“No, thank you, Aled.” Ceris still did not look directly at him, though she spoke quite firmly. “I will not take you out of your way.” She left the schoolroom hurriedly and alone and did not even look at Marged.
If it were not for Geraint Penderyn and his like, Marged thought bitterly, there would not be this unhappiness and this dissension among them. All any of them wanted was peace to live their own lives and to earn an honest and dignified living. But that right was fast being denied them, and she for one was going to see that they did not go under meekly.
It seemed childish to be thinking of tricks to play on the Earl of Wyvern. But they had precious few ways in which to protest.
Chapter 6
MATTHEW Harley knew that the chapel choir practiced on Thursday evenings. And he knew that Ceris Williams was a member of the choir. He had not arranged to meet her after practice, and he knew that very possibly she would leave with Marged Evans. But he hung about in the village street anyway, on the chance that she would come out alone and would allow him to walk her home.
He was surprised when his hopes were realized.
“Yes, thank you,” she said after he had greeted her and offered to see her home.
She even took his arm when he offered it. It was something he had not done during their Sunday walk. These Welsh women, especially these chapel women, were funny. Straitlaced. Skittish.
But he needed a woman, possibly a wife. He did not believe that Ceris Williams, or any other woman on the estate, could be had without marriage, though he had considered Marged Evans. She had been a widow long enough to be restless and might be ripe for a few tumbles. But Marged Evans was not really his type. She was too spirited, too outspoken. Ceris was far more palatable. She was pretty, docile, beddable. And he certainly needed a woman.
Ceris Williams had been the blacksmith’s woman, though Harley did not doubt that she was still a virgin. But there had been a break in that courtship recently.
“I enjoyed tea on Sunday,” he said, “and our walk.”
“Yes.” She smiled, though she did not look up at him. “So did I.”
“I have hoped,” he said, “that you will allow me to call on you again. Will you?”
She did not answer immediately. She was the right height for him, he thought. She made him feel tall. He wished he could take her walking in the hills and have his pleasure of her without having to consider marriage, but he doubted it was possible.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
Her unexpected acquiescence was a balm to his bruised feelings. He knew that he was generally disliked on the estate. It was to be expected. He had a job to do and he did it without flinching. Unpopularity had never bothered him. The feeling of power his job gave him had always been adequate compensation. But now he was being threatened. His employer had come from London after two years of showing no interest at all, and he was starting to ask questions, to intrude where he was not needed or wanted.
Harley found it irritating.
“The Earl of Wyvern has been visiting his tenants since his return home,” he said. “Has he visited your father?”
“Yes,” she said. “He drank tea with us.”
“And how does everyone feel about his return?” he asked. He hoped everyone felt as badly about it as he did. Perhaps the earl would return to London if he felt no welcome at all.
But he asked the question idly. Really he was quite happy just to be walking with a woman. With this particular woman.
Geraint walked to church on Sunday morning despite the fact that he had had a great deal of exercise during the morning. Actually it was the chapel to which he walked. He was too late for the Anglican service, which started half an hour before the nonconformist one. He convinced himself that it was chasing sheep that had made him late, but if he was honest with himself he would have to admit that he had been looking for some excuse to go to the chapel instead of to the church. The sheep had merely provided the excuse.
He grinned to himself as he strode down the driveway, the wind buffeting him and threatening to dislodge his hat. And he realized that it felt good to smile, to feel amused. Even the wind felt good. There had been precious little to feel cheerful about for the last week, especially the last couple of days.
His gardeners certainly had not been amused to find that a whole flock of sheep had broken out of the pasture during the night and were grazing contentedly on the lawns before the house. He had rather liked the look of them himself when he had gazed down on them from the window of his bedchamber. They had made for a pleasantly rustic scene. But the sight of gardeners and grooms trying to shoo them away and merely causing them to wander in a bewildered circle instead had caused him first to grin and then to pull on his boots to go down there.
It had been his idea to send for the dogs, but only after he had done some sheep chasing himself. And even then he followed the flock and the dogs and the irate head gardener all the way to the pasture and watched the gate being securely shut. It was hard to know how such a secure clasp could have come accidentally undone. Most likely someone had been careless enough to leave the gate unlatched. Or so the gardener had said, menace in his voice. And he would find out who the culprit was too.
Geraint had commented that no harm was done. The sheep had merely been grazing peacefully on the grass. There were no flowers yet for them to destroy. His gardener had given him a hard, tight-lipped, almost pitying look. And the reason was now obvious. As he had set out for church, Geraint had noticed a whole army of gardeners sheepishly scooping up sheep droppings from the sacred expanse of the Tegfan lawn. He grinned again, enjoying the pun.
But he sobered as he reached the village and could see ahead of him along the street several people entering the chapel. This was not going to be easy. He had never attended the chapel as a boy—he had been kicked out of it when he was still inside his mother’s womb. Sometimes, unknown to his mother, he had lurked outside it on Sunday mornings, usually to one side or at the back rather than on the street, listening to the singing, learning the hymns, hoping to attract Aled’s attention or Marged’s when the service was over. He should have hated the chapel, but he had always perversely longed to be a part of it.
He had never attended a service there. And now he felt even more self-conscious than he had expected to feel. His grandfather had always attended the church when he was at Tegfan. It would be assumed that he would do likewise. He would not be welcome here. He had not felt particularly welcome in any of the homes he had visited in the past week. Even Aled had told him it would have been better if he had not come. And now he knew at least some of the reasons for the hostility he had felt everywhere beneath the surface courtesy he had been accorded by everyone— everyone except Marged.
He had a great deal of work ahead of him.
The chapel seemed alarmingly full to him when he stepped into the doorway between it and the porch. He was unaccustomed to seeing churches with apparently no empty pews. But this seemed to be one. There was nowhere to sit. And yet it was too late to retreat. A few heads had turned to see who the newcomer in the doorway was, and without looking directly at anyone, he was aware of eyes widening and eyebrows rising and elbows digging at neighbors. During the few seconds he stood there hesitating, he guessed that at least half the congregation became aware of him. The buzzing of muted chatter diminished significantly.