“There was something else I wanted to ask you, Rhys.”
“Hmm.”
“Did I… Was I courting in that year or so before the wreck? My dreams of late are haunted by this woman but her face is a blur.”
“Not that I know of. You were always working on your boat. Obsessed with it, you were. Had to be perfect. Perhaps it’s Sarah?”
“No.” He tipped his head back. “I do dream of Sarah on occasion, but it’s as if a long-lost fairy tale. She walks in a meadow and I see myself there – young and determined. I loved her with all that I was, but those two people were of that time and that place. Had she lived, no doubt we would have grown together and loved together. But fate had different ideas.”
For a moment, he closed his eyes and remembered the intervening years. Coming to live at the family home after her death, bringing Mari up and endeavouring to fill the loss with building his beloved boats.
He shook his head; the dream was obviously a figment of his shattered imagination. He plucked his pendant from beneath the folds of his cravat. “And this? Have you ever seen this before? I was wearing it when they hauled me out the sea in Ireland.”
“Looks to be a carving of yours, but no. Although…” He narrowed his eyes. “I think I’ve seen a drawing of a dragon like that somewhere.”
He tucked it away as a gust of wind blew through the valley and they both shivered, knowing that although this morn was cold, full winter was not yet upon them, for January would see frozen earth, bare skies and bitter gales.
Tristan stared to the mausoleum which held those not able to feel the bite of winter, not able to stand by the cosy hearth with family and friends or listen to the songs of Christmas.
And although he was a changed man, he was alive, perhaps, as Gwen had claimed, a better man. Able to appreciate every moment – a chill gust of wind, his daughter’s smile, and precious moments with his twin.
“This Christmas,” Tristan rasped, “will be special.”
“The best ever.”
“Missed you, brother.” And he punched Rhys on the shoulder.
“Missed you too, Tris.” And Rhys punched him back.
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTERELEVEN
“The inhabitants seem to think only of the next world and do little to amuse those who have not yet quite done with this.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
“No, I won’t touch it! It’s depraved and most pagan.”
“It’s only mistletoe, Elen,” replied Gwen, snipping short the sprigs and shivering a mite, her outer garments of bright red pelisse, white muff and wool-lined hat notwithstanding the cold in the slightest.
Overnight, Old Man Winter had breathed upon the land, frosting grass to stiff white wisps and icing ponds with a silver sheen. Dawn had brought forth a chill blue sky, the sun casting no warmth, yet no one could deny the beauty of the clear day.
Hence their small party of sixteen, including servants, had taken the opportunity to gather greenery for Christmastide. Their array of wagons and carriages had first stopped at the apple orchards in order to harvest mistletoe, the footmen waving long scythes and slicing sprigs from the boughs.
Now they were all gathered in Cythraul Woods to trim the mistletoe and collect holly, laurel, hawthorn and ivy. Camp had been set up in a clearing near the track to her home, Mrs Pugh serving mutton broth from a cauldron over a wood fire, Hugh serving brandy from a flask beneath his jacket. The canopy of bare branches overhanging the ladies granted some shelter from the cold air but Gwen was sure her toes had frozen in her boots.
Everyone had been assigned a task by the housekeeper who was the most experienced in these matters, the strutting gentlemen dragging entire bushes from the woods with manly shouts of manliness while the ladies stood at trestle tables, selecting the best material.
“Ouch!” Elen yelped as she pierced herself with a holly leaf. “Perhaps there is something to be said for mistletoe.”
“Can I offer…” Captain Brecken held out a pair of worn but stout leather gloves to Elen, who stared at them open-mouthed. His eyes dropped. “Oh, they are too shabby and rough. A lady such as yourself would not want to wear–”
“No! I mean, yes…” Elen’s lips curved as she took the offering. “I mean… It’s so kind. No one has ever…” She hauled them over her own thin dainty pair and waved them about like a bear at play. “Perfect. T-thank you.”
A ruddy hue highlighted the captain’s cheekbones before he bowed and limped away.
