“Maddox.” Lord Dawnay gripped Rhys’s hand, wringing it with fervor. “Congratulations! You are a most fortunate man. I had no idea you had such good taste.”
How could I not be pleased? Compliments were few and far between at Glyn Eirian. Though my satisfaction wavered as the viscount leaned a little closer to Rhys and lowered his voice, but not so much I could not hear. “Fooled ’em all, didn’t you? Always thought you a tricky devil, and now you’ve proved it. Well done.”
Dear God, even a visiting Englishman knew of intimate Maddox family business. Which meant the whole valley knew.
Of course they did.
I offered Lord Dawnay my most insouciant smile and watched while he and Rhys strode out together, apparently continuing a private conversation as they moved toward the entry hall. If only I had an inkling of what they were saying . . .
Not all conversations are about you.
I slammed the door on my inner voice and set off on my self-appointed task of touring all the rooms I had not yet seen, though another day passed before I worked up enough courage to ask Mrs. Blevins about the secret passages and the tunnel.
“You’ll not want to see those, ma’am,” she declared, as if I’d asked to spend an hour chained in the castle dungeon. “Nasty things they are. Filled with spiders and damp dripping from the ceiling.”
“Damp in the house?” I asked with exaggerated innocence. “Surely not.”
“Oh no, ma’am, that would be in the tunnel.”
“Then perhaps you will show me the closest secret passage in the house, just enough so I may peer in?” I eyed her askance. “Surely there is nothing a good broom cannot sweep aside?” Old bones? I wondered. A rusty sword, a blood-coated dagger?
The housekeeper’s bland expression took on a hint of intransigence. “I would have to ask Mrs. Maddox—”
“I am Mrs. Maddox.”
Mrs. Blevins gulped a breath, dropped a quick curtsy. “Yes, ma’am,” she murmured. “Of course, ma’am.”
“Now, if you please, Mrs. Blevins. . .”
“This way, ma’am.” I caught an odd glint in her eyes as she turned away but decided it was simply resentment that the newcomer from England was exerting her authority.
Mrs. Blevins led me into a modest-sized room off the library that served as my husband’s study, the room from which he ran the Maddox family’s various enterprises. And since he refused to allow anyone to tidy up his papers, the room defied even Mrs. Blevins’s exemplary housekeeping, claiming the title of “most lived in” room of the house.
With a disdainfully straight back, Mrs. Blevins led the way past a large desk piled high with papers and ledgers, past several chairs burdened with more of the same. “Here, ma’am,” she said, pressing her fingers to what appeared to be a family crest high up on a wooden panel near the fireplace.
Fascinated, I watched as a door creaked open. Ah, how marvelous! Mrs. Blevins stepped aside, and I confess my feet almost tripped over themselves as I rushed to take a look. Darkness, utter darkness, beyond the first few feet where light filtered in from the room behind me. But there was enough to see a narrow staircase leading up. And not a sign of a web or any creature of eight legs, or even six.
“There’s an exit into the master’s bedchamber,” Mrs. Blevins intoned. “And one on the third floor as well.”
I could only hope I did not allow my reaction to show. Nor did I turn my head, as I was all too aware of the look of malignant triumph I would see. “Thank you, Mrs. Blevins. That is most enlightening.” And it was. For she had just told me Rhys had direct access to Eilys Pritchard’s bedchamber. While everyone in the house, particularly his wife, thought he was working on estate business.
Chapter Ten
Somehow life went on, my wounds festering in silence. Common sense chided, reminding me that Rhys’s night-time attentions did not waver. But did he sense that part of me that stood back and wondered, What if . . .?
We attended church on Sundays—the Methodist chapel, although Lady Aurelia and Miss Farnsworth attended the services of the Church of England. And at chapel I learned the truth of what Rhys’s grandmother had told me, my senses overwhelmed with the glory of Welsh voices raised in song. Even Gwendolyn Maddox’s dour and disapproving face could not detract from the sound that surely rose straight through the roof and ascended to the ears of God. Her indifference remained a puzzle until one day when Lady Aurelia and I had a private moment, Rhys’s grandmother confided that she had always suspected her daughter-in-law preferred the legendary times of sword and sorcery, that she gave no more than lip service to the Methodist chapel and certainly no notice at all to the Church of England.
Since I had been raised in the Midlands, a hotbed of Nonconformist activity, this was not the shock it might have been to a true lady of the ton. But for the most powerful family in the valley to turn its back on the Church of England, perhaps giving no more than lip service to chapel as well . . . I was willing to wager Papa had not known that. A practical man, he would have weighed the religious pros and cons and done as so many had in the past—adjusted his approach to God based on reality instead of theology.
And so must I. Yet I had been raised Church of England and could not help but wonder if there were some way . . .
Merciful heavens, was I considering a compromise? A thought so foreign to my nature that I ruthlessly shoved it aside. An idea whose time had not yet come.
Liliwen and I continued our explorations of the rugged country around Glyn Eirian, although I was considerably more wary about where I let her lead me. But after that first precipitous excursion, Rhys had cautioned her, and our subsequent walks were noticeably less challenging. Indeed, I took pride in becoming more proficient at negotiating the mountain paths.
One afternoon nearly three weeks after arriving in Wales, I decided I was ready to climb a tall peak on the far side of our narrow mountain pass. Well, perhaps not all the way to the top—that might be overly ambitious—but high enough to view Glyn Eirian and the valley from a different perspective. I was quite full of myself as we set out, for I was wearing the brand new boots Rhys had commissioned for me and a sturdy boiled wool cloak, also a gift from Rhys to protect me against the cool winds that moaned through the heights around us. My round gown of soft brown woolen was full enough to allow easy movement. Each of us carried a goatskin filled with water—something to which I’d become accustomed after my initial bout of disgust—and a leather pouch with bread and those strange, meatless Welsh sausages.
In my youthful optimism and ignorance, I fancied myself a seasoned mountaineer. Ha! I should have paid more attention to Gruffydd’s words as we walked across the hall toward the front door. “I’d not go far today, Miss Liliwen, Mrs. Jocelyn,” he’d said. “The air is too still. We’ll have a storm before dinner.”
“We’ll be home long before,” Liliwen returned airily, not pausing a beat before leading me through the door Gruffydd was holding open.
“We are only climbing high enough to view the prospect from the peak over there,” I said, nodding to a jagged rocky summit on the north side of the pass.
“Very well, Mrs. Jocelyn, but do be careful.”
“ Gruffydd’s a constant voice of doom,” Liliwen told me as we descended the front steps. “Pay him no heed.” In a rare moment of complete compatibility, we grinned at each other and set off down the road to the east.
Before we could go up, I soon discovered, we had to go down, making our way through a sheltered forest of prickly spruce, larch, and oak, marked by the distinctive white trunks of an occasional birch. The area was hushed, even our footfalls silent on a thick bed of evergreen needles and brown leaves. I’d been told Wales was old, the rock that surrounded us primeval, but here I actually felt it, as if civilization had vanished and we were all alone in the world.
I blinked, shook my head, and fixed my gaze on Liliwen’s back as she plunged along at a brisk pace. I had not been raised to be fanciful. Yet since coming to Wales .
. . Perhaps there was something in the air that . . .
Absurd! I gulped a breath and hastened to catch up.
As we exited the woods and began to climb, I heard birdsong break out behind us. So . . . not an enchanted forest after all. Life had merely suspended itself as two invaders passed through.
We climbed steadily, the few trees growing shorter and shorter, more gnarled and windblown, the rocks larger and more frequent until they rose around us like standing stones, grim and forbidding. And then Liliwen led the way through a narrow cleft in a rocky wall, and my only warning was the distinctive sound of splashing water just moments before I came to an abrupt halt, gasping at the stunning sight of not one cataract but three, each perhaps fifteen or twenty feet high, plunging down from a rock face high above, unalleviated by the slightest sign of green. A large pool of water swirled only feet from where we stood, its surface constantly roiled by the torrent of water falling from above. Oddly, the pool seemed to have no outlet—perhaps it drained into a subterranean river. Thoroughly enchanted by the sheltered beauty of the place, I put my questions aside and simply enjoyed the wonder of it. To the point I failed to hear Liliwen when she spoke.
“What?” I murmured as she brushed past me, heading back in the direction we had come. “Liliwen, I thought we were climbing far enough up to view the valley.”
“Jocelyn, I do wish you would pay attention when I speak to you.” Clearly exasperated, she added, “I just told you, there is a path, with steps, to the left of the falls. Climb up that and you will find the prospect you want. I promised Mama I would help her with counting the stores in the stillroom today. You should have no trouble finding your way back. The path is plain enough.”
An open challenge. I was being abandoned, thrown into deep water, sink or swim.
I gaped at the cleft in the rocks, where Liliwen’s back was just disappearing around the corner at the far end.
The scheming little hussy. Well, I’d show her a thing or two. I would climb to the top of the falls, enjoy the view, and return home none the worse for wear. She was quite right that the path was unmistakable. I’d show her that an Englishwoman could negotiate the mountains of Wales—
We’ll have a storm before dinner.
Oh no, I was not going to turn tail, dogging Liliwen’s footsteps off the mountain. I would go where I said I would go. With a determined frown, I made my way along the side of the pool and found the steps cut into the side of the cliff.
The view was everything I could have hope for. Glyn Eirian, the house, and Glyn Eirian, the valley, spread out before me, more beautiful than the finest landscape painter could ever capture. The sun sparked off the steeple of the “established” church, the one the Maddox family did not attend, while distance dimmed the ugliness of the colliery lift tower and even the drift of smoke from mine and foundry chimneys, though the village was much too far away to pick out any other details. Except . . .
My stomach lurched, even as my inner voice hissed that I was ten times a fool. What had been a gray haze to the west when we rose above the tree-cover was now dark gray and much nearer, a roiling mass of clouds. Thunder rumbled, far closer than I liked. All too soon the sun would be gone, lightning dancing over the mountaintops. Rain . . .
I slipped and slid on the steps as I plunged down past the triple cataracts, steadying myself with my right hand against the cliff wall. I wasn’t going to make it. Not even close. But sheltering near the falls could be dangerous—I pictured the water welling out of the pool, filling the enclosed basin around it. Nor did I want to be anywhere near the narrow cleft which was the only outlet for excess water. Indeed, as I reached the end of the split in the rocks, I could see signs of previous floods that had cleared an ever-widening space on the mountainside below the cleft.
Could I get far enough down the mountain before the flood? Or should I stay where I was?
But there was no shelter here. At least nothing I could see, and there was no time to explore. Better to get down the mountain as fast I could, taking refuge if necessary, behind some of the huge boulders below.
Stupid! It hasn’t even begun to rain yet.
As if in mockery of my thought, lightning flashed, followed by a clap of thunder that nearly threw me to the ground. The wind howled, and rain poured down with the force of a washtub dumped over my head. Instinct screamed at me to take cover against the cliff behind me. I needed to be anywhere but out in the open. But logic, cold and hard, dictated that I needed to be off this mountain, away from the lightning dancing across the peaks around me, and away from the danger of the path being obliterated by a flood.
I gritted my teeth and set off down the path that was barely visible in the deluge from the sky. The wind whipped my cloak, heavy as it was, threatening to fill it like a hot air balloon and sweep me away to plunge onto rocks far below.
I snapped a few nasty words at my imagination and settled down to concentrating on where I was putting my feet. Even so, I slipped and slid most of the nightmare journey down, the rain remaining so heavy I could not see how close I was to the shelter of the forest. Surely soon!
A bolt of lightning struck so close I was blinded, so close the sharp stench of brimstone filled the air. So close I tripped, scraping my right hand on a rock as I frantically tried to steady myself before crumpling to my knees. My hands splayed on the ground in front of me—from there I collapsed onto my bottom, the picture of defeat. More so than I knew, for when after at least two full minutes of feeling sorry for myself, I struggled to my feet, I discovered I had twisted my ankle. I stood, teetering, clutching the boulder on which I’d scraped my hand, my brain seething with a rather shocking litany of recrimination—against Liliwen who must surely have seen the storm coming, against my mother-in-law who had likely inspired her to mischief. Against Rhys for not protecting me. Against Welsh mountains for their very existence.
I limped a step. Two steps. And quickly discovered that if I wanted off this mountain, I would have to crawl. Which I did for perhaps fifty yards, my hands and knees suffering scrapes with every inch, until a cliff face not more than a dozen feet high loomed up on my right, facing in a direction that might shelter me from the worst of the wind and rain. This was my only hope, for I could go no farther. I dragged myself the last few feet, encouraged when I saw small bushes nestled at the base of the cliff and green moss on the rocks. I had come far enough down for vegetation to grow. Which probably meant I had come far enough for any flood to dissipate before it reached here. I put my back to the rock, pulled my knees up to my chin, and bent my head, shutting out the elements as best I could.
I have no idea how much time passed, but I finally became aware that the lightning was not so intense, the thunder not as loud. The rain still pounded down but could no longer be described as a deluge. Help would come eventually, I knew that. I had told Gruffydd where we were going. And surely Liliwen had only intended to play a prank. She did not truly wish to harm me . . .
I scrunched myself into an even tighter ball, kept my head down, and prayed. With more than one apology for taking the world around me so lightly in the past, religion included. For not working harder to adapt to my new home. For saying nasty things about Wales and its inhabitants. Finally, I just sat there, alone and miserable, my mind as frozen as the rest of me.
“Jocelyn! Jocelyn . . .” Strong arms enveloped me, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Was I hallucinating, conjuring Rhys out of the desperation of my mind?
I was so cold . . .
“Jocelyn! Devil it, girl, look at me!”
That sounded more like my husband. And suddenly I found the strength to throw myself forward, snuggling into his chest, my tears rivaling the rain.
“Gruffydd sent for me when Liliwen returned alone. When questioned, she said you insisted on climbing to the top of the falls even though a storm was coming—”
“She what?” Fury exploded through me, a tonic almost as potent as Rhys’s presence. “She lied!” I spat out. “She t
old me she had to return to the house, that the climb was easy, the way back clear. And then she left me.”
The rain had lessened enough for me to see the doubt in Rhys’s eyes. The final straw to a perfectly ghastly day. How could he doubt me?
How could he?
Liliwen had been his sister far longer than I had been his wife.
Poor comfort. Particularly during the long sennight ahead when I was confined to my bed, having taken a chill in addition to my bad ankle and a variety of scrapes and bruises. My gown and cloak, My brown woolen gown, Alice informed me, was fit only for the rag bag. The boiled wool cloak, however, had proved its hardiness, though it would never be the same.
I had grave doubts about myself as well. Would I prove to be the hardy cloak? Or the gown that was only fit to be tossed away?
Chapter 11
During the long days I was confined to my bed, I had more than ample time to recall my rescue, the overwhelming joy I felt when Rhys’s arms closed around me, my thankfulness for Daffyd Llywelyn and one of his guardsmen, who followed on his heels. Yet a mix of misery, hurt, and fear intruded on my joy, precipitating a jumble of emotions that numbed my mind, leaving it as frozen as my body.
I knew Rhys and the guards took turns carrying me home. I recalled reaching the house, the men being shooed away. After that, I was fussed over by Alice, Lady Aurelia, and Miss Farnsworth, my clothes stripped off, my warmest woolen nightgown slipped over my head before I was tucked into bed, extra coverings piled on, and a hot posset practically poured down my throat. And still waves of shivers pulsed through me, coherent thought impossible, my mouth refusing to connect with my brain.
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