OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTEREIGHT
“I have already had seven cups of coffee to-day, and feel frighted lest we should some of us be killed with so strange an abuse of it.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
Gwen seated herself on the bench overlooking the rough grey coastal waters and breathed brine, seaweed and a bitter wind that whispered of snow. This morning, she had dressed warmly in an indigo-blue woollen gown with matching velvet pelisseandcloak, a cosy cap, two pairs of blue-striped stockings and stout boots that Miss Millichip would have approved of.
Solely her nose was left to bear the brunt of the chill weather but a December morn without rain was to be cherished.
Opening her bag, she extracted Mrs Thrale’s tome as she intended to underline further adventures for her list ofD.I.S.G.R.A.C.E. but she paused as she glimpsed a small notebook discarded aside her on the bench and she cocked her head to rea–
She half-shrieked as it was abruptly snatched up, Rhys standing behind her and binding it shut with a leather cord.
He smiled. It appeared strained. “Forgive me, Gwen. I left this behind. Just some ramblings.”
“Of course.” She bit her lip. “How are you, Rhys?”
“Splendid,” he replied, appearing anything but. “To have Tris home is…splendid. I keep having to pinch myself.”
“So do I, although he needs time, I think, to adjust to life here again. It must be odd to have lived so long in a village as a carpenter and then…” She trailed off as the furrow upon Rhys’ brow deepened to a fissure, lips flat and eyes black as soot. “Anyhow, I am sure by new year, all will be well.”
He nodded. “Excuse me, I must attend to…ducal matters.”
“By all means.” And she watched as he strode back along the cliffs, not attending to ducal matters at all but heading toward the ruinedCastell y Ddraigtower.
Sighing, she opened her book marked at Genoa, Italy. Surely there could be nothing for Mrs Thrale to grumble of there…
The sure-footed and docile mule, with which in England I was but little acquainted, here claims no small attention, from his superior size and beauty: the disagreeable noise they make so frequently, however, hinders one from wishing to ride them – it is not braying somehow, but worse; it is neighing out of tune.
Gwen laughed aloud, could not wait to encounter the out-of-tune mules.
“It’s good to hear you laugh, Gwen.”
She twisted to Isabelle who was leading a grey mare along the cliff path from the opposite direction whence her husband had stridden, a small holdall slung over her shoulder.
“I cannot tell if this Mrs Thrale is serious, instructional or merely seeking to amuse. Perhaps a little of all.”
Isabelle grinned and, having left the mare to graze, came to sit beside her on the bench. “And what type of book would you write on your travels?”
“I would wish it to be…beautiful. I hope through my words that readers would smell the pine forests of Italy. Feel the passionate wind of Constantinople and behold the still canals of Venice.”
“From your words, I know it would be special.” Isabelle delved deep into her holdall, producing a medium-sized flask, a paper bag with contents concealed, a poetry book and – the holdall was more capacious than it appeared – a flat cushion, a woollen muff and a spyglass.
“Gosh, you are prepared.”
“I was a governess.” She smirked, opened the flask and offered…
Gwen sniffed. “Mrs Pugh’sspecialchocolate?”
Isabelle winked.
She took a sip and relished the burn. “And might those be cinnamon biscuits in the paper bag?”
“Indeed, but those are for…later.”
