So, he chattered on about Ireland, the village folk, and his work as a carpenter there. Told her of their generosity which he’d made arrangements to repay double-fold, their kindness which he could never repay. And how he missed their strong black beer.
It was so easy talking to Gwen, and he was sure he bored her senseless, yet she allowed him to prattle on about how he’d spent many an evening mending nets with the fishermen and then the recurrent dream that haunted him, drifting in the storm, alone and desperate.
“And then…” He abruptly halted as Gwen wassoeasy to talk to that he’d nearly confessed to her of the faceless woman who subsequently appeared in that dream, who forever floated in the sea toward him, long dark hair veiling her, a mermaid reaching for him. The previous night she’d returned with a vengeance, fingers trailing the wound at his nape, her mouth the only air in the entire hellish ocean.
“Then?”
He shook his head. “Why don’t you tell me of how Isabelle and Rhys met? And, of course, how your travel plans for next year are progressing?”
He’d expected enthusiasm for her adventures but instead her lips levelled, then curved downwards a touch, and he wondered if another cause lay behind her leaving Wales as he never recalled her mentioning a desire for travel.
Perhaps a suitor had broken her heart?
If so, he’d beat the beef-witted lobcock black and blue.
“Gwen?” He shuffled his boots. “You will tell me if there’s anything of note that I’ve missed or don’t remember, will you not?”
She fiddled with a stray hair, then licked her pink lips and simply stared up.
Nodded.
“Thank you, Gwen.” And he patted her hand.
Her fingers jerked, burrowed beneath the folds of her vivid dress like a mole from sunlight, but nevertheless, a bright smile appeared. “Now, I’ll tell you of how Rhys and Isabelle met, shall I? It’s an eventful tale…”
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CHAPTERFIVE
“The Duc de Chartres has removed a vast number of noble trees, which it was a sin and shame to profane with an axe.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
The Cythraul Woods babbled with clamour and motion, birds foraging in the weak morn sun, creatures scurrying upon the crisp December leaves.
Gwen’s mare softly snorted as she and Jonnet, the groom who’d accompanied her, tramped down the time-worn track towards the Evans’ family estate.
As promised, she was returning to transcribe Papa’s notes, ensure the packing for his Christmastide frolic was proceeding apace and to no doubt locate his glasses which he mislaid at least thrice a week in various odd places. And considering their house had some twenty-five rooms, on occasion, that could take some while.
She knew this route and its landmarks like her own bedchamber – the gnarled oak that had been struck by lightning, the cavernous hollow in the dell ahead caused by the gush of autumn rains, the seat gouged from a stump where the woodman sat to smoke his pipe, and the fallen ash tree from which Tristan had carved entwined dragon pendants for them both.
Breathing deep of the crisp air, she gathered the reins in one hand and pressed fingers to the bodice of her pelisse, feeling for her pendant beneath.
She supposed Tristan’s own had been lost in Ireland or to the covetous sea.
Along with his memories.
Over the past few days, she had surreptitiously watched him, seeking the Tristan she had known and loved, for perchance he was a different man now to the one who’d held her heart.
How foolish.
For did the poet Byrne not tell of love’s constancy?
Love does not forsake come winter’s chill.
Love seeks. Love bends. Love finds.
