And leaning down, Tristan brushed her lips with his.
So gentle.
Then a little firmer as the hut echoed to the whoops, whistles and stomped boots of the three wise witnesses.
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CHAPTERNINETEEN
“Never sure was anything more rejoicing to the heart, than this lovely season in this lovely country.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
Christmas Day.
Slender flames of light danced within the interior of Saint Baglan’s church, no slumbering gargoyle or memorial tablet allowed to remain in the dark. The silver candelabras and wall sconces held both fat beeswax candles and humble tallow as it was tradition that each member of the congregation gift a candle to thePlygainChristmas Day service – whether they be duke or shepherd.
Gwen admired the trailing ivy and sharp-leafed holly which decorated the ornate wooden balustrade separating nave from altar, for the women of Llanedwyn village had spent many an hour here, bringing the ancient church to splendour and life.
In the witching hours long before dawn, everyone had gathered in the village square, dressed in their finest and warmest – neighbours wishing one another festive joy and children eager for the day to come. The procession to the church by the light of burning torches had been filled with anticipation for the songs that would be sung by the men of the village, the deep snow ensuring a crisp crunch to all of their footsteps.
The performances had been sublime, the church created for such sound – its acoustics accentuating the gruff to the pure.
To either side of her on the pew, both Isabelle and Mari listened enraptured to Dylan the innkeeper’s baritone as he stood alone at the front of the nave and sang of Bethlehem.
Beside Mari, sat Elen with the Breckens and albeit her eyes were closed, her lips moved to the words. ’Twas a shame that women were not permitted to sing at thePlygainbut so it was, and doubtless later tonight, herself, Elen, Miss Brecken and the rest of the family would take turns to sing their songs around the pianoforte.
The gentlemen of the Llanedwyn household were sitting one row in front, shoulders motionless and broad. Tristan had even permitted his valet to trim his hair, revealing the ragged scar that bore testament to his strength.
Three days past, they had declared their love for one another in that hut, and though they’d not since had a moment to themselves with the festivities, all it had taken was an ardent glance, a tender brush of hand or a passionate whisper in her ear, and she’d felt loved and adored.
In exquisite majesty, the innkeeper’s hale voice trailed off, echoes lingering and lifting to the magnificent oak rafters.
Gwen feared this service might be a difficult occasion for Tristan to face as she knew how much singing meant to him, as it did to all Welshmen.
As if hearing her fear, he twisted in the pew.
Their eyes met.
Silent understanding.
Then he winked.
“Good luck, my love,” she whispered.
“Knock their stockings off, Pa,” urged Mari, not quite imbued with the spirit of goodwill to all men as yet, her knee bouncing in excitement.
Then Tristan, Hugh and Rhys rose to their feet and began to walk to the front, past the pew ends decorated with red ribbon and rosemary.
Gwen clasped Mari’s hand, felt such…wonder at what had transpired for her in these past weeks, what had transpired for Tristan, for all of them.
The candles flickered as the church door opened and Gwen glanced over one shoulder, saw Mr and Mrs Pugh and other villagers file in to stand at the back, as although they were of the Methodist chapel two streets away, no one of the Llanedwyn household would miss this moment.
At the front of the nave, the three men twisted, all dressed in the Llanedwyn colours of black and crimson, Tristan between his brother and Hugh.
A hush filled the church – enchanted and serene – before Rhys and Hugh inhaled and sang together in their rich Welsh bass…
