What? “Uh, yes,” I managed. “She is the daughter of my father’s sister.”
“Would she be willing to come for a visit, perhaps an extended stay? I begin to think that you would find life easier if you had a friend nearby.”
Stunned, I stared at the bedcovers, wild thoughts chasing through my head. Joy. Relief. Suspicion. Burgeoning anger. Since Liliwen had proved a doubtful watchdog, I was to be given someone more like me. An English bulldog instead of Welsh hound?
Idiot! He is bending over backward to be kind.
I had my doubts. But to have someone from my family close by . . . that had to take precedence over any doubts about the purpose of her visit. Matilda was family. Complacent, practical, never demanding more than her world could offer. Content, even proud, to be the granddaughter of a blacksmith.
My eyes misted so badly Rhys was only a shimmering hulk in the candlelight as I said, “Oh, thank you, I should like that. May I write to her directly?”
“Of course.” He heaved a long sigh, before abruptly changing the subject. “You realize there is going to be a good deal of unpleasantness. Many will believe what they choose to believe—most particularly my mother.”
Oh yes. Even if she knew quite well I was innocent because she had planned the whole thing.
“You may wish to keep to your rooms for a few days—claiming a recurrence of your recent illness. Hopefully, gossip will be less virulent by the time you emerge.”
The village, the churches, the storekeepers, miners, and foundry workers—I’d had such hopes . . .
And, worst of all, the household staff. In betraying their beloved Rhys—though my crime was a heinous fiction—I had undoubtedly become pariah.
“Of course,” I murmured. “Whatever you say.”
It was only when Rhys squeezed my hand, if a bit awkwardly, and took himself off to his room that I realized I was to be ostracized by everyone, including my husband.
Chapter Fifteen
All too willing to hide from the world—for the slightest thought of what people were saying stained my cheeks scarlet!—I remained confined in my bedchamber and sitting room. To my astonishment, and bone-deep hurt, Rhys did not come to me at all. Naturally I had vivid visions not only of his disgust with me but of his enjoying Eilys’s charms to the full. And who, after all, could fault him for straying? I did not like me much either.
Stupid idiot female to plunge myself into such a fix!
The hardest moment, though, came the day after my incarceration, when Alice opened my door to Lady Aurelia, who held out both hands to me as she crossed the sitting room with the stately grace that was so much a part of her. “Oh, my dear child,” she said softly as our hands touched, “what have you done?”
I burst into tears, a torrent as impossible to stop as water cascading over a cliff. I clung to her hands, sobbing bitterly, pausing only long enough for great gulps of breath before once more giving full rein to my anguish. And then we were sitting side by side on the sofa, her arms tight around me, my head burrowed in her bosom, my tears gradually slowing to hiccups, My hand, I discovered, was damp from clutching Lady Aurelia’s now thoroughly soaked handkerchief.
“My poor dear child,” she said, continuing the comforting words she had been whispering to me for some time. “I have had the whole from Rhys, and you have been abominably used. Yes, you might have acted more wisely, but you are young and unaccustomed to dealing with people who mean you harm. Including that rapscallion Dawnay. He knew better than to set off on such a venture, even if you did not.”
“But it was not his fault—”
“It is always the gentleman’s fault. Remember that, dear.”
“But he did not cast the boat adrift—”
“He put you both on that island, giving free rein to mischief.” Lady Aurelia’s tone brooked no argument.
“Do you . . . do you think Liliwen might have done it? Do you know if she can row a boat?”
“Liliwen not know how to row a boat?” Lady Aurelia said with mock horror. “She might well be struck off the role of proper Welshwomen.”
“And I suppose there are any number of persons who might have helped her,” I ventured before huffing a sigh.
“Oh dear me, yes.” Lady Aurelia’s face revealed considerable sympathy as she added, “Dilys, like Liliwen, is green-eyed over Dawnay’s interest in you, even though she is his senior by a decade. And, of course, no one wishes you gone more than Eilys. And then there is Trystan, who is always anxious to curry favor with Gwendolyn—he wishes her to sponsor him in the Eisteddfod, you see. And he also rather enjoys Liliwen’s flirtations, though his inclinations tend to lie in a quite different direction.”
Even in Birmingham we had heard of the revival of the ancient festival of poetry and music aimed at keeping Welsh traditions alive, so I ignored Lady Aurelia’s reference to the Eisteddfod and fastened on the odd note in her voice as she mentioned Trystan’s inclinations. “Quite different?” I asked.
Lady Aurelia heaved a sigh. “Oh, my dear child, you are truly as young and naive as a newborn babe.”
Unable to hold back a protest, I cried, “My lady, I am a married woman!”
“Knowing how babies are made, Jocelyn, does not make you an authority on the subject of relations between men and women. Or men with men,” she added, emphasizing each word. “Or women with women.”
My mind gone blank, I blinked, frowned . . . “My lady? Grandmama?”
Lady Aurelia patted my hand. “Do not fret, child. My own childhood was as sheltered as yours. It is not at all unusual for you to be unaware that there are other kinds of love. Trystan, I must tell you, espouses the best of both worlds, selecting the objects of his affections from both female and male.”
“But how . . .?” Eyes wide, I swallowed my question. I doubted I wanted to know. Plainly, I was as young and foolish as everyone thought, including Rhys. Stupid little fool. Thoughts of my husband shot my mind back to the true challenge at hand. “Ma’am . . . how can I ever leave this room? Hold up my head?”
“If Dawnay can face the village and not run back to England, then so can you.”
“He has not left?”
Lady Aurelia’s shrewd blue eyes revealed a spark of admiration, however reluctant. “I gather Rhys and he concocted a story—a rather remarkable bit of fiction, I might add—which requires Dawnay to do his part in confirming the tale. It seems,” she continued with a perfectly straight face, “that Lord Dawnay, being a mere Englishman, lost his way, forcing the two of you to spend the night in a shepherd’s hut where Daffyd Llywelyn and his man were sheltering while making their regular tour of the Maddox holdings.”
I stared. “Truly? Rhys did that for me?”
“Truly. The only person or persons who can gainsay it are the villains who marooned you on the island and Daffyd and his man, whose loyalty to Rhys is unquestionable. Emily, Alice, and I do not count, of course, as we are among your devoted supporters. We are English, are we not?”
Dear God in heaven, I was saved!
In spite of Rhys’s grand gesture—perhaps designed more to save his pride than my reputation—my solitary confinement was not lifted, and my husband still did not come to my bed. I even had time to become suspicious of the summoning of my cousin. Had Rhys really remembered her name and thought up the idea of providing a companion? Or had he despaired of me and written to my parents for advice, and it was Mama who had suggested sending Matilda to me?
And thus it went, my spirits soaring one moment, falling into the pit the next.
When you grow up! Rhys’s words slashed at me, day in, day out. But surely now, after all this, I had learned my lesson. Learned not to be so heedless, not so determined to have my own way. Learned not to be so trusting.
Miserable and alone, I waited.
Three more agonizing days passed. I thought I should go mad. I attempted to read, I paced from bedchamber to sitting room and back again. I stared out the window until I felt personally acqua
inted with each colorful leaf on the trees, each needle on the evergreens, each striation and jutting angle of the rocky cliff s rising above the castle’s crenellated wall. I worked on my embroidery, an English garden scene I was determined to frame for my bedchamber wall, but I spent more time ripping out than setting new stitches. In truth, I was fairly accomplished in the needle arts, but I could not keep my mind on what I was doing.
I was a prisoner in a Welsh castle. My husband was likely enjoying himself in someone else’s bed. My Welsh relatives hated me, wanted me gone, one way or another. The only bright spot in my dull routine was the daily visit from Lady Aurelia and Emily Farnsworth. Bless them. But even to their sympathetic ears I had not been able to voice my most urgent questions: Where was my husband? Why did he continue to avoid me?
On this particular afternoon, I must have looked even more woebegone than usual, as Lady Aurelia took one look and cried, “Oh my poor child, do not look so sad. Rhys will return in no time, perhaps as soon as tomorrow.”
“Return?”
“Merciful heavens, child, did he not tell you? He has gone to fetch your cousin Matilda.”
Gone to fetch Matilda? He wasn’t romping in Eilys’s bed?
“But I just wrote the invitation,” I murmured.
“Evidently, Rhys considered the matter urgent enough that he assumed the role of courier, intending to escort your cousin back to Glyn Eirian himself.”
So naturally I demonstrated my newfound maturity by bursting into tears, for what seemed like the thousandth time since crossing the River Dee. Would I never learn? Never grow up?
I fumbled for a handkerchief, gulping back the tears, scrubbing my eyes, blowing my nose less daintily than a lady should. “I beg your pardon, Grandmama, but I thought . . . I thought he was shunning me. Like everyone else.”
“Oh, my poor dear.” Lady Aurelia clasped my hands in hers. “You must have more faith.”
“Yes, indeed, my dear Jocelyn,” Emily Farnsworth echoed. “Maddox is a good man. He will not treat you ill, I am convinced of it.”
I wondered if not treating me ill included being faithful. Somehow I doubted it.
Another two days passed, but they were easier to endure. Rhys would soon be back, bringing Matilda with him. In one fell swoop I would have both husband and cousin. I would rise from the doldrums of the last few days, conquer the animosity surrounding me, and become the help-mate Rhys expected me to be.
So what did I do when my door burst open and there was Rhys, standing back to wave inside a round-cheeked, sandy-haired girl with Viking blue eyes? I once again became a waterfall, clutching her to me, sobbing against Matilda’s ample breasts as if she were my mother instead of a girl a whole year my junior.
When you grow up.
“I’ll shall leave you two to chat.”
As Rhys turned to go, I managed, “Thank you! Thank you for bringing her to me.”
My husband proffered a formal bow. “I shall see you later, Jocelyn..” He cocked his head to one side, as if considering my fate, though I had no doubt he had made his decision long since. “Undoubtedly, the sight of your cousin has worked a miraculous recovery, and you are able to join us for dinner.” For a moment his eyes focused on my face, challenging me to accept this edict which meant facing his mother and Liliwen for the first time in nearly a week. And then he was gone, leaving me bereft, even with Matilda standing in front of me.
“Joss,” my cousin proclaimed as soon as the door shut behind Rhys, “Mr. Maddox has explained that you are finding it difficult to adjust to life in Wales, but surely matters cannot be as bad as all these tears would have me believe.”
“Worse,” I moaned. And winced to hear myself. This overwhelmed, sorry-for-herself creature was not who I was. Absolutely not. And no one knew that better than Matilda. I led her to a comfortable chair before the fire, sank into a chair opposite hers, and the whole sorry tale poured out. Twenty minutes later, my words slowed to a close, and I realized I had once again demonstrated my selfishness and insensitivity. My shocking immaturity. I had not asked Matilda about her journey from Handsworth Wood. I had not asked after her parents, her brothers and sisters. I had not asked about my own parents and brothers. Nor had I thought to postpone the story of my misery until she could be shown to her room, erase the dust of her journey, rest . . . In short, for all my good intentions, I was still a child, the world centered solely around me.
“Oh, Matty, I am so sorry,” I cried. “I’m a selfish beast, carrying on so when you have come all this way to visit me. Forget my tale of woe. Please tell me how your family does. Has Ned offered for Miss Tingley?”
Matilda favored me with that flashing smile of hers, the one that could warm the hardest heart. “Nonsense, Joss. To bear you company in your troubles is why I’ve come. But as for Ned, yes, he found the courage. He and dear Eliza are to be married in the spring.” My cousin went on to catalog the health and activities of not only our immediate families but of branches of Hawley and Dodd families spread over three midland counties.
And when she finally paused for a moment, clearly considering what relative she might have omitted, I did what I should have done when she first came through the door. “Not another word,” I declared. “Alice, please ring for someone to show Miss Matilda to her room. And, Matty dear, please forgive me for keeping you so long when you must be longing to rest and put off your dirt. I shall come to your room to escort you to dinner myself.”
The moment the door closed behind her, I sank back into my chair, my head ringing as Matty’s tales of home clashed with my tales of woe—love and warmth winding in and around antagonism and betrayal. I was not sure which was winning, but there was no doubt I felt better. Considerably better. At last I had an ally.
I should, of course, consider Rhys an ally. But, truthfully, in spite of his bringing Matty to me, I was uncertain where his loyalty lay. Did he really care about me? Or was he simply doing his duty by a wife who was not adjusting well to her new life?
Tonight. Surely our reunion would make matters clear.
Or perhaps not. Rhys was so very adept at shutting out the world the moment he climbed into bed. And equally adept at focusing my attention on the physical as well. A thought that conjured the inevitable butterflies in my stomach and sent heat shooting through me as fiery as one of Congreve’s rockets.
I grimaced. If just the thought of my reunion with Rhys could slough off my troubles like specks of dust gone on a whirlwind, how on earth were we going to resolve so much as one of our myriad problems?
Tonight. Tonight Rhys would come to me. Nothing else mattered.
Chapter Sixteen
It was one of those rare nights when both harper and poet were enjoying a much-deserved rest. An ample excuse, it seemed, for my mother-in-law to turn to Matilda with the predatory smile I had come to know so well and say, “Miss Dobbs, I am certain your accomplishments include any number of tunes we have not heard before. Please . . .” With a languid gesture that smacked of mockery, she waved a hand toward the pianoforte. “Play for us.” Since Gwendolyn knew my skill at the pianoforte was indifferent at best, she undoubtedly hoped to enjoy the sight of my cousin making a fool of herself on her very first evening at Glyn Eirian. Fortunately, Matilda was not so easily discomfited.
“I am skilled in all manner of housewifery, ma’am,” she returned with a serenity I could never match, “and I can create a recognizable sketch. But as for music, I fear I can do little more than sing a bit. Nonetheless, if Jocelyn would be kind enough to accompany me, I might manage a simple song or two.”
Well done! Matty and I had performed together more times than I could remember, and the old tunes rushed back to my fingertips without any need to search out written notes. Our efforts seemed to please—the exception, of course, being Gwendolyn, who clapped only enough to avoid being overtly rude. Her ploy had failed. She had not managed to embarrass the daughters of tradesmen far beneath the touch of her illustrious Welsh ancestors.
“God have mercy, she’s a dragon. No wonder you needed support!”
“The fire-breathing embodiment of the red dragon of Wales,” I declared with considerable bitterness. “But we showed her, did we not? The merchants’ daughters holding their heads high.”
Matty’s blue eyes danced for a moment before, ever the sensible one, she sobered and said, “Your papa and your husband spoke at length while at Hawley Hall, and before I left, Uncle John passed a bit of it on to me. The Maddoxes, it seems, are not typical of the ruling families in Wales. Most are what we thought when you married—they follow English ways, though their ancestry has more than a few Welsh on the family tree.”
“But not Glyn Eirian,” I said with a huff of disgust.
“Glyn Eirian too,” Matty countered. “Until your Rhys’s father married a wild woman from the north, and ever since, she’s done her best to make it a stronghold for Welsh independence.”
I frowned, my instincts warring with the reality of my situation. Matty’s words—undoubtedly a message from my father—opened a yawning pit before me. No! Papa could not be asking me to admire Gwendolyn Maddox for clinging to her culture. Not at the expense of my own. Surely, he could not possibly condone her hostility.
Not condone, but explain, whispered my inner voice.
Explain! Too little, too late. How could either Papa or Rhys justify Gwendolyn Maddox’s hostility to all things English by glorifying her as a heroine of the Welsh cause when neither had made the slightest effort to explain her attitude to me? Well . . . in all fairness, Rhys had hinted at what I should find at Glyn Eirian. But explain? No indeed. Perhaps because no explanation could excuse the treatment I had received.
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