There was a stranger standing quite close to him. Most of the men here were strangers to her, of course. But this man was without disguise and he was dressed in clothes that looked both fashionable and expensive. He was looking about him with frank interest.
Aled dismounted and joined the other daughters on the mound with Rebecca. The stranger was there too and another man, disguised like everyone else but not as a daughter. His role became clear when the meeting began. He was an interpreter, translating what Rebecca said into English, though interestingly enough he did not translate what was said in English back into Welsh for Rebecca’s comprehension.
Marged did not know why Rebecca chose not to speak in English. Almost everyone she knew spoke the language to a certain extent, and Rebecca was an intelligent man and seemed to be an educated one. And obviously he understood perfectly well what was said to him. But for some reason he chose to speak through an interpreter.
The stranger was an Englishman from London. He wrote for a London newspaper and was gathering information about the Rebecca Riots and the grievances that had led to them. He had spoken with all the landowners in the area and now wished to hear from Rebecca herself and from the people who followed her. If they could convince him that they had good reason to riot and if he could draw the attention of the English to their plight, perhaps he could do them some good. Already the government was talking about sending commissioners to West Wales to do much what he was doing but in a more official way.
It was an exciting idea, that they had already achieved their objective of attracting attention to their cause and that this man had come, willing to listen to their side of the story as well as that of the landowners. Perhaps after all the skeptics would be proved wrong. Perhaps after all good would come out of the necessary evil they had instituted. Perhaps after all Rebecca would become a national hero. It seemed that it was a letter from Rebecca that had brought the reporter from The Times to Wales.
Was he capable of writing a letter that could have that powerful an effect, then? Marged fixed her eyes on him. She was becoming so accustomed to the long gown, the wig, and the mask that they were beginning to seem almost normal to her. But for a moment again she felt an intense curiosity about the man behind the mask. What did he look like? What sort of life did he lead? It seemed somehow bizarre that she had no answers to those questions and yet knew him with greater physical intimacy than she had known with Eurwyn even in five years of marriage.
The meeting lasted a whole hour and might have lasted several more if Rebecca had not brought it to an end when the complaints voiced to Mr. Foster of The Times began to become repetitive. Many of them had spoken. She had spoken up herself and had told briefly of the injustice Eurwyn had tried to put right and the fate that had befallen him as a result.
Mr. Foster had talked to all the landowners, she remembered. He would have spoken with Geraint. Would Geraint have mentioned the salmon weir to him and the fact that he had had it destroyed soon after his arrival at Tegfan? Would he have convinced Mr. Foster that he was not guilty of the oppression that had existed on his estate for years? She felt angry that his lies might have been believed.
And yet he had destroyed the weir. And he had had all the mantraps removed. Why? She did not want to be reminded of that old question. He certainly had not instituted any reforms since then.
Except that he had prevented Sir Hector Webb from striking Ceris and had opposed taking Ceris away for questioning after Mr. Harley had given her an alibi. And except that he had pretended to believe that the confession she, Marged, had made to him was a lie and had let her go free.
Why had he let her go? She had thought at the time that perhaps he had allowed her that favor so that he could pursue her and make it very difficult for her to order him out of her sight. But she had not set eyes on him for two days.
She hated the fact that Geraint Penderyn, Earl of Wyvern, somehow defied all labels. She wanted so much to be able to dismiss him as an unadulterated villain.
Rebecca was talking to them and Marged’s full attention was drawn to him again. He had his arms raised, the sure sign that he was leading them on a new mission. And sure enough, they were to destroy the gate and makeshift house that had been reerected near Penfro—their first mission. Mr. Foster was to accompany them.
Part of her attention was on Mr. Foster throughout the destruction of the gate. Destruction was such a negative thing. She wondered if he was quite repelled or if he was at all impressed by the discipline of their actions, by the courtesy shown the new gatekeeper, though he swore the air blue. As usual, he was given time to remove his personal belongings from the house and to get himself safely away. As usual, they had all been instructed to offer the man no violence, either of word or deed. No one replied to his tirade with even a mild oath. She wondered if Mr. Foster was impressed by the total control Rebecca exercised over his followers without ever having to raise his voice.
Surely Mr. Foster could not fail to be impressed and to realize that they were not a mob with simple destruction on their minds. Surely he could and would help them.
She was tired of the Rebecca Riots, she realized suddenly. She was tired of the destruction and the danger. She was tired of worrying about Rebecca. She wanted peace. But if and when the riots came to an end, would she lose Rebecca? Would she ever see him again? Or if she did, would she know him? She would always know him, she told herself. If ever she passed him on a street or occupied the same building with him, she would know him.
But she might well lose him once these nocturnal adventures were at an end.
But not quite yet. Rebecca dismissed her children and they all went their separate ways, Mr. Foster among them. And then Rebecca was at her side, leaning down from his horse, hand extended, as usual. She smiled up at him and set her hand in his and her foot on his boot.
She would not think of the end, she thought, snuggling against him and closing her eyes as they rode off in the direction of her home. Not yet.
Chapter 25
GERAINT was feeling rather euphoric. Despite the various dangers, everything appeared to be working as he had hoped it would. He believed that as the Earl of Wyvern he had enlightened Foster and aroused his sympathies for the rebels. And he believed that as Rebecca he—and all his followers—had stated their case fully and clearly and rationally. Foster had seen tonight that they were not a violent, hysterical mob bent on mindless violence. He had seen, perhaps, that they were people at war against an unjust and oppressive system.
He trusted Foster to see clearly through to the heart of the matter and to write eloquently enough to arouse the interest and sympathy of a London reading public. If it all happened quickly enough, and if a commission of inquiry really was sent to West Wales and consisted of intelligent and open-minded commissioners, then surely all this would soon be over. The necessity for rebelling in order to draw attention would be past.
He would no longer be Rebecca. She would disappear into thin air and only a very few people would ever know who Rebecca had been. Marged would never know. Unconsciously his arm tightened about her as they rode and she muttered something unintelligible and burrowed deeper into his shoulder. She was actually dozing, he thought with a smile. What an amazing woman she was. And how he loved her. Would he lose her forever when Rebecca disappeared? Was there any way on this earth that Geraint Penderyn could win her love? He did not believe so.