He was leaving?
No, he was coming back, standing over me, his face now an enigmatic mask. “Mrs. Maddox, would you mind if your husband joined you in your bed?”
Looking back, I believe I burst into tears. I’d been so certain my vixen’s tongue had alienated him forever.
My tears didn’t last long. And neither did we. We were so ready for each other our emotions soared into incandescence, but rather than burning to ash, they descended into warmth, peace, joy.
At least for me, there was joy.
When my mother-in-law seized on my illness as ample excuse to suspend my lessons in the skills necessary to a proper Welsh keeper-of-the-castle. I did not press her. Instead, with Alice’s help I enlisted the services of Tegan, one of the upper housemaids, a sharp-eyed local girl who had worked at Glyn Eirian for six years and was a treasure chest of knowledge about castle, village, mine, and foundry. Although it took a bit of doing to keep our meetings secret, Tegan’s information was well worth the effort, though some of her tales, both past and present, left me wide-eyed. For tossed in among such useful information as how many servants Glyn Eirian employed and the responsibilities of each, were tidbits about which men in the village beat their wives, who was sleeping with someone not their spouse, and rather too graphic details about a disaster in the mine that had killed five men not long before Rhys’s father died.
“But Mr. Rhys fixed everything right and tight when he took over,” Tegan told me. “He’s a good man. Like his granddad. And us that thankful for it.”
So Rhys’s father, the man who had made the mistake of marrying Gwendolyn, had other faults as well. I tucked that away for further thought.
Let me assure you, I felt not one iota of guilt over enlisting what some might call a spy into life in the valley. Instead of contracting a cold and cough from my misadventure on the mountain, I might have taken an inflammation of the lungs and died. So now that I was getting my strength back, I faced facts squarely. I was in a war. With the odds stacked against me. I needed every weapon I could lay my hands on.
But was Rhys among my supporters? He seemed not altogether blind to the hostility that surrounded me at Glyn Eirian, yet it appeared he could not bring himself to believe his mother and sister would actually harm me. And I had to admit I was perhaps exaggerating their animosity. Yet I could not shake the feeling I was not safe here, that danger lurked—if not around every corner, then certainly on the castle ramparts, a ghoul waiting for the right moment to pounce.
The only way to fight back, I decided, was to take action. Tegan’s stories had given me an idea. I was effectively shut out of castle life, but I had been made welcome in the village, so what if . . .?
“The mine and the foundry?” Rhys exclaimed. “Women don’t go there. The men are dirty, dripping sweat . . . good God, woman, some of them are half-naked!”
“I do not plan to go down in the mine or anywhere near the blast furnaces,” I said from between jaws stiff from keeping my temper. “But I wish to show interest in your ventures and in the people who work for you. I consider that part of my obligation as your wife.”
“My mother has never gone within a half mile of either one!”
I gazed at Rhys with limpid eyes. “Exactly.”
He stared at me for several moments before shaking his head. “Minx,” he muttered. “Are things really that difficult here in the house?”
“Yes.”
He pursed his lips, looking past me toward the window of my bedchamber, but I suspected his inner eye was fixed on the ill will permeating the house. “Very well, Jocelyn. I’ll take you. But no farther than the office.”
Meekly, I agreed. Step One, accomplished.
The next morning, I dressed as plainly as I could in a gown of gray woolen, with matching bonnet and stout half-boots, and a cloak so old Mama had not wanted to include it among the items being packed for my new life in Wales. But my other cloaks and a rather shocking number of pelisses, were so stylish, and made from such fine fabrics, that I would have stood out like the proverbial sore thumb in both mine and foundry. As it was . . . I examined myself in the cheval glass, and nodded. From what I’d been told, simply being female would make me an oddity, but at least I would not look like a peacock strutting on a dung heap.
As Rhys and I approached the colliery, the tall chimney beside the lift tower was belching smoke. I frowned. “I understand the steam engine is needed to power the lift,” I said to Rhys, “but why is it working now when the men are already in the mine?”
He chuckled, looking at me with such amused condescension that I wished to throw something at him. I had, of course, hoped to show I was not totally ignorant of the workings of the mine, and instead I seemed to have once again descended into childishness.
“The lift carries more than men, Jocelyn. How do you suppose the coal rises to the surface?”
“Oh.” Determined not to appear completely stupid, I said, “That must have been a back-breaking task before the steam engine was invented.”
“Lord, yes! Compared to my grandfather’s day, we have it easy indeed. Though there’s never anything truly easy about mining coal,” he added on a more thoughtful note. “The death rate of coal miners is second only to soldiers in battle.” A sobering thought which made me all the more determined to understand how I might improve the villagers’ lives.
Fortunately, all went well in my initial visit to the mine. Mr. Pryce, manager of the Glyn Eirian colliery, was a sturdy dark-haired Welshman with flashing brown eyes, a confident stance, and the easy, informal charm that so many Welshmen possessed in abundance. Though always respectful, he left no doubt that he was the man in charge. Or that he welcomed me with enthusiasm to this bastion of male dominance.
“We’re more than grateful you’re showing an interest, ma’am,” he said. “The miners and their families will be that glad to hear you’ve paid us a visit.”
“I hope you will give me an idea of what I may do to help where needed,” I said. “Lady Aurelia tells me she used to keep well informed about which families were in need.”
A flash of some strong emotion passed over Mr. Pryce’s face, relief perhaps. “I’m told the villagers thought her an angel, ma’am, though it was long before my time. Might I suggest you speak with Rhian Pugh? She is the wife of the mine foreman and knows all there is to know about the village.” He leaned a bit closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “More than the vicar or the pastor, ma’am, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
I grinned at him, I couldn’t help it. I liked Mr. Pryce, whose Christian name, I eventually learned, was Derec. I hoped I had found an ally in my fight to become part of my new world.
The manager at the foundry, a Mr. Edmund Wilbanks, was an Englishman. Although far more formal in his attitude toward his employer and his wife than Mr. Pryce, he was from the Midlands not far from Birmingham, and we could not help but have an instant rapport. I returned from our excursion very much pleased with myself. And while I had Rhys’s undivided attention, I determined to bring up yet another matter.
After an amiable discussion of the morning’s events over cold meats and cheese at a small table in the sitting room that was part of our suite of rooms, I hitched a wary breath and said, “Lady Aurelia tells me your grandfather used to attend the Church of England with her, but he also made a point of visiting the chapel once a month.”
Rhys put down his fork and stared at me, frowning over what he clearly considered an inflammatory statement. “He did,” he acknowledged.
“But your father did not. What was that?” I asked as he mumbled a response I could not quite hear.
“I said . . .” Rhys, clearly reluctant, huffed a delaying breath. “I said, ‘Mama wouldn’t let him.’” He shook his head. “Father never stood up to her—God alone knows why he loved her so, or perhaps he was simply weak-willed.”
Oh dear, I had not thought to probe so deeply into matters that obviously still hurt. “I’m sorry,” I murmured f
or lack of anything better to say. “But I was hoping . . . Well, you see, I would like to attend the Anglican services—they are what I know. And I would dearly like to have you attend with me. I thought perhaps you might do as your grandfather did, alternate your attendance—”
“Devil it, Jocelyn!” Rhys roared. “You’re only a few weeks in Wales. I will not have you turning our lives topsy-turvy! What can you possibly know about how we live?”
I shot to my feet, threw my napkin onto the table, nearly flapping it in Rhys’s face as it flew by, then stalked out, slamming the door to my bedchamber behind me.
A perfectly childish display of temper I regretted almost as soon as I’d done it.
When you grow up! Rhys’s words rang a litany in my head for the remainder of the day and well into the night. I was too old to be such a fool. I knew better. But my temper, my abominable temper . . .
Yet the truth was, if Rhys could not break away from his mother’s iron control, then the fault was his, not mine.
So there!
Chapter Thirteen
I did not bring up the subject of church versus chapel again, but on Sunday I turned a stiff back on the carriage containing Rhys, his mother, Liliwen, and Mrs. Trewent, and paced toward the shiny black landaulette equipage that would take Lady Aurelia and Miss Farnsworth to the Anglican church. Each step I took, I expected the bark of Rhys ordering me back. Or a shriek of outrage from my mother-in-law. But the crisp morning air remained undisturbed by any sound save the stamping of hooves, the jingling of harness, and an occasional soft whuffle as the two teams of horses prepared themselves for the weekly journey down the mountain.
In short, the silence was profound. I squeezed myself in with the older ladies, relieved by Lady Aurelia’s amused approval and a surprisingly fierce look of triumph from Miss Farnsworth. Frankly, my hands were shaking so hard I clasped them tightly in my lap. Defying one’s husband is not the best course for a bride of less than two months, but is not “Begin as you mean to go on” the first rule young women are taught about holding household? And so far I had done exceedingly poorly at that. Time for a change. With Lady Aurelia’s help.
Unfortunately, the silence of the early morning did not extend to the dinner we all shared when we returned to Glyn Eirian. We were barely through our soup when Gwendolyn Maddox pronounced in ringing tones, “Jocelyn, your stubborn willfulness, your inability to accept your new country, is most unbecoming.”
“Mother!”
“I will speak,” Gwendolyn cried, shooting a lethal glance at her son before returning her attention to me. “It is your duty to be at your husband’s side, to embrace his people as your own. You cannot go haring off—”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” I said, rudely interrupting my mother-in-law in mid-tirade, “but Lady Aurelia has lived at Glyn Eirian for more than fifty years and has always attended the Church of England. And you cannot deny she is much loved and respected by everyone in the village. I only wish to emulate her ways. Surely doing my duty does not mean subsuming all that I am under the weight of Welsh culture.”
“It does not.” These stern words from Rhys, of course, not his mother. “Jocelyn, I apologize for not listening more closely to what you said to me. You may, of course, attend church where you please. And on occasion I will join you,” he added through what appeared to be clenched teeth. My husband did not care to bend any more than I did. Yet I give him credit—ignoring his mother’s huff of disgust, he settled to eating his fish as if nothing eventful had occurred.
I followed his lead, keeping my eyes down and my mouth too full to speak while satisfaction surged through me. Rhys was actually going to take my suggestion and pay at least token attention to the Anglican church. A small step forward . . . No, not small. Rhys had defied his mother. As he had when he went to England to find a bride. I should have remembered that compromise is not a sign of weakness. I should have had more faith. He was, after all, only asking me to wait until the new year. Perhaps Lady Aurelia was wrong. Perhaps I should try to be more amenable . . .
After dinner, Rhys invited me into his study, where he laid out a map of the valley and took the time to explain how coal and iron were transported downriver, some of Glyn Eirian’s products ending up as far away as Europe and the Americas. He even showed me the sketches for the expansion of the copper mine, which was in a valley on the far side of the mountains to the west. As befitted the daughter of a man who had made a vast fortune in trade, I was enthralled. And flattered. When he made his offer of marriage, Rhys had told me he admired my intelligence, but quite frankly, so far in our marriage he had shown no interest in anything but my body. Yet by the time we went to bed that night, a glow of pleasure had replaced the antagonism of the morning. A glow I gladly helped him turn to fire. A vastly better end to the day than I had anticipated when I staged my small rebellion that morning.
Five or six nights out of seven Eilys continued to play the harp and sing songs I could only appreciate for their tune—though the undoubted quality of her performance tended to feed the deep dark spark of jealousy I tried so hard to hide. And four or five nights a week, Trystan delivered unintelligible poetry in dramatic bardic style to an adoring audience, including servants clustered in doorways and along the walls. Rhys listened with seeming attention and dutifully applauded, but I could sense a tension in him—something more than not being as enthusiastic about Welsh poetry as his mother. Perhaps it was his disapproval of Liliwen’s interest in our resident poet. Or was it guilt over Eilys?
Nonetheless, the success of my first steps toward independence had inspired a return of the confidence in myself I had enjoyed while growing up at Hawley Hall. I could now listen to the Welsh harper and bard and be thankful they were giving me a feel for the beauty and complexity of the Welsh language, making it easier for me to assimilate the words Tegan had begun to teach me. And how could I suspect Rhys of straying when he was in my bed each night? So, yes, I admit I was quite pleased with myself. I could do this. I could learn to be first lady of the valley of Glyn Eirian and still be Jocelyn Hawley Maddox, Englishwoman.
In fact, my confidence in my ability to handle potentially awkward situations had increased so much since my welcome at the mine and the foundry that I never hesitated when Lord Dawnay invited me to ride with him. I had enjoyed riding at Hawley Hall, but here there were few paths suitable for travel on horseback. In addition, Liliwen scorned horses, resulting in my not being on a horse since I came to Wales. Even my dagger-sharp inner voice was silent as I leapt to accept his invitation.
The more the fool, I.
The afternoon could not have been more beautiful—as if the hand of God had swept the clouds from the sky, leaving us with a rare day without threat of rain. I was so pleased by the prospect of venturing out on such a day that I donned my best riding habit, a full-skirted creation of forest green velvet with a matching hat topped by a jaunty white feather. The reflection in my cheval glass tended to set me off on fantasies of riding through Sherwood Forest with Robin Hood at my side. Fantasies brought to an abrupt halt by the openly astonished stares I received as I made my way along the corridors and down the long staircases to the ground floor—Welsh servants being far less reticent than their English counterparts. Sloughing off their disapproval (and possibly amusement), I held my head high. Granted, my ensemble might be more suitable for Hyde Park than the wilds of Wales, but if Lord Dawnay approved, what else mattered?
That your husband should see you looking so fine, my inner voice chided.
I pulled my lower lip back from an instant pout, tossed my head in denial of this bit of bourgeois sentimentality, and managed a brilliant smile of welcome for my new admirer, who swept into a ridiculously low bow, proclaiming, “What a sight for sore eyes! My dear Mrs. Maddox, you outshine the sun.”
“Flatterer.” I laughed up at him, caught in the moment, all nagging cares dropping away.
“Beg pardon, my lord,” Gruffydd said, “but might I ask where you inte
nd to ride?”
“Out and about,” Lord Dawnay said with a vague wave of his hand. “Never fear. Tell Maddox I shall have her back safe and sound well before the dinner bell.” And with that he took my arm and led me to the waiting horses, throwing me up into the saddle himself. Inwardly, I smiled. Rather more fun than being tossed up by a groom. Looking back, I am appalled by my naivety, and yet in all fairness, my life had been cushioned by wealth and privilege, sheltering me from all troubles that might dare come my way, and leaving me totally unprepared for the hostility I had encountered at Glyn Eirian.
As for Lord Dawnay, though I knew him to be a shocking flirt, I’d had a great deal of experience with importunate men. And, besides, I was remarkably certain he had a healthy respect for Rhys’s ability to protect his own. And for his own skin, which he surely knew he risked if he went beyond the line.
Therefore, I was free to breathe in the crisp October air, bask in the warmth of the sun, and feast my eyes on the glorious landscape—trees that gradually grew taller as we took a path that wound down the south side of the mountain, accompanied by the sound of a brook tumbling over rocks, plunging through shallow gullies, and splashing over a series of falls not more than three feet high. There were clusters of the inevitable sheep, one of the very few cash crops Wales could produce other than its mineral wealth. Here and there the heather still glowed, thought its purple was fast fading into gray.
I shivered as we rode into a woods that reminded me all too strongly of events I wished to put out of my mind forever. Try as I might, I could not be comfortable. Stupid, stupid! I was riding with Hugh, Lord Dawnay, this day a special treat. I would not let Liliwen’s mischief intrude. Fortunately, we soon rode out of the woods, and enchantment shattered my unease.
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