A maid half-swallowed a shriek. A footman dropped a silver tray.
The drawing room door loomed – voices emanating, both joy and trepidation coursing, roiling through his very veins and soul.
He closed his eyes.
“I… I just need a moment.”
Breathed deep.
Then reached out his fingers to the handle.
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CHAPTERTHREE
“One is always glad to see something new, and talk of something old.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
“Ophelia is a milksop. I’d re-write it so that she was the only one who lived. And became queen. And married the gravedigger.”
Gwen smiled as Mari muttered beside her on the settee, perusing the slender volume of Hamlet upon her lap, finger sweeping the lines.
Earlier, Gwen had sung the Christmas balladTeg Wawriodd Boreuddydd, accompanied by the talented Miss Brecken upon the triple harp. The shy young lady’s playing was truly a wonder, her plucked notes clear as ice before melting and splashing like a gleeful fountain. Her brother Captain Brecken, both of them also guests for the festive season, had turned the sheet music for his sister. A noble gentleman of thirty years or thereabouts, he’d resigned his commission having suffered a bayonet wound to his leg in battle.
The footman stooped to place another log on the fire opposite their settee, flames leaping and writhing to bathe the drawing room in ambient gold.
A vast gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece reflected the other occupants of the drawing room tonight. Rhys and Isabelle, the newly wed Duke and Duchess of Aberdare, sat upon the emerald chaise, discussing their duties for Saint Thomas’ Day – the longest night and the shortest day of the year – and the traditional alms they would distribute, while Lady Elen, a cousin of the household, sat alone in the corner studying a tome on ancient Welsh Christmas customs by the light of a silver candelabra.
These were to be Gwen’s companions for Christmastide and a joyousness filled her, anticipation welling for the night of the wassail, the ritual gathering of forest greenery to deck the halls and the singing of songs upon Christmas dawn itself. She smiled and brought her shawl tighter about her shoulders, returning to her re-reading of Mrs Thrale’s travel adventures…
These dear Venetians have no notion of sleep being necessary to their existence.
How Gwen longed to be kept awake by the temperate night and the laughter of elegantly dressed couples strolling the bridges of Venice.
The door silently opened and she alone turned to peer across the room.
Whoever stood there simply lingered in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall candles. A man, she could tell by his height and breadth – and the breeches gave him away – but there was something familiar to the tilt of his head that…
Gwen’s heart swooped as though a cormorant diving to the sea.
The man took a step forward into the candlelight and cleared his throat.
Mrs Thrale’s book tumbled from her fingers…
The room spun.
Dimmed.
Chill.
Heat.
Breath taken.
Time slowed its incessant pace and sound deadened.
