“Of course,” said Isabelle, batting innocent grey eyes.
“We talked for hours of everything and nothing and never had I felt so free and joyful. He seemed to…see me, Isabelle. All of me. Then one day, after a picnic, he said my hair had come loose and so leaned near, shifted his hand to attend to it…” Her voice trailed to a whisper. “He was so close. I remember his eyes darkening to forest green and it seemed inevitable and innate for our lips to meet. It began so gentle but grew so passionate and wild and… I think we were both surprised by the desire between us.” She closed her eyes, one tear falling. “But that memory is mine alone now, I suppose.”
“Oh, Gwen. Why did neither of you speak of this?”
She shrugged. “We’d been friends forever, since childhood, and so there seemed no rush. We thought to take it one step at a time. Rhys, I know, would have been pleased, and Mari… I hope she would have been thrilled for us also, but it really hadn’t been for long that we’d become more, and it had only been a kiss at that stage, so…” She rubbed at her eyes. “Then he was lost to us all and it seemed unfair to burden them with my particular sorrow. They had enough of their own.”
“I am so sorry, Gwen. And that you have borne this alone, but if you ever need to talk, I am here now.”
She clutched Isabelle’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you, my friend, but perhaps… Perhaps, I should return home for a few days. Allow this family t-to welcome Tristan without my–”
“Certainly not!” Isabelle declared. “I have a feeling we’ll need you here.”
“Do you? How so?”
“Everything that this family has been through in the past sixteen months has been turned upon its head. All those months of grieving… And Lord Tristan himself. I could be wrong but… You have known the twins since childhood, Mari since she was a babe, and they adore you. You are such a good listener. And they listen to you. They will need that.”
“I… Well, if you think so. I could stay, for the time being, but if it becomes difficult, I will leave before Christmas. After all, I still have my travels to organise.”
A stream of white air accompanied her friend’s gasp. “But surely you will not go now that Tristan has returned?”
Gwen gulped. “I-I do not know but…plans have been made, tickets purchased and…” She twisted on the cushion, knew her excuses were absurd. “But what if he never remembers what we had, Isabelle? To me it is so real, but to him–”
“But what if he does?” Isabelle held Gwen’s chill hands within her woollen gloves. “Christmas is but a few weeks away, Gwen. A time for wonder. A time for new beginnings. And to quote a poet, ‘Love is not our choice but in our fate.’”
“Is that a Byrne poem?”
“No, it’s Dryden, so don’t tell Rhys or he’ll be peeved.”
They laughed and twisted back to the night.
The drizzle had ceased and a gap in the cloud caused the moon to cast its wise and argenteous beams upon the world.
A better world. For Tristan lived within it once more.
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CHAPTERFOUR
“Far from your busy crowded court, tranquillity makes her report.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
Tristan opened his eyes and surveyed the book-filled room, one he’d not been overly fond of when young as that restless boy had found this library dull.
Yet after three days home and with the benefit of a few more years in age, he savoured the stillness, the rows of leather-bound volumes, the sage wisdom within and the creative prose.
From his armchair, he listened to the sounds of the household: Mari practising a French tune on the schoolroom pianoforte upstairs, Rhys’ charming new wife chatting to Mrs Pugh in the hallway, and carriage wheels crunching over the forecourt gravel as the Brecken siblings set off for the village.
The sounds of home.
But not one wit of those lost memories had been returned to him – solely confusion and a churning darkness whenever he’d sought to recall more.
Each morning, before Mari’s lessons had begun, they’d spent time alone together, chatting from the mundane to the important, and how he’d cherished every moment, every waggle of her hands in the air as she’d recounted a day or deed.
With his damaged leg, Tristan had been keen to know if he could still mount a horse, let alone gallop against the wind, but Mari had declared she no longer enjoyed riding, not wishing to muddy her skirts, so they’d wandered the gardens and cliffs together, and he’d breathed in the scent of Wales – salt and earth.
