Her gaze drifted over the orchard, at the lads singing arm in arm, beer sloshing, and she spotted Tristan surrounded by a throng of village girls, the carpenter’s daughter and the ironsmith’s sister readily flirting with a duke’s available brother, flitting hair and pushing out bosoms. She herself couldn’t push hers out if she yanked her shoulders six foot back.
Benevokindnesswas a worthy attribute but how she also wished to be…desirable.
Tristan was all that was gracious and gentlemanly with the village girls of course, smiling and tapping his leg with a laugh as they pointed to the makeshift dance floor of flattened straw.
She closed her eyes to him; Tristan had not remembered and she was resigning herself to the fact he never would.
Then opened them to the heavens; mother moon took her chance between clouds and spread her beams upon them all. Nigh full, she lit the land in silver and many paused to gasp at her radiance.
The clouds drifted on by and she was concealed once more.
Gwen loved her native land with its misty morns and lush greens, but she could not wait to feel a warm wind stir her hair at midnight, to solely wear a light dress rather than a thick pelisse of red velvet, to witness the full moon rise over a Mediterranean Sea.
She watched the dancers, shadows flickering, joy boundless.
Tristan may never remember the love they’d found, but she herself would have the memories to hold and cherish forever.
So, she would dance.
Dance for no one but herself.
She hopped from the wall, felt a burden lift and–
“Dance with me?” a man rasped. Firelight surrounded him, face swarthy and wild, his bare hand proffered. “Well, shuffle with me?” he admitted sheepishly. “And you might have to hold me up a bit but…”
She laughed, and took Tristan’s arm, strolled into that firelight, to feel the flame and the life within the deep bite of winter that surrounded them.
The whole night through, she would dance and dance. For no one could resist the power, the wonder of the wassail.
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
“Every moment recurs.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
Tristan pulled his greatcoat tight against the chill air as he tramped down the path through the skeletal rose garden and made for a gap in the tall hedge of crisp-bronzed beech.
The view beyond awed him – the sea an ash-blue strip against an ash-grey horizon. A rough grassed area bordered the cliffs, which in summer was filled with sea campion, ragwort and plantain, and he lumbered on, boots dampening with dew, until he came to the edge.
There, a staircase of sorts was cut within the cliff face, the sole access to a modest cove below. As children, he and Rhys had scampered down with utter disregard for the perilous descent but this morning, he took his time, boots searching for the flat treads and using his cane to steady himself. The pungent odour of seaweed assailed but he was too occupied with his feet until his heels hit soft sand and he could gaze up at a fine beach guarded either side by craggy outcrops.
Deserted.
Silent.
Not a gull pecked at the seaweed or creature rippled the water’s surface, as though they all knew something about the forthcoming day that he didn’t.
Due to the wassail, everyone had risen late with tender heads and aching limbs, for the carousing and dancing had lasted well into the night. His own leg ached like the devil, as with a tot of liquor inside him, he’d endeavoured to dance – with Gwen.
Hell, she’d been wearing that jaunty red pelisse again – a flame to his hapless moth. He’d trodden on her foot thrice, but she’d just laughed, and although he could have danced with her all night, Hugh had claimed her, then Rhys. Then the innkeeper and even the vicar.
After all, he had no entitlement to her attentions.
He settled himself on a sea-smoothed boulder to peruse the sky overhead – a dull white that did not bode well – and then brought forth the ring box he’d found at Darowen Bay.
