, as serious as his friend. "You will not regret trusting me, man. I'll not let you down."
"I'll fight you to the death if you do," Aled said quite seriously. "Assuming I am free to fight, of course."
They clasped right hands.
Matthew Harley paid an afternoon visit to Pantnewydd. He called at the office of Sir Hector Webb's steward, but as usual he soon found himself walking outside in company with Sir Hector himself. The two men had a mutual respect for each other, and Harley had always realized that Sir Hector—and through him, Lady Stella—used him in order to gain news of Wyvern in England and in order to oversee the estate that would perhaps be his wife's one day. It had always seemed to Harley that Sir Hector was more his employer than the Earl of Wyvern.
"He ordered me to have the salmon weir destroyed," he explained to Sir Hector when they were well launched into the topic they had come together to discuss. "And he has had Tegid take away all the mantraps."
"Fool!" Sir Hector said viciously. "Does he expect to be better respected for it? Does he not realize he will be merely laughed at and seen as a weak man?"
"With all due respect, sir," Harley said, "I do not believe he fully understands the situation. He is trying to be popular. He has attended their chapel and a birthday party for an elderly lady on one of the farms."
