She was appalled. Jealousy?
She went to the table and spent some time choosing the foods she would sample, concentrating on the choice as if it was a matter of some importance. And she winked at Idris Parry, whom she spied beneath the table. She had noticed him there earlier. He had sneaked into the house, though he had had no need to do so since his parents had been invited. They had been too ashamed to come, though. Ashamed of their poverty and shabbiness.
She felt a special partiality for Idris. She was fond of the little girls too and they were far more affectionate when she went up onto the moors with food for the family. Idris was a wild little imp, who roamed free and was rarely at home. But her heart ached with tenderness for him.
She reached out to take a scone, but her hand remained suspended over the platter. How strange that she had never noticed the similarity before. It was so strong that it was almost like looking back over time. They even looked alike. Idris was almost like a reincarnation of Geraint as he had been. That was why she was so fond of him?
The thought saddened her immensely.
And then the Owen brothers arrived, one on each side of her, and proceeded to examine every item on her plate and discuss between themselves, over the top of her head just as if she was not even there, exactly how many pounds each item would add to her weight.
“Roly-poly she will be by next Sunday,” Dewi said. “She will be able to roll down the hill to chapel and save the energy of walking.”
“But a nice soft armful she will make for some lucky man, mind,” Dylan said.
“Well, it will not be you, Dylan Owen,” she said sharply. “And you had better be standing to one side of the path when I come rolling by, Dewi, or I will flatten you.” She picked up the largest scone on the platter and deposited it ostentatiously on top of the other food on her plate.
“Fuming she is,” Dewi said. “Look out for Marged when she is mad, Dyl. It would be safer to wave a red flag to our dada’s bull.”
“We had better keep her happy, then,” his brother said, picking up a jam tart and adding it to her pile. “Enjoy yourself, Marged, and do not burst at the seams.”
Marged found herself giggling. She kept up the banter with them for half an hour while they ate, and other young people joined them. She deliberately kept her back to Geraint and hoped that perhaps before she turned he would have taken his leave without her even noticing. Though she would have known, she thought. She could feel him behind her almost as if he had a hand against her back, though he was still standing close to the fire, some distance from the table.
Finally people began to leave, especially those with young children, though several of the youngsters protested loudly. She would slip away with them, Marged thought. If the Earl of Wyvern was going to stay to the end, then she would leave. Once numbers had dwindled, those remaining would gather in one group about the fire. She had no wish to be drawn into a group that included him.
Unfortunately, she had to approach the fireplace in order to take her leave of Mrs. Howell and Morfydd, who was standing behind her mother’s chair.
“It has been lovely,” Marged said, bending over the elderly lady to kiss her cheek again. She straightened up. “Thank you, Morfydd. I will leave my harp here, if you don’t mind, and ask Mr. Williams to bring it home tomorrow or when it is convenient to him.”
Both Morfydd and her mother were effusive in their thanks for the music and in their assurances that the harp could stay as long as Marged wished. The children would be kept away from it and no harm would come to it.
“I will carry it up to Ty-Gwyn now,” a voice said from behind Marged. She closed her eyes briefly. “And see you home at the same time, Marged. Women should not be out alone in the hills at night.”
She could not refuse any more than she had been able to refuse outside chapel on Sunday. But twice within a week! She had been teased after Sunday by the group who had joined her in planning the pranks at Tegfan and carrying them out. This could lead to more than teasing. It could lead to gossip.
But it was not the gossip she cared about. It was being alone with him in the hills at night. Though even that was not her primary concern. Did he not understand that he was the last man on earth . . . Ah, it sounded like a cliché.
She tried. “It is quite unnecessary for you to go out of your way, my lord.”
“It will be my pleasure, ma’am,” he said, sounding for all the world as if he were preparing to escort an English lady home from an English ball.
He was ready to leave by the time she had drawn on her cloak and raised the hood over her head. He lifted her harp and followed her out into the night.
Chapter 10
IT was a walk of over a mile, first across the crest of a hill and then upward. It was a dark night, with not much moonlight to light the way, and they had not brought a lantern. She found herself hoping that he would not be as surefooted as she, though the thought seemed absurd when she remembered him as a child. And she hoped that he would find himself unequal to the task of carrying her harp the whole distance. It was a heavy instrument and awkward to carry. She hoped that soft living would have him puffing and taking frequent rests. But he carried it with apparent ease.
They did not talk. They walked side by side in the darkness and in silence and she wondered if the air between them really did pulse with tension, or if only she felt it. She had never been more thankful to be the owner of a harp. Would he have insisted on escorting her home if there had not been the harp? She imagined what it would be like now, walking together across the lonely hills, if there was nothing to burden his arms. And she became more breathless than the walk and the climb could justify.
She tried to think of Eurwyn and succeeded better than she had hoped. There had always been work to occupy both of them for most of their waking hours. And the longhouse had always been occupied by his mother and grandmother as well as the two of them. She had loved those few occasions when they went out together and could walk home alone together, relaxed and comfortable. It had happened so rarely. She had liked to walk with her arm linked through his. He had not been a fat man, but he had been large and solid. She had always felt softly feminine, protected, almost fragile with Eurwyn. They were not images of herself that she cultivated, but sometimes it had felt good to believe that her man would protect her from all of life’s harms.
Sometimes she had wished that he would stop in the darkness and kiss her. She had even suggested it once, not long after their marriage. He had been almost embarrassed. Eurwyn had not been a romantic man. What happened between a man and his wife to give them both ease should happen only at a certain time of day and only in their bed. He had never stated that in words—Eurwyn had never been able to talk about intimate matters—but it had been his belief.
She had loved him for his firm beliefs and principles, for his solidity, for the gentle affection he had shown her even though he had never put it into words, even during his courtship of her.
And then they were home and she was opening the gate into the farmyard so that the Earl of Wyvern would not have to set her harp down in the dust. And she was aware of him again, alive and there with her while Eurwyn was long dead, nothing to her but a memory. She hurried across the yard to open the door into the passageway and then the one into the kitchen. It was in darkness. Her mother-in-law and Gran would have been in bed for an hour or more.