by Mary Balogh
But he had ruined her morning. She had been unable— again—to concentrate on any part of the service though it had sounded as if her father had been fuller of hwyl even than usual if the chorus of responses from the congregation during the sermon was anything to judge by.
And what was worse, he had ruined last night for her. She had tried to ignore her awareness of him by concentrating her mind and her emotions on Rebecca and their ride home together and their shared kiss. But it had not worked. Not as well as it had the night before when she had gone to bed.
He had merely been a stranger being gallant. And taking advantage of the situation a little at the end by stealing a kiss. Though there had been no theft involved, of course. He must have known that she was pathetically willing. It had been nothing more than that for him. Perhaps he even had a wife at home, wherever home was.
Only she had felt the magic.
And damn Geraint Penderyn for making her see that sooner than need be. Yes, she would use the word again quite deliberately in her mind.
Damn him!
Ceris walked with Marged but did not participate at all in the conversation. She had always known her friend's views and had always sympathized even if she could not agree. Marged after all had lost a husband cruelly. It was enough to make any woman bitter. If it had been Aled…
But Marged had gone beyond talk. She had joined Rebecca last night, as had Aled, and they had gone to smash a tollgate. A legally erected tollgate. She knew they had gone. Her father would have gone too if the distance had not been so great. But he was no longer a young man and found it difficult to walk great distances. Aled had advised him against going, he had explained last evening to Mam and her. But he would go another time, when it was a gate closer to home.
Ceris marveled at how well rested Marged looked. No one would know that she had been up for most of the night and marching through the hills and breaking down a tollgate.
She herself had not slept at all. Worse, she had been sick with worry all night. What if they hurt someone? Or killed someone? What if they were caught? What if some of them were hurt or killed? Or thrown in prison to await trial as Eurwyn had been? She had felt sick for every one of them, especially those she knew. She had visualized them one at a time in her mind, all those men she knew had gone. And Marged.
She had not thought of Aled. And she had thought of no one else. Her father had told them that Aled was playing the part of Charlotte, Rebecca's favorite daughter. The one who would be closest to Rebecca. The one who would be in most danger.
She had still been sick with worry this morning. Had they really done it? Had they all returned safely? And then in chapel she had seen that no one was absent except Miss Jenkins's elderly father, who sometimes stayed in bed on a Sunday morning although they lived right next door to the chapel.
Marged was there.
And Aled was there. Her legs had felt like jelly as she walked behind her mother to their pew. Thank God, oh, thank God, Aled was there. He had come back safely.
And then of course, just when relief should have helped her to relax so that she could concentrate on worship, the guilt hit her. She had worried all night and all morning over Aled—and had not spared a thought for Matthew. She had put Matthew off when he had wanted to walk with her last evening. She had been afraid he would see something.
She had thought she was growing fonder of him. She was. She enjoyed his company. He talked to her about his childhood in England and about life there. He opened up a different world to her imagination. She was trying to enjoy his kisses. She did enjoy them. And she was trying not to flinch from some rather more intimate touches. Aled, after all, had done more than just kiss her. There had to be more than just kisses between two people when they were courting.
And she had agreed to be courted.
He was showing interest in her, making her feel that she mattered to him as a person. He was asking her about her life and her people. He had even asked her about Aled and why they had broken up.
"Well," he had said, not pressing the point when she had given him a vague answer, "all I can say, Ceris, is that I am glad you did and that I never thought him worthy of you."
She was glad he had kissed her then. She could not have responded in words.
She was trying very hard to fall in love with him. She had thought she was close. And yet all last night and all this morning she had thought only of Aled.
She wondered in some despair, as she walked home after chapel, not participating in the conversation Marged and her mother were holding, if she would ever stop loving Aled. One should be able to stop loving someone of whom one disapproved. One should be able to fall in love with someone one liked. But love did not work that way.
Sometimes she wished—although she had denied it to Aled at Mrs. Howell's party—that they had married before all this had started to happen. And sometimes she wished that on one of those occasions when they had walked up into the hills together and their embraces had grown hot, one or other of them had not stopped the embrace before it went too far. Sometimes she wished that she had known Aled in the biblical sense at least once in her life. And that she had at least one of his little ones to hold in her arms.
And God forgive her for the sinfulness of such thoughts.
Perhaps if she married Matthew and knew with him what she had never known with Aled, and perhaps if she had a child with him—perhaps… Did love work that way? she wondered. She had no way of knowing—yet.
"Ceris," Marged said, speaking to her directly at last and forcing her friend's wandering thoughts back to the present, "you are walking out with Mr. Harley? I have known it for some time—everyone knows it by now—but we have not been exactly the closest of friends lately, have we?"
She smiled rather awkwardly and Ceris noticed that her mother had walked on up the lane to the house, leaving them alone together.
"Is it wise?" Marged asked.
"Wise?" Ceris became instantly wary.
"Well, he is the steward at Tegfan," Marged said, "though he cannot be blamed for what he has done there, I suppose. He is merely doing a job. We all know where his orders come from." Her voice hardened.
"He is courting me," Ceris said. "I—I like him, Marged."
"But he is the Earl of Wyvern's steward," Marged said, "and loyal to him. You know what is going on here, Ceris. What if you say something to him that you ought not?"
Ceris did not often lose her temper. But her eyes blazed now. "You think I would?" she said. "You think I would stoop that low, Marged, just because I will not support what you are doing?"
"No!" Marged looked stricken. "I meant inadvertently, Ceris. Without realizing it. I—oh, forgive me. I did not mean—"
Ceris's anger died as quickly as it had flared. She stepped forward and hugged her friend impulsively. For some reason, they were both in tears.
"He is a good man, Marged," she said. "I may marry him if he asks. I am twenty-five years old and l-lonely. But I would never betray my people even if I cannot support what they do. I would never say anything to put you in danger or Dada or…"
"Or Aled," Marged said. "Oh, Ceris."
Ceris blinked away tears. "What happened last night?" she asked miserably. "Was anyone hurt? Was a gate destroyed? Was anyone recognized?"
"A gate was destroyed," Marged said. "We have a wonderful Rebecca, Ceris. He has complete control and uses it wisely. He allowed the gatekeepers to leave in peace and gave them time to take their possessions with them. And Aled supported him throughout. He was very—brave. It is not an easy risk to take."
Ceris paled. "Aled is nothing to me," she said quietly. "I am walking out with Matthew Harley. But Marged, I will say nothing. You must not fear betrayal from me."
"I did not." Marged's voice was contrite. "Friends again, Ceris? I have missed you."
Ceris nodded. "Me too," she said.
Sir Hector Webb called at Tegfan during the afternoon with his wife. Geraint, who was busy in the library writi
ng letters, had them shown to the drawing room and joined them there a few minutes later.
"I suppose you have heard what has happened?" Sir Hector said almost before they had finished greeting one another. His look was thunderous, Geraint noticed.
"Happened?" he asked politely.
"It is disgraceful," Lady Stella said from her place on the sofa.
"The tollgate near Penfro was pulled down last night," Sir Hector said. He had not seated himself. He was pacing the floor. "And the house too and everything in it. The keeper and his wife were fortunate to escape with their lives. As it was, they were threatened and beaten."
"Indeed?" Geraint raised his eyebrows and took the chair opposite the sofa. "Were there many persons involved? I trust they were apprehended. They must be made a public example of."
"It was a lawless rabble," Sir Hector said. "Several hundred strong, all wielding guns and axes and knives. And of course it was led by a man calling himself Rebecca. And no, no one was caught. That is always the trouble with these Rebecca Riots. There is so much countryside and so many gates. It is almost impossible to know where and when they will strike next."
Geraint's eyebrows rose again. "And so we sit back and allow ourselves to be made fools of?" he asked, his voice cold and haughty. "And will it be our hayricks and our stables and our houses next? I think not, Hector."
"I am thankful to see that you are as outraged as we are, Wyvern," Lady Stella said. "From the way you have been talking about tolls and tithes and rents, we wondered if you would be sympathetic to the mob."
"It is one thing to give some favor freely, Aunt," he said. "It is another to have it taken by force. We can allow no such thing. What measures are to be taken, Hector? Has the army been summoned?"
"I have talked with others since this morning," Sir Hector said. "We will request that soldiers be sent, of course. In the meanwhile we will have special constables sent to the area. But it will not be easy. We will rely heavily on informers. We will offer a reward for the capture of anyone who takes part in the riots—fifty pounds is one suggestion, with one hundred for one of the leaders, or daughters as they are foolishly called, and five hundred for Rebecca. What do you think, Wyvern? Are you willing to pay your share of the cost?"
"It is a great deal of money," Geraint said.
"You can afford it." His aunt made no attempt to hide the contempt in her voice.
"I meant that it should not be long before we round up the ringleaders and put an end to this insanity," Geraint said. "Surely informers will flock to claim their reward."
"It is obvious you have not been in this part of the world for a long time," Sir Hector said. "They are a foolish and stubborn people, the Welsh peasantry. And as closemouthed as clams. They would prefer to protect one another than to make their lives a little more comfortable with blood money."
"Someone will surely talk," Geraint said. "It will take only one."
"Or one caught red-handed," his uncle said. "A man might trade information for the assurance that he will not spend the next seven or so years of his life at hard labor in a foreign land."
"I will do my part, certainly," Geraint said. "By this time tomorrow my people will know that it would be wiser to let the Penfro gate be the first and the last they will ever attack. I thought I was prepared to take a closer look at rents and to take a more lenient view of tithes. I thought I was prepared to see a lowering of the tolls to help my farmers. But they have just alienated my sympathy."
"Well," Lady Stella said, "that is something, at least."
Sir Hector cleared his throat. "Far be it from me to criticize, Wyvern," he said, "but I predicted this as soon as I heard about your salmon weir and the gamekeeper's traps. It never does to show even a hint of weakness to these people."
"I can see that now," Geraint said humbly. "But it will not happen again, you may rest assured. It does not amuse me to be spat upon." He turned to Lady Stella as he rose to his feet and approached the bellpull. "You will be ready for tea, Aunt."
Chapter 15
Geraint was careful the next morning not to call on Aled first. He visited a few of the farms before going to the village and paid a few calls there before stopping at the smithy. This morning he was no longer the newly arrived earl, making an effort to get to know his people and even to show some friendliness toward them. This morning he was the stern, thin-lipped aristocrat, asking questions, issuing warnings, hinting of rewards.
The Reverend Llwyd surprised him.
"I will ask you to leave, my lord," he said, rising to his feet and speaking with great dignity when Geraint tried to enlist his help in encouraging informers to come forward. "Anyone who can ask that one man betray another in the name of law and justice is not welcome in this house. Both the one who can ask it and the one who betrays are an abomination in the sight of the Lord."
"Even when they would be helping to put an end to violence and destruction?" Geraint asked haughtily, getting to his feet too.
"I do not condone violence," the minister said. "Neither do I condone betrayal of a fellow mortal. And I do not condone the oppression of the poor by the rich, neither, mind, my lord. But it is the Lord God"—he shook his finger in the direction of the ceiling—"who sees sin in whatever form it shows itself. And it is the Lord God who will punish. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.'"
Geraint left. The Reverend Llwyd had just won his deep respect. And yet every man has his blind spot, he thought. The minister obviously believed that some sins ought not to be left in the Lord's hands. Pregnant, unmarried women could be driven from the chapel and from the community and left to live or die by their own devices.
He went to the smithy next. Aled turned from the anvil, eyeing him warily as a customer sidled from the shop. He wiped his hands on his apron.
Geraint went through his litany for the benefit of the wide-eyed apprentice, who was cowering in a corner trying to make himself invisible. But finally Geraint looked significantly at his friend and nodded almost imperceptibly in the direction of the boy.
"Gwil," Aled said, "home for dinner now, is it? And tell your mam sorry you are a little early."
Gwilym took to his heels without further encouragement.
"There are letters on the way to London," Geraint said quickly. "And letters on the way to every landowner in the area, myself included."
Aled nodded. "You have been prompt," he said.
"It is to be Wednesday night, then, and two gates?" Geraint said. "We must make doubly sure that secrecy is maintained. This push for informers may bear fruit."
"I doubt it," Aled said. "You are insulting my countrymen, Ger."
"And my own." Geraint grinned briefly. "Aled, Rebecca has coffers of gold."
His friend looked at him blankly.
"Money has been sent from the coffers to the Penfro gatekeeper and his wife to compensate them for the loss of their home and livelihood," Geraint said. "The same thing will happen in future. And money has been sent or soon will be to people who are suffering badly from the way the Earl of Wyvern and other landowners treat them. Charlotte will doubtless be asked about it. I mention the existence of the coffers so that your jaw will not hang and make you look stupider than usual." He grinned again.
"Is it necessary, Ger?" Aled frowned. "None of the committee will be able to contribute."
"I have not asked for help," Geraint said. "They are the coffers of Rebecca and I am Rebecca. I must go, or anyone who is timing me will think I am flaying you alive. Wednesday, then."
Aled nodded curtly.
Marged was doing another backbreaking round of the field that would be sown to wheat soon. She had ignored some of the smaller stones during the first round, convincing herself that they were too small to matter. But with the larger stones gone, the smaller ones had suddenly looked bigger themselves and they had stared accusingly at her every time she was busy about something else in the farmyard.
So she was picking stones again. She had been at it since early in t
he morning. By early afternoon she was feeling hot and stiff and dirty. Dirt was encrusted under her fingernails, she saw with distaste. And the soil of the field must be on her face, rubbed there by the back of her hand, with which she frequently and ineffectually pushed back tendrils of hair that had worked themselves loose from her bun.
There was going to be a bath tonight despite the inconvenience of hauling and heating all that water. And clean clothes. And relaxation before the fire until bedtime. But tonight seemed a whole era away. She straightened up to look across the field, trying to convince herself that she was halfway.
And then she turned her head sharply toward the yard. Her nostrils flared. He looked so immaculate that she wondered if he did anything else at home but soak in a tub of hot water and send down his clothes for laundering and ironing. And of course he had just the sort of short curly hair that hardly moved in the wind. He probably did not know what sweat felt like. Or soil—though he had felt it constantly many years ago beneath his bare feet.
He was standing by the gate into the field, watching her. There were two other women on this farm. If this was a social call, he might have knocked on the door of the house and entertained himself with Mam's conversation and Gran's for however long he had decided to favor them with his company. But oh, no, it was she he had to take from her work.
She rubbed her hands hard up and down her dirty apron and strode toward him. She could not have felt dirtier or scruffier or uglier if she had tried, she thought. And with every stride her anger mounted because it mattered to her that he was seeing her this way. It did not matter. She did not care how he saw her or what he thought of her.
"What on earth are you doing?'" he asked in that hateful cultured English voice.
"'You have caught me playing instead of working," she said tartly. "I am picking stones off the field when I could be doing some real work like feeding Nellie. What does it look as if I am doing?"
"Marged," he said, "this is man's work."
"Oh, of course." She smote her forehead with the heel of one hand. "How foolish of me. I shall go to the house without further delay and call out all the men who are sleeping in there or in the barn."
