Which was so true, I winced. But appreciating the irony of the moment did not fix the problem. “Rhys,” I murmured, the enormity of it all suddenly weighing me down. “What must we do to fix this?”
He blew out a soft sigh. “Control the inquest. Dawnay died by misadventure, perhaps a slip on wet rocks as he was enjoying the beauties of nature.”
“Where?” I asked. “Where did it happen?”
“At the bottom of a cascade—three or four falls of water, the highest not more than five feet.”
“Could he have been pushed?”
“Only by someone he was walking with. It’s open ground there, impossible for anyone to sneak up on him.”
Hope surged. “Then perhaps it truly was an accident.”
“Not if the coroner finds his head bashed in or a bullet in his chest.”
“He could have hit his head on a rock as he fell.”
“Perhaps.” Rhys shook his head, looking grave. “I hope to know more by tomorrow.”
I sat there, head bent, grief and fear pressing on me to an extent I had never known before. Ever so slowly, my body seemed to lean of its own accord, until I found my head pillowed on Rhys’s chest. Just as gradually, his arms closed around me. Clinging together offered comfort, and I should have left “well enough” alone, but somehow, after several moments of reveling in the warmth of his embrace, I asked the question to which I desperately needed an answer: “Rhys? You didn’t actually . . .?”
I flinched as his arms tightened around me, hard and unyielding. His voice, when he spoke, was cold and inflexible. “Jocelyn, if I can believe you did not do more than sleep with Dawnay, how can you possibly question my innocence in his death?”
“You’re crushing me!” I shoved him away. At arms length, we glared at each other, suspicion and belligerence filling the space between us, a sudden miasma of evil.
I crumbled first, crying, “Oh dear God, Rhys, I’m sorry, so sorry. You are as innocent as I, and I cannot believe I was idiot enough to question you. Cry peace. Please.” I clasped his hand, looking into the depths of his blue eyes until they gradually softened, as did the hard ridges of his face. Without a word, he stood, pulled me to my feet, and led me into my bedchamber, where we fell on each other as if only through the act of procreation could we combat the loss of a life cut short.
Yet our interlude was only a respite, we both knew that. Turmoil was descending on a house already riddled with dissension. And when I woke the next morning, my first thought was: If not Rhys, then who? Quickly followed by, Why?
All eyes—most red from weeping—were on Rhys when he walked through the drawing room door the next afternoon. Even Gwendolyn had joined the other ladies of the house in our vigil as we waited for news of how Hugh, Lord Dawnay, died.
“No visible wounds,” Rhys told us. “Bruises, yes, but none more than could be accounted for by a fall onto rocks. Almost . . .” He paused, frowning.
“Almost what?” I asked.
For a moment I thought Rhys was going to ignore me, and then his formal public face dissolved into genuine puzzlement. “Almost as if he simply drowned instead of being tumbled over the rocks in the cascade.”
“It is rather brisk for a swim,” Lady Aurelia offered.
“Especially fully dressed,” Rhys agreed, casting a fond smile at his grandmother to mellow the sarcasm of his remark.
“Perhaps he was fishing?” Dilys suggested, adding with a muffled sniff, “Poor dear man.”
Rhys shook his head. “I have heard nothing about a fishing-rod being found, but I will inquire.”
Gwendolyn pounced. “That is it then,” she declared. “Perhaps he suffered a dizzy spell—too much brandy the night before. Or else, he leaned too far over the pool when netting his fish.”
“But surely he could swim,” Liliwen cried. “Everyone in Wales swims.”
“He was English,” Gwendolyn snapped.
“Englishmen swim,” I shot back. “Englishwomen as well, I might add.”
Gwendolyn huffed. “Nonetheless, a fishing misstep is the most sensible explanation for this accident. We must be sure that is the way the inquest views the matter.” I had long given up finding common ground with my mother-in-law, but this remark quite agreed with my own sentiments.
“As much as I would like such a convenient verdict, Mama, I fear the inquest is likely to look further afield. As is expected in their quest for justice.”
“Nonsense! They would not dare.”
“But who would wish Dawnay dead?” I asked. “And why?”
“You are such a child, Jocelyn,” Liliwen exclaimed. “Hugh flirted with everything in skirts, maiden or married. Half the men in the valley had reason to wish him gone.”
“But surely not enough to kill him?”
“Duels have been outlawed for years,” Gwendolyn declared, “yet they still occur, for at the heart of most of them you’ll find a woman.” Her amber eyes fixed on me with all the ferocious intensity of a witch casting a curse.
“A fine sentiment, Mama,” Rhys drawled, “if you wish to see me hanged.”
Gwendolyn’s fierce gaze swung back to her son. “Which is why I am saying a fishing-rod must be found, whether or not it was there when he fell in.”
Liliwen clapped her hands, looking altogether too gleeful for someone who, only minutes earlier, had seemed devastated by the viscount’s death. “Perfect, Mama! Perhaps his line caught in a tree, he leaned out to detach it, and lost his balance.”
“Or he lost the rod when he slipped and fell in,” Dilys offered, joining the game, “and it drifted downstream, where we can recover it with none the wiser.”
Oh my, I thought. The Welsh did indeed have facile minds and tongues. And yet I could not argue with their solution to saving Rhys from an accusation of murder.
Though surely he would never be convicted, because there was no evidence of murder. And yet . . . just having such thoughts festering in people’s minds could sow suspicion and distrust in the valley. As, I admit—no matter how loyal I was to Rhys or how much I had come to care for him—did my niggling doubts about his guilt.
The people of Glyn Eirian, I assured myself, had known him far longer than I. They would never bring a charge against him. Particularly when the dead man was English.
Gwendolyn turned to the two men standing tall just inside the drawing room door—Gruffydd Maddox and Daffyd Llywelyn. “See to it,” she ordered.
“Mama!” Rhys bellowed, but the men were already disappearing out the door, and I knew a fishing-rod would soon be found not far from the scene of Hugh’s demise. Which brought the uncomfortable thought—did Gwendolyn actually believe Rhys had murdered Hugh? And if his own mother thought him capable of murder, where did that leave me? I who had willingly gone off with Hugh, spent the night alone with him. Been found with him sprawled over my sleeping form by none other than my husband and two Welsh guardsmen.
No, no. Gwendolyn was simply being cautious. Yet nausea gripped me, and my legs turned to jelly.
If Rhys truly had not killed Hugh, then who did? For I could not believe someone as vital as Hugh simply fell in a pond and drowned. Could it have been an angry husband? A scorned lover? Not that Hugh had ever scorned any woman, but perhaps one who had been replaced in his affections? But how could a woman, any woman, be strong enough to drown him? That simply did not make sense. Perhaps someone from the other side of the border—an old quarrel blossomed into vengeance? Possible, but unlikely. It was also possible Hugh had been killed to make trouble between the Welsh and the English. If so, then Gwendolyn likely knew of it and was playing a deep game.
I grumbled one of my brothers’ more colorful oaths. None of this made sense. We should be hearing Gruffydd announcing, “Lord Dawnay,” smiling and laughing at his tales of the ton. Not contriving a plot to exonerate Rhys of his murder. Clutching my embroidery, to which I had not set a stitch for an hour or more, I hastened to my room, where I continued to brood, the answers to my many questi
ons growing more fanciful by the moment. Until one truth rose above the confusion of my thoughts. Somehow the fault was mine. I, Jocelyn Hawley Maddox, had become the root of all evil.
The inquest was put off for nearly a week as no one was foolish enough to anger a powerful English earl by holding the inquiry before his arrival. Which gave ample time for the Welsh witnesses to polish their stories to perfection. Lord Dawnay had gone fishing—his rod discovered in a bush nearly a hundred yards downstream. He must have dropped it, slipped while attempting to retrieve it, and hit his head on a rock, killing him almost instantly. Verdict: death by misadventure.
If only I could be as confident as the inquest panel seemed to be. Or possibly they were all better prevaricators than I. Goosebumps rose, as did the soft blond hairs on my arms. I should be breathing a sigh of relief that no one had so much as whispered of charging Rhys with murder. That the Earl of Strathmore turned out to be a long-time friend of the Maddox family and an investor in the expansion of the copper mine. Though consumed by grief, he had not demanded a more extensive investigation of the death of his son and heir. And yet . . . I was afraid. Afraid that the inquest had merely swept murder under the rug, that a killer was out there, stalking us. The English only? Or was some deranged soul targeting those with power, those with wealth? Those who had wronged him? The possibilities seemed endless.
Not Rhys, not Rhys, not Rhys. I clung to that determination, repeating it over and over. Rhys had not killed Hugh. I was not married to a murderer. Not Rhys, not Rhys, not Rhys.
But a dark worm of doubt had crept into my soul, and the skies around me darkened.
I knew, when Rhys came to me that night, I would melt like a pat of butter over a flame, but I vowed, then and there, that I would keep my wits about me. I would remember I was my father’s daughter, as shrewd as I was proud. There was the possibility that everyone here—all but Matty, that is—wished to be rid of me. And now I was certain they would not stop short of murder. Should I simply take Matty and run? Or in the hope that Rhys truly wanted me (loved me?), did I remain stubbornly in place, constantly vigilant, ready to meet whatever emergency arose?
Not a thrilling choice.
Perhaps I should urge Matty to go home, distance herself from possible danger . . .
With that thought, I discovered I was still not as mature as I had hoped. Matty was my only ally, my only certain true friend. I was not selfless enough to give her up.
And woe to selfish females who cared more for themselves than for others. Guilt would be with me for the rest of my life.
Chapter Twenty-one
A week later, I woke with a feeling of unease. As usual, Rhys was up before me. I let my hand drift to the space beside me, seeking comfort in his lingering warmth as my not-quite-awake brain sorted out what was wrong.
Oh! My fingers, turning to claws, clenched around a bit of the sheet, pulling it tight. Today I planned to make another visit to the village poor, taking baskets of provisions to four more on the list compiled with Rhian Pugh’s help. Tegan had helped me find more blankets in the attic, though it was clear I would soon have to speak to Rhys about buying new ones. But when I mentioned the matter to Mrs. Blevins and Mrs. Evans, our cook, the two women had exchanged an odd look before muttering a reluctant, and ungracious, assent. I had the distinct impression that the moment my back was turned, they would be off to complain to Gwendolyn.
I scowled at the velvet canopy above me. After my contretemps with Gwendolyn over my first visit to the poor, I had asked Rhys to speak with his mother, assuring her he approved the delivery of the baskets. Yet I still could not shake off the fear that this day might turn out as badly as the last, which had begun with that inimical exchange with Gwendolyn and ended with Matty and I sprawled in the road amid the splinters of our carriage wheels. In spite of Matty’s spate of cheerful conversation as we broke our fast, I could not rid myself of a sense of foreboding.
Carrying two blankets each, Matty and I descended to the kitchen, where the four baskets should have been packed with foodstuffs. They were, however, nowhere in sight. “Mrs. Evans,” I said to Cook, “where have you stored the baskets?”
“There be no baskets, missus.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No baskets.” Mrs. Blevins repeated Cook’s words as she strode into the kitchen like a soldier charging into battle. “Mrs. Maddox does not wish it, and so it shall be.”
For a moment I gaped at her, perfectly speechless. Rhys was the ultimate authority at Glyn Eirian, not his mother. His mother who had suddenly become not only the Mrs. Maddox, but the only Maddox whose orders counted. Fortunately, my voice remained steady as I intoned, “You are aware, Mrs. Blevins, that my husband has approved the gift baskets to the poor?”
“Mrs. Maddox says it’s she who gives orders inside the house, ma’am. And she says, ‘No baskets.’”
“How long have you worked at Glyn Eirian, Mrs. Blevins?”
Startled by a response she did not expect, the housekeeper frowned, evidently not quite able to follow where my question was going. “Since I was twelve.” With obvious reluctance, she added, “Mrs. Jocelyn.”
“And you expect to work here for many more years?” I inquired, my face as bland and innocent as I could make it.
“Indeed, ma’am, and why would I not?” Suddenly, she paled, indignation giving way to suspicion, then horror.
“Just so,” I said, noting with some satisfaction that the usually pink-cheeked Cook had turned the color of the dough she was kneading. Time to thrust home. “My husband is an indulgent son, Mrs. Blevins, but Mrs. Gwendolyn Maddox will find she is mistaken in thinking her orders supersede his. I might also point out that we are nearly into November, which leaves but two months before I assume command of this household. At that time anyone unable to obey my orders will no longer work here. Do I make myself clear?”
“Two months?” Mrs. Blevins echoed. “I do not understand.”
“You have not been informed of the agreement reached when I came here?”
“No, ma’am.” Mrs. Blevins and Cook muttered the words in unison.
“On January first, I will assume my rightful place as chatelaine of Glyn Eirian. But since part of that agreement was for Mrs. Gwendolyn to teach me how things are done in the castle, and she has chosen not to do so, I am inclined toward asking Mr. Maddox to revoke the agreement. Certainly, your inability to comply with orders given to you by your employer’s wife, and approved by your employer, suggests that it is time for Mrs. Gwendolyn’s reign to come to an end. The confusion is too unsettling for us all.”
“I thought . . .” Olwenna Blevins’s words trailed into what could only be termed appalled silence.
“You thought me a nonentity who would forever allow my mother-in-law to rule the roost?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Jocelyn. Truly,” Mrs. Evans babbled, her brown eyes wide with fright.
I turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Blevins?”
Defiance had drained out of her, yet she stood straight and proud. “Two Mrs. Maddoxes, giving contrary orders, make my position impossible, Mrs. Jocelyn. The matter needs settling. Immediately.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Matty declared as I huffed a sigh.
“I will speak to Mr. Maddox tonight,” I promised. “In the meantime may we please fill the baskets? I would like to be off within the hour.”
“Jac,” Olwenna Blevins snapped at the wide-eyed kitchen boy, who had been observing our exchange from a nook near the huge kitchen fireplace. “Fetch the baskets immediately.”
By the time I tucked a blanket over the well-rounded top of the last basket. I suspected I now had a good idea of what Caesar felt when he crossed the Rubicon. This was it then, the reason Lady Aurelia warned me my ascension to head of household could not wait for the new year. No man can serve two masters. Nor woman either. Like the army, a household needed a chain of command. And as of today it had to be Rhys, Jocelyn, Gruffydd, and Mrs. Blevins, in that order.
We would, naturally, give due respect to Gwendolyn’s wishes, but when push came to shove, she would have no more power than Lady Aurelia.
Gwendolyn would not take it well. Of that I had no doubt.
Our visit to the village met with more tears, though one peevish old man seemed to think he was doing us a favor when he accepted our charity. After Matty and I returned to the coach, we smiled at each other. Pride was both wonderful and terrible. We understood that it was impossible for him to admit how much our gift was needed.
Did we have a qualm or two as the coach ascended the mountain, particularly when we were enclosed in the narrow pass where the boulder-stone had smashed the landaulette? Indeed we did. Matty and I fell silent, clutching each other by the hand, scarcely breathing until the towering cliff that had rained rocks was behind us.
But instead of feeling relieved that we were safe, or pleasure because we had helped four more families today, as we drew closer to Glyn Eirian, I knew only dread. Ahead of me was a confrontation with Rhys that I could no longer avoid. I must make him understand why I had to seize the reins. Why I must oust his mother. Hands clasped before my face, my thumbs against my mouth, I contemplated a half-dozen ways to approach this difficult conversation. Nothing seemed feasible. With each turn of the wheels, my agitation increased. All day I had put on a face that reflected confidence in my abilities, but now I was on the verge of having to prove it. Of having to convince Rhys that the time had come.
I was not at all certain I could do it.
Yet I could not let Gwendolyn win.
Just as I feared, Gwendolyn had enjoyed the advantage of all those hours Matty and I had spent in the village. When we walked through the front door, Gruffydd met us with, “Mrs. Jocelyn, Mr. Rhys wishes you to join him in his study.”
I almost asked if I might have time to put off my hat, but the seneschal’s solemn expression was rather off-putting. This was not, it seemed, a moment for frivolity. Which I very well knew, but any port in a storm, as the saying went. I smiled reassuringly at Matty and told her I would join her upstairs as soon as possible.
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