I knelt down, took the little girl’s hand, and told her I was very pleased to meet her. With heroic effort I held back the tears that threatened to blind me. He might have told me. How could he not warn me?
Beast!
Men could be so obtuse. At least that is what Mama always said.
I looked up and found myself standing in a room empty of everyone except my mother-in-law, Liliwen, and Mrs. Blevins, the housekeeper. The expression on Gwendolyn Maddox’s face was disgustingly smug. Without a doubt, this round went to her.
Chapter Seven
At the end of several hours, I had learned that a remarkable amount of the castle was still intact, including a damp and gloomy dungeon and the crenellated wall-walk that had only been pierced where the newer rooms had been added. “There are secret passages,” Liliwen confided in a whisper. “And an escape tunnel.”
“Really?” I have to admit I found that intriguing.
“All dangerous and long shut up,” Gwendolyn Maddox snapped. Ah. Had Liliwen revealed a treasured family secret? I immediately determined to find out all I could about Glyn Eirian’s mysteries.
The first attempt to enlarge the castle, I was told, consisted of four spacious seventeenth century rooms paneled in dark oak. In the mid-eighteenth century came the sprawling mass of the most recent addition, built by Rhys’s great-grandfather. The house rose four storeys above new kitchens, a grand testament to the power of coal.
After two full hours of exploration which covered only the castle, ground floor, staterooms, and a portion of the family bedchamber floor, my mother-in-law dismissed the rest of the house with a vague wave of her hand, saying, “There are also six guest chambers on this floor, more on the floor above, in addition to rooms for some of the upper staff.”
“That’s where Gruffydd lives,” Liliwen confided. “And Trystan, Eilys and Carys. But Daffyd lives in the castle tower—” She broke off, a taunting smile tugging at her lips as she caught the reaction I could not hide. Rhys’s mistress and bastard child lived at Glyn Eirian. Just one floor above our suite of rooms?
“The top floor contains servants’ rooms and the attics,” Gwendolyn Maddox pronounced, as if Liliwen had not said a word. “As you can see,” she added, standing tall and proud, “Glyn Eirian is a house of some size.”
I could scarcely disagree. It was twice or thrice the size of the home I had vaguely pictured when Rhys first mentioned Glyn Eirian. Except for the much smaller park dictated by the narrow confines of its location on the south side of the pass through the mountains, it was the equal of many of the finest country houses in England. Ah, Papa, did you know?
Of course he knew. He’d likely sent a scout to explore the valley from one end to the other. He likely knew how much coal the mine produced, how much iron the factory smelted, and how much income Rhys enjoyed down to the last ha’penny.
But had he known about Gwendolyn Maddox and her obsession with all things Welsh?
Or that Rhys’s mistress and bastard daughter would be living beneath the same roof as his wife? To that, I could almost surely attest a resounding, No!
“Would you like to go outside?” Liliwen asked, startling me from my reverie.
Outside? I stared, missing neither Liliwen’s wide-eyed innocence nor her mother’s sudden flash of satisfaction. Was she merely glad to be rid of me? Or did she expect the English bride to demonstrate her frailty on her first walk through the wilds of Wales? “Perhaps a bite to eat first,” I returned coolly.
“Of course,” Mrs. Maddox murmured and led the way to a modest-sized family dining room, calling to the seneschal who had been hovering in the background all morning, “Food, Gruffydd. Liliwen and Jocelyn wish to go exploring.” She was the picture of the perfect chatelaine, and yet I shivered as I sat down to table. Something odd lurked at the back of her eyes, something almost malevolent. As if I should watch myself near steep cliffs and plunging cataracts . . .
Absurd! She was not even going with us on our walk.
Yet I wished Rhys were here.
And where was he? Certainly not in any of the rooms we had toured that morning. I supposed he had gone out to fulfill his obligations to his land, his tenants, the foundry, and the mine,. . . as he had fulfilled his obligation to his wife last night. Rather well, actually. My lips curled in a secret smile.
I had to be mistaken about Eilys Pritchard and Carys. Clearly, droit de seigneur had been as much practiced in Wales as in England. (Perhaps more so, if I could believe Rhys’s assertions about a more free attitude between sexes in this wild and rugged land.) Carys’s brilliant blue eyes could have come from a Maddox of generations past. Yes, of course they could.
The sun was shining in a sky dotted with puffy white clouds, the air so fresh and clean I could scarcely believe it. Unlike the smoke-filled air of the heavily industrialized midlands or the stench of London, this was air as God made it. Pure and invigorating, challenging me to keep pace with Liliwen as she led me along a short path through well-scythed grass and slipped out through a postern gate almost hidden by ivy.
I followed her and gasped, coming to an abrupt halt beneath the door’s stone lintel. Liliwen’s eyes sparkled with delight—and, I suspected, with more than a bit of triumph at my surprise. She was poised on a narrow wooden bridge that spanned a chasm at least fifteen feet wide. A chasm so deep the bottom was lost in shadows.
“There was no bridge in the old days, of course,” she said, “but my grandfather had it built to make it easier to climb the mountain. He liked to look down to the valley below and see all he had created. Smoke, soot, and all,” she added. Rather flippantly, I thought, for from what Rhys had told me, his grandfather, and his father before him, had established the industry that saved the villagers from near starvation.
I do not like heights. Nor, I discovered, did I like hand-hewn bridges over chasms. A solid stone bridge with sturdy arches, that was trustworthy, but this . . .?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jocelyn, don’t be such a ninny. Come ahead!”
I gritted my teeth and followed her, keeping my eyes straight ahead, firmly fixed on the mountainside where a stream not more than a foot wide spilled down a hillside green with low bushes and moss-covered rock, before spilling off the edge in a fall of water that caught the sun’s ray, sparking a shower of rainbow colors as it plunged into the chasm. As I reached the end of the bridge, I gulped a breath and noticed that a winding path, unfit for anything but a goat, extended upward, following the line of the brook. Yet there was no other way up the hillside, at least none I could see.
I strongly suspected Liliwen was making game of me, that there were much easier paths up the mountain, but I gathered my Hawley stubbornness and determination tight, hiked up my skirts, and climbed. Fortunately, steps had been cut in strategic places and there were occasional scraggly bushes and rocky outcroppings for hand-holds. And when we finally reached the summit, I saw she had not lied about the view. It was truly spectacular. To the west, the entire valley spread out before us, including a village with roofs of slate and thatch, and two churches—one topped by a stone tower, the other a severely plain stone edifice Liliwen informed me was the Methodist chapel. Both buildings were dwarfed by the colliery tower looming in the background. A broad blue-gray river bisected the whole, winding south past the foundry, which was marked by a plume of smoke rising from its tall chimney.
Yet in spite of the modern innovations, the valley as a whole was beautiful, its lushly green hillsides dotted with sheep, while the floor of the valley not occupied by mine, slag heap, or foundry was divided into small fields as neat as any found in England. As my father’s daughter, I could not fault it, though I was suddenly grateful my grandfather had chosen to build a home well removed from the dirt, smoke, and noise of Birmingham. Of course here the castle had come first—a fort built for military purposes, whether to keep the Welsh in or the English out. A castle now welcoming one petite blond Anglo-Saxon . . .
Well, not quite, I amended,
heaving a sigh just as Liliwen called my attention to the view to the south. Ah! Below us, perhaps half the distance between Glyn Eirian and the valley floor, was a lake so clear that it perfectly mirrored the trees clustered around it. If only I were skilled enough to capture such a view on canvas . . .
“See the island,” Liliwen said. “It was once a sacred site, home to a hermit monk of long ago. But Mother says it was sacred to the Old Religion long before that.” For absolutely no reason I could understand, a shiver passed through me. There was something ancient and forbidden about the small island, so thickly covered in trees.
“It’s now a trysting site,” Liliwen confided, eyes dancing with mischief.
From the advantage of three full years and my status as a married woman, I regarded her with considerable censure. “I doubt your mother would approve of such free-speaking.”
She laughed in my face, making it clear my English ways were too prim and proper to be believed.
I reminded myself sharply that this was my sister-in-law. A young sister-in-law who should be forgiven her quirks. At least until I had time to know her better. But right now . . . As much as I hated to give her the satisfaction of knowing I was appalled by the thought of descending the precipitous trail we had climbed up, I gestured toward a path that seemed broader, more heavily trod. “Is that possibly an easier way down?”
“Longer,” Liliwen countered, then shrugged. “But we can take it if you prefer. I suppose you are unaccustomed to mountains.” Her condescension set my teeth on edge, but I was not going to succumb to her mockery. Vivid in my mind was a vision of my foot slipping, followed by a tumble down that narrow cleft and a plunge into the chasm below. Believe me, if there was an easier way back, I was going to take it. With a grand sweep of my hand, I invited Liliwen to take the lead, which she did with a flip of her head that left me in no doubt about her scorn for Englishwomen, heiresses or no.
Later, I would wonder if she spent the entire way down the mountain thinking of some way to twist the knife still further into the weakling from across the border. But at first I actually enjoyed the walk—from the prospect over the valley to the expanses of purple heather that surrounded us, punctuated by yellow gorse and a broad scattering of jagged rocks. Indeed, some of the giant stones looked as if they might have been tossed by the hand of ancient Welsh gods in the heat of battle.
And when had I become so fanciful? I smiled and continued doggedly down the winding trail, grateful it was infinitely less slanted than the one we had come up. Not too long after, we encountered a flock of sheep grazing on an expanse of mountain grass that seemed miraculously free of either boulders or spiny gorse. Not that I was accustomed to wending my way through a flock of sheep, but I trust I showed no discomfort. At least not those times when Liliwen turned around to check my progress.
I could only hope she was suitably disappointed.
When we paused to catch our breath—or rather when I paused, sinking down onto a convenient boulder—Liliwen huffed a loud breath, and looking exceedingly put out, declared, “You will never manage in Wales, Jocelyn, if you cannot walk hills without tiring.”
Hills? Hills are what we had in England. What we had climbed today was not a hill. But what could I say? This was my husband’s sister. Rhys would expect me to establish some sort of rapport. “I must accustom myself,” I told her with what I hoped was a serenity that masked my defensiveness. “Never fear. I will adapt.”
Liliwen gave me a look that clearly stated she not only doubted my assertion, she strongly hoped it was not so. Merciful heavens, what had I done that she should dislike me so?
She was her mother’s daughter. And proved it when she said, suddenly unctuous and oozing girlish confidences, “I doubt you’ll have to adapt to Eilys. I’m told Rhys broke off with her before he went to London to find a wife.” Evidently unsatisfied by the stony face I managed to keep in place, she added, “Eilys has always been after him to marry her—but Mother wished him to marry a girl from the north who can trace her ancestry all the way back to Llewellyn Fawr. Eilys being accepted as a convenience, you understand, but not as a wife.”
My world crumbled as I realized my fears were true. I could feel the color draining from my face, even as I kept my expression as frozen as a lake in January.
Dear God, what had I done?
You’re far from the first woman to discover her husband has a mistress.
But under the same roof?
Liliwen’s words snaked through my head, interrupting my argument with myself. Rhys broke off with her.
Maybe, maybe not. That wasn’t what I’d seen in the look I intercepted. But what did an English heiress who had led a sheltered, pampered life know of such things?
That night I did not wait in bed for Rhys to come to me. I curled up in a deep-set upholstered chair by the window, protected from the night breeze by a Paisley shawl of finest wool, and gazed at the darkness, wondering if this was the day dawn failed to peek over the tops of the mountains. The day we were engulfed in never-ending night. For that’s the way I felt. I should be more worldly, more tolerant, I knew it. But somehow that didn’t help.
So I waited, my mind turning in useless circles, unable to settle on any solution. When the door clicked open, I still had no idea what I was going to say.
Chapter Eight
I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I had heeded my mother’s advice and forced myself to play the role of a wife willing to accept another woman in her husband’s life, a wife willing to cede her rights to her mother-in-law. Would we have settled to some sort of peace with my husband and his mother triumphant, and I finding pleasure only in longing thoughts of my family in England, and eventually in my children?
A useless speculation, for I could never be an accepting, submissive female turning a blind eye to what was happening around me—whether it was Rhys and his attachment to Eilys Pritchard, his mother’s determination to hold Glyn Eirian, or the tumultuous events that would soon rain down on this portion of Wales.
And yet, that particular night when I waited with such anguish to confront Rhys, nothing went as anticipated. For when I turned to look at him, my mouth already open to spout the words of recrimination I had so carefully planned, I found him not ready for bed but still fully clothed in the riding attire I assumed he had worn since early morning. He had missed dinner, but this . . .
“I’ve come to tell you I am home at last,” he announced rather jauntily. “Did you miss me, my love?”
Dumbfounded, I could only stare. Rhys had not called me “my love” in all the time I’d known him. My thoughts did an abrupt about-face as I adjusted to something wholly new. Not yet sure of the situation, I ventured, “Have you eaten?”
“Stuffed to the gills and awash with ale,” was his airy reply.
And I’d thought he was out inspecting his lands, the mine, the foundry. But he’d been socializing, while leaving me to the mercy of his female relations? And effectively quashing all hope of serious discussion, for with two elder brothers, I had little difficulty recognizing that my husband was far into his cups.
No-o, I amended as I regarded him more shrewdly. Perhaps this was the ideal moment to penetrate my husband’s armor. Rhys was swaying slightly, a foolish smile distorting the serious features I had actually begun to find attr—
Forget that! This was not the time for idiotish sentiment.
“Sit down,” I said, waving a hand toward a chair opposite mine. “Tell me about your day.”
He collapsed into the chair with what appeared to be relief, his head falling against the high back, his long legs sprawling out in front of him. “Saw the whole lot of ’em,” he said. “Every last tenant and villager. Toured the mine from manager to coal heaver, the foundry from supervisor down to the broom boy. And at every blasted place—beg pardon!—they wanted to wring my hand and toast my wedding. Some with brandy,” he mumbled so softly I almost didn’t hear him.
Oh dear. I had to grant that to
asting our wedding was a valid excuse for his condition. But really, dinner with his mother and sister had been like dining in an ice palace. With an ogre presiding. While Rhys was enjoying himself from one end of the valley to the other!
I gathered my hurt around me like armor. Alas, an armor to good sense, as it turned out. “Your mother introduced me to Eilys Pritchard today. And her daughter.”
His eyes were closed—I thought he might have fallen asleep. But at my words his whole body went rigid. He squinted at me from beneath his dark lashes. For several long moments silence thundered around us, before he growled, “Not now, Jocelyn. Not now.”
“Then when?”
His somnolence exploded. Suddenly he was towering over me, good-natured inebriation transformed into fury. “When you grow up!” He stalked out, not even pausing to close the dressing room door, though I heard a distinct slam as his bedchamber door thudded closed behind him.
The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped ten degrees. Earlier, as I waited for him to come to me, I’d wondered if I were a fool or a victim.
Now I knew I was most likely both.
I was trapped, my only alternative to tolerating the situation a coward’s return to the shelter of my family. And to disgrace.
No wonder women learned to ignore their husbands’ conduct. Or pretended to.
Many would consider me fortunate that Rhys had not beat me. Of course this sobering thought—inspired by eavesdropping on the conversations of my parents and my brothers—had not occurred to me in time to curb my tongue. I had been too furious to temper my hurt and anger with caution. And now . . .
I shuddered. I could almost hear my Grandmother Hawley’s voice: You have made your bed, child. Now lie in it!
And then the horrid thought: Had my mother’s wise counsel come from experience . . .?
Welshman's Bride Page 6
