He wondered if there was going to be any way out of the pit he had dug for himself.
But he was not to have time to think further. His butler arrived with a visitor’s card on a tray. After one glance at it, Geraint brightened and directed that Mr. Thomas Campbell Foster of The Times be shown in. This was the journalist to whom he had written, a man he knew personally and respected for his work. The man on whom he pinned much hope.
“Thomas.” He crossed the library to his visitor, right hand extended, as soon as the latter was shown into the room. “This is a singular surprise, though a very welcome one. What brings you to this forsaken corner of the British Isles?” He must not forget that it was Rebecca who had written to Foster, not the Earl of Wyvern.
“Wyvern.” Foster made him a half bow and grinned. “I had been expecting barren wasteland and wild savages, I must confess. It has been a pleasant surprise to find lovely scenery and a language that sounds very musical even if it is unintelligible.”
Geraint crossed to a sideboard to pour his friend a drink and motioned him to a leather chair at one side of the fireplace. “Have a seat,” he said, “and tell me what brings you here. Is it business or pleasure?”
“Business actually,” Foster said after seating himself and accepting the offered glass. “I had an eloquent and impassioned letter from Rebecca inviting me down here to witness at first hand what is happening.”
“Ah,” Geraint said, sitting down opposite the journalist. “Rebecca.”
“I do not know how to contact him,” Foster said. “I suppose he will contact me when he hears of my arrival. In the meantime I thought to speak with all the landowners in the area to hear their version of events. I suppose the two versions will conflict. But the challenge of journalism is to try to separate truth from prejudice and hysteria and report accurately what is fair to both sides. I learned to my delight that your Welsh property is in the very center of this new wave of rioting. And so I came to you first, Wyvern. Are you willing to grant me an interview?”
Geraint crossed one leg over the other and pursed his lips. “This new wave of rioting, as you call it, has begun since my arrival here,” he said. “It might even be said that I provoked it in a way. I instituted a few reforms and tried to bring about a few more on a larger scale by talking with my neighbors and advocating joint action. I met hostility from all quarters and was forced to abandon my crusading zeal. And then Rebecca appeared. Perhaps I inadvertently stirred something up.”
Thomas Foster was looking at him with interest. “This is unexpected,” he said. “Are you suggesting that you believe the rioters have some right on their side?”
Geraint thought for a moment. “I suppose it is never right to act against the law and to destroy public property,” he said. “But I must confess that I find myself in some sympathy with Rebecca and his followers. They seem to have almost no alternative. They have met with deaf ears for long enough. I am not sure if you are aware, Thomas, that for the first twelve years of my life, before my grandfather discovered that I was his legitimate heir, I lived here among the poorest of the poor. That was a long time ago, but I can remember how it feels to be poor and helpless. If my grandfather had not made his discovery, I am not sure now that I would not be a follower of Rebecca myself.” He smiled. “I was always something of a leader. Perhaps I would even have been Rebecca.”
Thomas Foster whistled and settled more comfortably in his chair, all sense of formality forgotten. “Tell me more,” he said. “This is fascinating and will make wonderful copy in The Times. A peer of the realm who is in sympathy with rebels, partly because he grew up as one of them. Tell me everything you know and everything you feel, if you will.”
Geraint laughed. “If you have an hour or two to spare,” he said. “Shall I replenish your drink first?”
Well over an hour later Geraint was sitting at his desk writing a letter to Mr. Thomas Campbell Foster from Rebecca, inviting the journalist to join her and her daughters and children two nights hence for a meeting.
It was safe to disclose both time and place, Geraint decided. Foster was a man of integrity and a man after a fascinating story. He was not going to turn informer. Indeed, he would protect his sources against all pressure. Geraint could remember a time when Foster had spent a few nights in Newgate for refusing to disclose the confidences of an accused murderer.
There were many places in the hills where a large crowd might gather undetected. If they were far from any road or tollgate, there was not even the chance of a stray constable detecting them. Foster could gather all the information he needed from such a meeting—from Rebecca, from her daughters, from any man in the crowd who cared to speak up and voice his grievances. Geraint half smiled. Or from any woman. He could not imagine Marged keeping quiet.
Perhaps after the meeting they would march on a gate and destroy it. Perhaps Foster would come with them so that he could witness and report exactly what happened.
Foster had told him earlier that there was talk of setting up a commission of inquiry to come down to Wales in order to interview as many people as possible to find out the truth behind the complaints and unrest. If Foster was given a good enough story to publish in the foremost London newspaper, then perhaps that possibility would become more of a certainty.
He could only hope, Geraint thought as he signed the letter with a flourish. Hope and keep working toward his goal, though doing so was becoming more dangerous every day.
Ceris and her mother were both working in the kitchen when Aled was admitted to the Williams farmhouse. Both were as pale as ghosts. Ninian Williams came in from outside before any words could be exchanged. He looked thunderous.
“Well, Aled Rhoslyn,” he said, “my daughter was betrothed yesterday to Matthew Harley. I will hear today that she is betrothed to you or I will see you outside with your fists at the ready.”
“Yes, Ninian,” Aled said, his eyes on Ceris. She was stirring a pot of soup that was suspended over the fire, her eyes downcast. “But it takes two to make such an announcement. I will talk privately with Ceris, will I?”
“My daughter lied to us last night,” Ninian said. “And then she shamed us and herself and her chapel by fornicating with you while she was betrothed to another man. I am not sure there can be forgiveness for such behavior. We will have to speak with the Reverend Llwyd. But marriage between those who have fornicated together is one step in the right direction. My daughter’s consent in the matter is unnecessary.”
His dear, gentle Ceris. Obviously after her ordeal of the morning she had made a clean breast of everything to her parents. And Ninian was reacting as any father might be expected to react. He had probably been scared out of his wits when Ceris was dragged off to Tegfan.
“Oh, Ninian.” Mrs. Williams lifted her apron over her face. “There is hard you are being on your own daughter. And you a follower of Rebecca yourself if it were not for your legs.”
“It is not the following of Rebecca I object to, woman,” he said. “It is the lies and the fornicating.”
“Ceris,” Aled said. “We will step outside together and talk about it, is it?”
Her hand paused in its stirring motion though she did not look up. “Yes,” she said. She set down the spoon, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned to the door. Aled followed her out.