“Have you been riding?”
“No.”
Gwen paused as she’d never known Mari to be so monosyllabic. As a rule, her words were punctuated by dramatic hand motions and flouncy description. “Are you yourself well, Mari?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps we could go riding together tomorrow?”
Mari shuffled her feet. “I…no longer enjoy riding.”
“No longer…” Words failed her. For Mari adored galloping along the cliffs, cantering to the village or dashing over the moors. Or all three in one hour, if she could.
“I am sixteen now,” Mari continued, “and so must act with…” She gazed to the hayloft like a martyr about to be slain. “Decorum, elegance and propriety.”
Gosh.
“Mari, should you…need anyone to talk to, I am always here for you. We are friends, are we not?”
“Of course.” Mari’s head drooped for a moment before she patted her mare and departed the box. “Thank you, Lady Gwen, but all is well,” she answered far too brightly. “Papa is home and that is all that matters.”
Gwen could not argue as those were her exact thoughts also, but…
They ambled from the stables together and towards the house, the drizzle now a little more intent, a cold wind gusting. Mari’s aspect brightened all of a sudden. “Cousin Hugh turned up this morning.” Then she sighed. “He’s been shot at again.”
“Oh dear. What happened this time?”
“An altercation with a pheasant, the inadvertent discharge of a hunting pistol and the ill-fated swooning of a duchess. But I think he’s making it all up as usual.”
Gwen thought so too.
Mr Hugh Cadwalader, a rather rakish distant cousin of Rhys’, and up until Tristan’s return, the reluctant heir to the Llanedwyn and ducal titles, had been shot at more times than a hunkered-down duck. He forever had a ready answer for his frequent misfortune, of course: a dastardly duel with a pistol-wielding duke, a lovelorn mistress with a dagger, a gambling hell sot with a crossbow…
She placed an arm around the young girl’s shoulder and thought that perhaps the maps and charting the Amalfi coast could wait another day. “Do you think your sixteen-year-old self’s decorum, elegance and propriety would allow a game of charades after dinner?”
Mari beamed. “That would be fun, Lady Gwen.”
“And if Cook has prepared pheasant for dinner tonight, I’m sure we’ll receive a thorough re-enactment of how Hugh got shot. You could play the part of the swooning duchess.”
Mari giggled and held Gwen tight. “I think I’d rather be the pheasant as I believe it got away from him.”
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CHAPTERSIX
“Different amusements, like different sorts of food, suit different countries.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
Hams, hocks and bacon hung from every available beam in the Llanedwyn kitchens, copper and tin vessels lined the stone walls, and the larder shelves sagged beneath the weight of mince pies, jars of honey, trays of butter shortbread and every Welsh cheese known to Mrs Pugh.
Gwen absent-mindedly spooned brandy over the aptly named Tipsy Cake that Cook had baked. Initially it had been herself and Isabelle who’d gathered here this morning, ensuring the cupboards were chock-full for Christmas, perusing menus and counting their stocks of lemons as the sellers had put prices up by a shilling for the season, but one by one, other ladies of the house had joined them to lend a hand beside the warmth of the kitchen range, mayhap the scent of spice beckoning to them.
Everyone had been assigned tasks by the housekeeper: the timid Miss Brecken sliced gingerbread into neat squares, Lady Elen ensured the plum puddings were securely tied in cloth, and Isabelle decorated cinnamon biscuit dough with dragon effigies.
Early this morning, Gwen had spied Tristan shuffling along the windblown cliffs, and he’d appeared so…alone, his gaze forever directed to the grey expanse of water. Her heart had cried that she should join him, to comfort him, but her head had warned that same heart was too tender for words of…friendship.
