T. Cadogan.
What the hell?
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
“I was observing that restraint was necessary to man; I have now learned a notion that noise is necessary too.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
“You want me to drink…cider?” Elen blinked and gazed suspiciously into the clay mug.
Gwen peered also; the cloudy liquid steamed like a fig pudding.
With dusk, the gentry and villagers, young and old, had all gathered in the Llanedwyn market square for the traditional Christmas wassailing, but the men had soon departed to light the processional flaming torches, leaving the ladies to organise everything else.
Mrs Pugh had set up a vast cauldron over a fire in order to brew the actual wassail – a loose cider concoction spiced with nutmeg, ginger and her own secret ingredients, the sweet scent warming one’s cockles. As a rule, they awaited the gentlemen’s return before it was poured into the twelve-handled bowl, but the eve was so bitterly cold that the ladies had all agreed a light tipple would not go amiss.
And doubtless the gentlemen were thawing out with hip flasks of brandy.
“Well,” said Isabelle, a sole hand slinking from her muff to sup her drink, “if you’re not keen on cider, Elen, there’s warmed nettle ale?”
“Gracious, I’d sooner kiss Cousin Hugh.”
“Rhubarb wine then?”
Elen rubbed her gloved hands together. “That sounds perfect. Surely no mischief can come from rhubarb. Such a wholesome vegetable.”
Gwen and Isabelle exchanged a glance but procured the wholesome rhubarb which Elen sipped as though it were a medicinal tincture.
While her two companions debated whether nettle ale held a sting, Gwen’s mind wandered. Rain had mercifully stayed away, but to the east, the sky bore a strange ashen hue as the moon sought to pierce the turbid cloud. The night carried no breeze but a bitter chill slithered through the air nevertheless.
A shiver ran through Gwen, yet the chill could not entirely be blamed.
Tristan had not been amongst the group of gentlemen, but she knew he was here. Somewhere. And a raft of emotions beset her.
She needed to apologise for last night in the attics.
There, in the dark as he’d held her, she’d allowed a weakness to shroud her. She’d allowed a pretence that he’d remembered, permitted her head to rest on his shoulder as it used to, let her hands wander upon his chest. What must he have thought of her? And then she’d run like a pudding-headed girl, afraid he’d realise the depth of her feeling or think her forward.
Isabelle had informed her that Tristan had visited the boat shed at Darowen Bay this morning, and perhaps, if any memories were to return of their times together, then it would be there. Where they’d talked, embraced…kissed.
She’d spent the day in the library with her maps and books, wondering if he’d– “Ouch!” She gazed to Isabelle who’d prodded her in the ribs. “What was that for?”
“Melancholic woolgathering.” Isabelle smiled and patted her hand. “We were asking you what this night entails? It’s all new to me.”
Gwen frowned. “Elen, surely you’ve attended a Welsh wassail?”
“No,” she replied, eyes wide as a lad dashed past blowing a tin whistle. “My parents thought it coarse and unruly so sent the butler to deal with any singing villagers.” She frowned also. “I once looked out the window and it did seem quite…exciting.”
Isabelle turned her head hither and thither. “London never had anything like this.”
Gwen smiled, for she adored the night of the wassail. “Well, soon the gentlemen will return and we all gather together. Some men carry great torches of fire to keep the evil spirits at bay while others will take turns lugging the wassail bowl. We parade around the village, stopping at doors to sing outside.”
“Hymns?”
