“Faugh! Why couldn’t you just have married Lord Rheon? I could have sent you my research notes by messenger as he’s only an hour’s ride, and as for your hankering for travel, well, he might have taken you to Manchester on occasion.”
Manchester?
“I… I don’t love him, Papa. And he said… Lord Rheon also said he wished to marry me because I was…comfortable.”
It had been much the same during her many Seasons in London. Gentlemen had danced with her, sent her flowers and called upon her. They’d asked her for advice, praised her sweet nature, admired her delicacy and declared her a…fine friend.
One or two had requested her hand in marriage, dabbing her fingertips with a dry kiss, but it had all been so cold and insipid, not a meeting of hearts and passions but of dowry and convenience.
Friendship, she knew, was essential, but even so…
She recalled a ball not far from London, in Richmond, where she’d gazed on as a roguish marquess had passionately proposed and then scandalously kissed a beautiful woman in coquelicot red. There on the ballroom floor! In full view of theTon! Oh, the ardour!
Was she not worthy of being kissed in such a way?
“Nice of Lord Rheon to compliment you like that,” Father remarked, rather missing the point. “And truth be told, I’m not too sure I loved your mother, arranged as it was by our parents, but we made do.”
Gwen buttoned her lips as her nature and upbringing dictated. Her mother was now just a faint memory. A gentle woman, kind and unobtrusive, but in Gwen’s twelfth year, she had simply faded a little each day until she’d died. Quietly. One Tuesday evening, shortly after dinner as though she’d not wished to bother anyone while they tucked into lamb and potatoes.
And some days, Gwen feared that would be her fate if she stayed here in Wales, transcribing her father’s notes until she faded away to a mere faint memory for someone – though who, she wasn’t quite sure.
Only one gentleman had ever taken the time to peer beneath Gwen’s…comfortableness. To discover the yearnings, the suppressed spirit of adventure which simmered beneath, and although he was no longer of this earth, she still heard his voice urging her on.
“I am going to see the world, Papa, and write a travel book like the Welsh Mrs Thrale.” Well, not quite like Mrs Thrale as the lady had in fact appeared to dislike travelling. And the French. And the food. And the dust. And the bugs. Especially the bugs…
The place we are housed in is full of bugs, and every odious vermin.
“Didn’t that lady scandalously marry her daughter’s Italian music master?”
“I wouldn’t know, Papa.”Oh, yes. Scandalous indeed.
Three months ago, Gwen had purchased Mrs Thrale’sObservations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey through France, Italy and Germany, Volume 1from a specialist bookshop in Conwy, and she’d devoured it in a day – the wondrous sights and the offending bugs. How she yearned to experience them all.
She would fulfil her dreams by hook or by crook.
A buss on the cheek took her by surprise. “When you return,” her father said gruffly, the scent of musty books clinging to his jacket, “I’ll put you in contact with my publisher.” He straightened and sniffed. “Now, as I’m to lose you to the Llanedwyns for Advent and Christmastide too, come help me pack for my own travels to Pembrokeshire. My valet insists on stuffing stockings in my slippers, which is prone to leave them with wrinkles.”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “I will return here each week to transcribe your notes before your departure, Papa. And you are solely attending the Welsh History Society’s frolic for the Christmas sennight.”
“I expect the tea will be milky too. Pity you can’t come with me as we are discussing the likelihood of a Roman camp near Llanuwchllyn but alas, even with your perfect penmanship, no females are allowed in our society.”
Of which, for once, Gwen was heartedly glad.
Instead, she had been invited to spend Advent and Christmastide at the Llanedwyn estate with Rhys, his duchess Isabelle and their guests. It would be just what was needed before her travels in spring – good company and some time to herself to scrutinise her maps and itinerary.
Isabelle had become a dear friend of late, and furthermore, was the only one who knew of…
For she and Tristan had never let others know of their affection for one another, had thought it best to see where it may lead, but Gwen had known her own heart, known it had cherished and desired and loved.
Then been shattered into a thousand pieces by his loss.
Papa harrumphed anew. “Perhaps you’ll find a husband while you are there? A local one?”
Gwen patted his shoulder. “Do not build up your hopes, Papa.”
“Well, have a care when you leave, there’s talk of footpads in the Cythraul Woods. They dressed as ghosts and scared Sir Henry’s coachmen away, leaving him to robbery! I don’t know what we’re coming to. It’s the same on the continent, you know. I read it inThe Times.”
“I’m afraid, Papa, it will take more than ghosts to dissuade me from my travels.”
