As the horses labored, winding their way back up to the castle, every turn of the wheel jostling my developing bruises, my fear grew. I had thought Rhys and I would win through, get past all this nonsense, be able to make a good home here. Establish ourselves as benign leaders of the valley, making sure cottages were sound, the mine and foundry as safe as could be, the people well fed and supported in their devotion to God and country.
Except their country was not the amalgamation of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, espoused by the English, but a fiercely patriotic country that demanded independence. Contrary to everything I had been brought up to believe.
I almost welcomed my increasingly worsening aches and pains, as they drove speculation straight out of my head. I settled to stoic endurance for the rest of trip up the mountain, falling into bed without a murmur, rousing only long enough for the doctor to examine my bruises, before once again turning my back on the world while my churning mind refused to settle. Someone wanted me gone. Having failed to frighten me away, he—or she—had turned to murder. And truth was, outside of staying shut up in my rooms, there was no way I could prevent another attack.
Would it be another ambush from above? Perhaps an arrow, a fall, or poison? I was vulnerable in so many ways. I could be dropped into an old mineshaft, tossed off the wooden bridge into the chasm, shut up in the old escape tunnel. Shot, strangled . . .
No no no and no! I would not think this way. Gwendolyn Maddox was not a monster. Gruffydd actually seemed to like me. Daffyd Llywelyn had shown no sign of betraying my reputation, which he most certainly held in his hands. Liliwen was a petulant child. The boulders had merely come loose in the last rainstorm, the ground under them gradually eroding until they’d tumbled onto the road. Undoubtedly, Rhys would check the cliff, have men reenforce it before a landslide swept that whole section of road away. Yes, that had to be it. I was letting nerves blow everything out of proportion.
When Rhys came to me that night, he did no more than fold me gently in his arms and murmur comforting words. A true and thoughtful gentleman.
Or had he inherited theatrical talent along with rest of the traits that made him Welsh?
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning when I tried to get out of bed, my body screamed in outrage. So there I was, once again confined to my room, exchanging notes with Matty who was in a similar condition. When I attempted to contend with the whirlwind of thoughts that blew so violently through my head, I ended up with fragmented mismatches of Daffyd and Liliwen, Gruffydd and Eilys, Dilys and Hugh, with occasional flashes of Trystan and Hugh. And winking in and out among them, Gwendolyn, like a puppet master pulling the strings.
Rhys also danced in and out of my visions, the most powerful player on a giant game board, but one still bound by rules of loyalty to family, to country, to anyone Welsh. And where did that leave me? Was I a pretty bauble, to be taken out and admired when he had the time.? Or when he needed to scratch the male itch? Or was he the devoted husband he seemed, just too busy, too accommodating to his Mama, to be all I wanted him to be?
Late that afternoon, Rhys hauled me out of bed and made me walk (twice!) from my bedchamber to our sitting room and back, insisting I would the better for some exercise. He was right, of course, but at the time I came close to punching him in the chest. (If I’d had the strength, I would have!)
Rhys did not, however, force me downstairs. My dinner was served in the sitting room, and not long after he joined me, his solemn face warning me he had not come simply to inquire about my health. Arms crossed over his chest, he looked down at me and said, “I climbed the cliff above the road to be certain my memory had not failed me. And it had not. If the boulder-stones had been close enough to the edge to be a danger, I would have had them moved long since.” He paused, his face growing even more grim. “There was a trail—scuff marks in the dirt, scrapes on the granite—leading from the rocks to the cliff edge. Those boulders did not roll themselves a good ten feet before toppling into the road.”
“It was not an accident,” I whispered.
Rhys shook his head. “As much as I would like to think so, I cannot justify that with the facts.” His lips narrowed, as if he was holding back words he was thinking but did not want to say.
“You are saying someone wished me dead.”
“No!” Rhys’s fist slammed down onto the small dining table, rattling the dishes.
“You have just told me so.” And to think men accuse women of not being logical. “Is it really so terrible that I am English?” I cried when he did not reply. “Or is it Eilys who wishes me gone?”
Dear God, what had I said? Rhys was staring at me as if I had committed the ultimate blasphemy. Well, I suppose accusing his mother and/or his mistress of attempted murder could be described that way.
“There must be a madman loose among us,” he ground out, ignoring my accusation. “And I assure you no woman rolled those rocks over the edge. If you had ever cleared land, you would have a better idea of how much they weigh.”
Two unreasonable assumptions in one sentence: blaming some unknown madman and denigrating a female’s ability to do what had to be done. If not one woman, then surely two could have managed it.
“Please confine yourself to the castle for the next few days while I attempt to discover what is going on. I will assign guards to patrol the corridors. And, I assure you I will make sure all bedchamber doors have bolts.”
I bent my head, murmuring, “Thank you.” Until a sudden thought sent words flying from my mouth before I had time to stop and think. “What about the secret passage?”
Silence. Long and loud. “I will have a bolt installed on that as well,” Rhys offered, his voice as bland as a bowl of milk. If he was surprised I knew of the passage, he gave no sign of it.
“Is there a secret passage in my room?”
“No. My ancestors did not encourage their wives to sneak in and out at will.”
A remark that hit the bull’s-eye of my guilt dead center. And as much as admitted that Maddox men had wandered freely for generations. I steepled my fingers before my face, hiding my expression. We were suddenly swimming in deeper waters than either of us had intended.
“Jocelyn?” I peeped at my husband over my fingertips. “I do not know why this is happening or who is responsible, but I will find out. You are my wife, Glyn Eirian is your home. I swear I will not let anything happen to you.”
And of course, being young and foolish, I believed him. Every word. My whole being glowed with the warmth of his love. What a pity my elation lasted such a short time.
“And just what do you think you’re doing,?” Gwendolyn’s shrill demand echoed through the entry hall as a footmen, carrying a basket in each hand, and two maids with one basket each paraded across the marble tiles.
“Taking food to the needy, ma’am,” I responded, keeping my voice as calm as I could manage.
“You are emptying the larder,” she cried. To the servants, she called, “Take the baskets back at once. At once, I say!”
The line drew to a stuttering halt. Three pairs of eyes fixed on me, pleading to be absolved from blame for following my orders. As Lady Aurelia’s warning whispered through my head, I huffed a breath and said, “Gwendolyn, I have Rhys’s permission to visit those in need and share our food with them.” I don’t know what imp of Satan made me add, “And I am certain that with the extent of my dowry, Glyn Eirian should have no difficulty replacing any foodstuffs I might distribute to the poor.”
Gwendolyn’s countenance metamorphosed from a fit of temper to cold fury. “Gruffydd, send for my son immediately. Jocelyn, you will go nowhere without my permission.”
Open warfare. A challenge I must meet or never be the new chatelaine so badly needed at Glyn Eirian.
“Put the baskets on the floor,” I said to the servants. “You may return below stairs.”
My temper surged as I heard Gwendolyn’s huff of satisfaction. “Matty,” I said, “I believe we can
manage if we make two trips.” With that, I strode forward, picked up one of the heavy baskets and headed for the door.
“Come back this instant!” Gwendolyn ordered. I kept going, Matty on my heels. “I give the orders here,” she shouted after me, her voice catching on what almost sounded like a sob. But when we returned for the remaining baskets, the hall was deserted, even Gruffydd conspicuous by his absence. Matty and I glanced at each other, picked up the remaining baskets, and tiptoed down the front steps, as if the slightest noise might bring the whole chaotic scene down upon us again.
I had not truly thought Gwendolyn mad, merely overly obsessed with Welsh tradition. But now I could not help but wonder if she had tipped over the edge into emotions that could not be good for any of us. What would she say to Rhys when he came dashing back to the house in response to her summons? Would Rhys support me, or would he stick to his edict of my waiting until the new year to seize the reins? We were on a tightrope in this particular matter. I was ministering to the valley, but I was using household supplies to do it.
But Rhys had told me I might take food to those in need. Surely he would not go back on his word. Yet when he saw how upset Gwendolyn was . . .? And then there were the servants to be considered. No man can serve two masters—a biblical phrase that rang true through the centuries.
“That was splendid,” Matty declared as we squeezed into the coach where the baskets took up considerably more space than we did. “I knew you had it in you!”
“If you mean that I am arrogant enough to defy my mother-in-law, I fear Mama would be shocked by my conduct.”
“Uncle John would applaud. You must stand up for your rights, Joss. You should be giving all the orders at the castle, and you know it. ’Tis nonsense to wait until the new year. She’s a green old cat, jealous of your youth, your beauty, your influence with her son.” Which was shockingly plain speaking for my cousin Matilda, as she seldom took a dislike to anyone.
“I understand her position, I really do,” I murmured. “I even felt sorry for her, which is why I agreed to wait. But Gwendolyn has ceased to make even a show of teaching me the things I need to know, and there can be no doubt she is neglecting her duties to the valley . . .” When my voice trailed into silence, Matty reached over and patted my hand.
Our silence endured for the remainder of our descent to the village in the comfort and safety of the Maddox traveling coach. In spite of the security of three armed outriders, my heart took most of that time to recover from its attempt to pound its way out of my chest, as I reviewed my confrontation with Gwendolyn over and over, and over again.
By the time we reached the village, however, Matty and I were able to put on our Lady Bountiful faces and be immensely touched by the looks of wonder, even tears, as we delivered our baskets, which contained warm blankets as well as food. From now on, I vowed, there would be baskets at least twice a month. I would inquire of the vicar and the pastor, get their recommendations in addition to the list of most needy from Rhian Pugh.
Until that morning I had not truly understood the extent of poverty in Wales. Shopkeepers and families with men working in the mine or foundry managed well enough, though their lives were meager. But the elderly, the weak, the shiftless—who were still children of God—and those with damaged hearts, minds, or souls struggled. No fire in the fireplace, no kettle on the hob, empty cupboards, wan faces, pinched faces, crying children,. There simply was not enough income to stretch to the support of those in need. Which was the result of living in a land with more stone than soil. In a land that had warred with its neighbors for a thousand years or more. In a land that considered itself conquered, not annexed to the small kingdom whose influence was beginning to spill beyond the oversize island off the shores of Europe in a seeming attempt to dominate the world.
Perhaps Wales should be grateful for having any say in the government at all, but even a few months here had made me realize that old resentments did indeed run deep. I was an outlander, and as long as Gwendolyn Maddox ruled the roost, I would remain so. Lady Aurelia had it right, of course, when she’d said, The situation is intolerable . . .this household will not hold together until the new year.
Would my stand this morning trigger the necessary change? Or would we stumble on without resolving the issue, tension mounting each hour until it reached the point of explosion? Or had that already happened, and it was Gwendolyn behind the attempt to kill me?
But when we returned home, however, my suspicions, my heated words with Gwendolyn, had been totally eclipsed by something more shocking. The hall, quite oddly, was as deserted as when we’d left. Not a sign of life. Not a sound. Matty and I ascended the stairs, expecting to hear voices, a footfall, the creak of a door. Nothing. Without saying a word, Matty followed me into my sitting room, where we sank down on the sofa and frowned at each other. The room was bathed in the low light of an almost setting sun, casting shadows into corners and adding to my certainty that something was wrong. Surely the hot tempers of noontime were not still lingering over the house.
“Oh, missus!” Alice wailed, bursting through the door from my bedchamber.
“We can’t believe it,” Tegan cried, erupting into the room on Alice’s heels.
“It’s right terrible, ma’am,” Alice declared, coming to stand in front of me. “Mrs. Gwendolyn laughed—can you credit it?—she laughed! But the rest of us are in mourning. So shocked we can scarce speak.”
Tegan’s face turned sly. “Laughed she did, until thought of her son being taken up quite wiped the smile from her face.”
My flagrant disobedience of Gwendolyn’s orders might have been a source of gossip in the castle, but surely they could not have produced a reaction as dramatic as this. And, finally, the word mourning sank in. “What are you talking about, Alice? What has caused this high emotion?
The two young women stared at me. Alice’s hand flew up to hide her mouth, while Tegan simply stared at me, eyes widening in horror. “You mean you have not heard, ma’am? News hadn’t reached the village before you left?”
“What news?” I demanded, my temper growing short.
“Why, Lord Dawnay, ma’am.”
“Found dead, he was,” Tegan added. “Drowned in a pool on the mountain, just where his land meets ours.”
Chapter Twenty
Impossible! Not Hugh. So vital, charming. Insouciant. And not as much of a rogue as he would have us believe. In spite of his faults, I’d liked him. He could not be gone. There must be some mistake.
“Who brought this news?” I demanded, hearing the frantic denial in my tone even as my stomach roiled.
“A rider direct from Burnley Manor, ma’am. There’s no doubt about it.”
I pressed the back of my thumb to my lips, struggling to think, when my mind seemed to have dissolved into a mud puddle. Hugh. Gone.
A tiny glow of intelligence sparked an old refrain to life in the frozen wasteland that was my brain. Not an accident. The thought springing up, fully formed, in all its ugliness. And if not an accident, then it was murder. And if murder . . .
Hugh was an eldest son, heir to an earldom. His father would set up a hue and cry not seen since the English hunted Welsh rebels in Medieval times. And when he did, there would be no keeping secret the tale of the hut on the island. Every finger would point toward Rhys.
Rhys, I had to talk to Rhys!
“Jocelyn.” Matty’s urgent whisper sounded in my ear. “I know this is a blow, but you must be strong. A friend of the family has died, and you must act accordingly. Gracious in your mourning, ignoring all else.”
Ignoring? Ignoring the fact my husband might be accused of murder? Ignoring that my reputation would be forever blackened in the valley where I expected to live for the rest of my life?
There I was again. Thinking only of myself. Selfish to the core. Even thought of Rhys was self-centered, since he had become so much a part of me. I should be thinking of Hugh. Perhaps it really had been an accident. And if it was not, then
I should be asking myself who killed him. And why. I should be thinking of his family and their grief. Praying to God to give them strength to endure this terrible blow.
Rhys. Rhys, I need you.
As if my thoughts conjured him, there he was, my three companions disappearing out the doorway, silent as wraiths dissolving into the morning mist.
Tell me you did not do it. I should not have thought it, but I did. Logic told me my husband would never do anything so heinous. But he was Welsh, and the Welsh tended to live by ancient traditions that came closer to the Old Testament’s “eye for an eye” or the rules governing life in pagan times.
Yet Rhys had believed Hugh’s tale. And mine. Believed that nothing had happened. But the look of it had been damning. Perhaps the incident had festered in his mind . . .
“I’m sorry, Jocelyn,” he said. “Dawnay and I have known each other for years. Not quite friends—his stays here infrequent and Mother disapproving of any contact—but I liked him well enough. Which is why I was willing to believe the tale you both spun—”
“Not a tale, but the truth!”
Rhys caught my gaze and held it. “Forgive me. I misspoke. I believe you, Jocelyn, but others do not. We could be in for a difficult time.”
“This is your valley. Surely you should be able—”
“Welshmen are free-thinkers, my dear. They will do and say as they see fit.”
“Your Mama will manage the matter if you will not!” I could not have said that. Truly.
Rhys was staring at me as if I had grown two heads. And then a bark of laughter escaped his lips as he plopped down on the sofa beside me. “You are indeed your father’s daughter,” he said. “Fierce as a lion and stubborn as a mule.”
“Ruthless,” I snapped back, “if that is what it takes to spare your life.”
“Ruthless indeed, if you are citing Mama as an example of proper behavior.”
Welshman's Bride Page 15
