Perhaps she should not have dallied in Llanedwyn village for quite so long before the journey home, but she’d wanted to buy a few gifts for Christmas: Mari some ribbons to tie about her shell mirror, Isabelle a pair of wool-lined gloves, Rhys a leather-bound notebook, Tristan a new whittling knife, and from a tinker’s cart, an odd optical item for Hugh named a polemoscope, which she thought he might find useful in…whatever it was he did.
Gwen opened Mrs Thrale’s book and continued where she’d left off.
In Pisa…
I have been this morning to look at the Grand Duke’s camels, which he keeps in his park as we do deer in England. There were a hundred and sixteen of them, pretty creatures!
Gosh. Who would have thought camels in Italy.
Perhaps she would purchase a few for her father’s estate as Gwen was beginning to think she might rather like camels. Although she didn’t think they’d be overly fond of…
She peered to the window.
Snow.
A few scant flakes had slipped from the low cloud as they’d left the village, but with every furlong inland, yet more had tumbled forth. The snow had settled on the bare boughs of the woods like a layer of icing and overspread the ground in a rug of white.
The first snowfall of the year was forever special – to watch the land be encased in its winter cloak of velvet, the silence and the pureness of the filled wood.
She hugged arms about herself as the clearing where they’d gathered the Christmas greenery drifted past the window. It felt like a lifetime ago that she’d watched with a full heart as Tristan had laughed with his brother and wept with his daughter.
But now her heart felt wearied, tender, and she was thankful to be travelling home for a night – for the change of scenery, to regain her strength and gather herself. Ready to face Tristan again on the morrow with the smile of a frien–
“Whhoooaaaa!”
Horses snorted. Hooves thudded.
Another bellow.
Her book tumbled to the floor once more.
A cry.
And their carriage lurched to a shuddering halt.
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CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
“It is better to waste no more words on places however, where the people have done so much to engage and to deserve our attention.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
Awoollen jacket sailed across Tristan’s bedchamber and landed on the chairback. A scarf flew through the air and on past the small canvas bag upon the desk.
Damn.
Pausing a moment, he allowed his heart to settle. Yet his mind outright refused to do likewise.
He’d remembered…everything.
Mari’s fourteenth birthday. Building his boat. The storm and the terror.
Gwen.
Beautiful Gwen.
