“Nothing leads to a more gloomy train of thought, than the tomb of a celebrated man.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
“It must feel odd, staring at your own mausoleum?”
Tristan listened to the December birdsong and breathed in the chill air scented with damp grass and musty leaves. “As a matter of fact, it’s strangely serene.”
Hugh tilted his head and they both just…stood, silent and still.
One mile from the house, the last resting place of all the Llanedwyn earls and their relatives was this verdant dale beside a winter-nude copse, lush grass hills ramping up either side.
Behind them both, the principal mausoleum, which harboured some fifty tombs, was encircled by fluted columns supporting a domed roof, modelled apparently on the Temple of Vesta in Italy. The grand edifice must have initially appeared quite incongruous in this landscape, like a dressed-to-the-nines duchess from Mayfair stood on a St Giles rookery street corner, but their Welsh weather had now claimed the duchess for its own, moss and lichen climbing the white marble.
His wife, Sarah, rested within its protection, together with his parents, and he’d visited many a time with flowers, prayers and tears.
But without Tristan’s body to lay to rest, his brother had ordered the construction of this separate mausoleum in memory of him – a square stone building with a frieze of dragons riding the air above raging waters. An angel theatrically swooped from the top pediment.
He liked that it was adjacent to a weather-silvered wooden cross in the ground – the kitchen cat, for whom as children they’d held an elaborate ceremony. Gwen had cried buckets.
Tristan’s cane gouged a hole in the damp earth as he leaned forward to peruse the words carved over the iron door.
Tristan Dylan Cadogan
Within the dark of night, we mourn.
Within the breaking wave, we remember.
Within the breach of dawn, we forge on.
Tristan felt humbled. “I wonder what Rhys will do with all this now.”
“Tell him he can keep it for me.” Hugh nudged him in the ribs. “I’ll likely need it before you. Just chip all that out and putThe Scandalous Hugh Cadwalader.A scoundrel to the last.”
His words were couched in jest but Tristan knew the blithe blue eyes of that mischievous lad of childhood hid many a hazardous secret. “Are you still…”
“Hmm. This and that.”
More of thethatthanthis, Tristan concluded. “I would have thought there was less danger with war ended?”
Hugh rocked on his heels. “There’s always danger, Tris. Always deception, treason and…” He twisted, blue eyes darkened. “By the by, if anything should ever happen to me, take care of everyone and look after my affairs, will you?”
“Hugh, what are you–”
“No need for fuss, just…in case.”
“Of course, and you’ve no need to ask, though I’m a husk of a–”
“No, Tristan.” Hugh clapped him on the back. “You’re a warrior. I expect you battled the rain, wrestled the wind, and raged against Neptune himself that night of the storm. Must have done to end up in Ireland.”
“I wish I could remember.” Tristan stared to the angel – why did their expression appear to have changed each time you looked back? “Sometimes I dream… I dream of grasping a piece of flotsam in the middle of a black sea. And I desperately want to let go, allow the waters to consume me.”
“But you don’t.”
“No. For some reason, I do not. I cannot. But a wave pelts me, submerging me, endeavouring to seize my life, and then…a woman floats toward me, dark-haired, her visage a blur and she kisses me…breathes air to my barren lungs.”
“Wish I had those dreams.”
