It was a part of her life that had ended when Eurwyn was taken from her. Now sometimes she tossed in her bed, unable to sleep, yearning for the physical touch of her man. And now at this moment she yearned. She ached. Not just in her emotions but in her body. Her breasts felt tender and her thighs ached and she throbbed in that place where Eurwyn had joined his body to hers for a few minutes each night.
Oh, Eurwyn, I want you back. I need you, cariad.
What had brought that on? she wondered, opening her eyes and walking resolutely onward. She had put grief and longing behind her long ago. They were destructive emotions when carried on too long. There was too much living to be done to bury oneself in the past.
But she knew what had brought it on. Geraint Penderyn, the Earl of Wyvern. Who had killed Eurwyn and asked her only this morning what he had done to her. Who had tried ten years ago to seduce her and had tried again just this morning. Who had . . . Ah, there was no point in enumerating his offenses over and over again.
Sheep let loose on his lawn! It was a pitiful protest. If only Aled and his committee would get moving. If only they could find a Rebecca. Did no man have Eurwyn’s courage?
And then she saw that she was not the only person strolling in the upper hills. A young man and woman were walking toward her some distance away, hand in hand until they spotted her and released each other. Foolish people, she thought. As if she would mind seeing such an innocent sign of affection.
They were Glenys Owen and one of the grooms from Tegfan. Marged did not know his name—he was not from Glynderi. And it was obvious from Glenys’s flushed face and the indefinable air of dishevelment about both of them that they had been indulging in a little more than just walking. Marged smiled and greeted them and could feel only envy. Her father often preached from the pulpit about the wicked hills. Hasty marriages following upon summer courtships in the hills were far from uncommon. But Marged was envious.
And then she had a thought. She did not know where it came from unless it was the sight of Glenys combined with her angry thoughts about Geraint and the recent memory of her accusing him of being unwilling to take his whores to the earl’s bed.
The earl’s bed.
“Glenys!” She turned and called after the disappearing couple, who were hand in hand again, she noticed.
They both turned to gaze back at her.
“Glenys,” she called. “May I have a word with you?”
Marged had once taught Glenys in Sunday school. The girl had shown little aptitude for reading, but she had been sweet and affectionate and had often stayed after the other children to chatter about nothing in particular. She came back now toward Marged. Her young man stayed where he was.
It was a foolish idea. But then all ideas for making nuisances of themselves to the Earl of Wyvern were foolish ones. Until there was a Rebecca, they could do little else but annoy him.
“Glenys,” she said, “do you ever have reason to go to the Earl of Wyvern’s bedchamber?”
Glenys stared blankly at her. It really was a stupid question. Fortunately the girl did not read any meaning into the unintentionally suggestive query.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I am just a kitchen maid, Mrs. Evans.”
“But you know where it is, his bedchamber?” Marged felt herself flushing.
“Yes,” the girl said, frowning.
No, it would not do. She should have thought more carefully before calling Glenys back so impulsively. It would be asking too much. Even if the girl did have reason to go near his room on occasion, it would be dangerous. She might be caught red-handed, or else it might be traced back to her. No, the idea was not a good one at all. Not as good as tomorrow’s. Tomorrow there was to be a large delivery of coal to Tegfan. But that coal, every lump of it, was to suffer an accident on his lordship’s driveway. It was to be spilled out in every direction.
She smiled in some embarrassment at Glenys. “It does not matter,” she said. Unless . . . It was madness. Sheer madness. But sometimes madness was necessary when there were great injustices to be fought. That was what she could remember Eurwyn saying on one occasion. “No, wait.”
Glenys, half turned back to her young man, looked politely at her.
“Glenys,” she said, “could you show me where his bedchamber is? Could you show me how to reach it? Without being seen?” She listened to her own words, appalled.
“His lordship’s bedchamber?” Glenys sounded mystified, as well she might.
“You have heard about the sheep?” Marged asked. “Your brothers must have told you, I am sure. They were both with me last night. And you were in chapel this morning.”
Glenys smiled, her eyes dancing with amusement. “We all thought Mr. Vaughan would start foaming at the mouth this morning,” she said, naming Tegfan’s head gardener.
“But none of us knew that the sheep did not get out by accident. There is a good joke it was, Mrs. Evans.”
“There will be more,” Marged said. “You heard too what happened to Glyn Bevan yesterday?”
Glenys sobered. “Yes,” she said. “Oh, I do hate that Mr. Jones, I do. He loves his job. A person ought not to love such a job.”
“No,” Marged said. “Can you show me the room and the way to it, Glenys? Without getting yourself into any trouble at all? It will be just another joke, I promise.”
Glenys swallowed and then nodded.
Marged laughed as they parted a couple of minutes later. “Watch for the coal delivery tomorrow,” she said. “It should be amusing.”
But it was not amusement she wanted to feel. And indeed it was not amusement she felt. It was excitement. And determination. Soon he would know that it was not just a series of clumsy accidents that was making his life less than comfortable. Soon he would know himself to be the victim of hatred.
It would happen the night they planned to let the horses out of the stables. Friday night. She would do it that same night. Before the night was over he would know.
Finally Marged directed her steps downward. It must be almost teatime.
It was not a good week for Geraint.
He talked to his steward, and Matthew Harley chose to be indignant and to take offense at the suggestion that there was something wrong at Tegfan and on its farms. He pointed out that the estate was the most prosperous in West Wales and was the envy of every other landowner. He explained with some pride that other stewards and even some landowners had visited him to ask his advice on a wide range of topics concerning estate management. He pointed out that tithes and road trusts and the poor rate were beyond his power to control but that rents certainly were not. By raising rents annually, he had ensured the continued prosperity of Tegfan and the continued superiority of the farms.
“How so?” Geraint asked, questioning that last point.
There were many more farmers than there was land for them to rent. It was a competitive business. If a man with land could not afford his rent, he was proving that he was a poor manager. It made perfect business sense to see that he was replaced by a better man. The knowledge that they might be replaced by someone better able to run their farms was incentive enough to keep everyone working hard.
It sounded reasonable. It sounded admirable. But Geraint had always suspected that business was often an impersonal thing, ignoring the human factor. He could not shake from his mind the image of Idris Parry, thin and ragged and poaching on his land. And the memory of what it felt like to live in stark, frightening poverty.