Alone again, the awkward silence settled like fog and he was content to leave it. He was too wounded. Too disappointed in her even though he had no right to be. He had said his bit, bared his soul, and now she needed to digest it—or denounce it. Whichever route she chose, the end result would be the same. With all his skeletons rattling for all they were worth and on the cusp of bursting out of the cupboard and running roughshod over everything, he had no future with Diana.
A sentiment she clearly shared, as in tacit agreement, for the next half an hour she searched one corner of their allotted section and he searched the other. Neither said a word, but when she did he knew by the quiet timbre of her tone that Diana had been right.
“Giles.” She was kneeling beside an overgrown grave. “Look.”
On leaden feet he walked toward her and stared at the stone. He did not understand the Welsh inscription, but the name screamed regardless.
Ffion St Clair
Hwyl fawr Cariad
1763–1795
“St Clair? And the date fits. Too coincidental?” She watched him stare at the letters.
“You don’t believe in coincidences.” Now, neither did he.
He bent to touch the ground and felt his mother. The connection was instantaneous. It overwhelmed him. Giles had no clue any tears had fallen until Diana pressed a handkerchief into his hand and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. He leaned his head against hers, needing her strength while he absorbed it all, and as if she knew he needed this time she simply held him close. When he was done she held his hand, led him inside the church, and left him to compose himself while she went to inform the others of her discovery.
“By God’s Almighty grace I have been blessed to be rector here for forty years.” The Reverend Griffiths was a kindly man with an unfortunate profusion of crinkly white hair, which sprouted fromboth his head and ears. They quivered as he led Diana and Giles down the aisle toward the vestry. “I pride myself on never forgetting one of my parishioners, so who is it that you seek?”
“My husband’s mother—Ffion St Clair.” Diana threaded her arm through Giles’s then winced as she realized she was lying while standing in the aisle of a church. He clearly thought the same thing, too, as the wretch glanced heavenward and mimed being smited by the Almighty for the falsehood while the vicar’s back was to them. “We believe she might have died giving birth to him.”
“Ah yes. I remember Ffion well. A lovely woman with the kindest heart.” He held open the door to the vestry and smiled as Giles passed through. “A sad loss to this parish. I see her in you. You have her eyes.” Beneath her fingers, his muscles tightened and her heart broke for him.
“I think he has, too.” She squeezed his arm, wishing she could spare him all the pain of today. “All he has of her is a small portrait.” She nudged Giles to get it out and he dutifully snapped the watch open to show vicar the enamel. “Is this the same Ffion who is buried in the cemetery?”
“Ahh… yes, it is.” The Reverend Griffiths caressed the tiny face with his fingertip. “That smile is sadly missed—as is her food.”
Because she sensed he needed it, she slid her hand out of the cradle of his elbow to grasp his tight. “She was a cook?”
The vicar shook his head and, by default, his ear hairs. “A baker. Made the finest Welsh cakes you ever tasted and had such a delicate touch with biscuits they melted in your mouth. She owned the bakery in Llandrindod, and such was her reputation people traveled from miles around to sample her wares. As I recall, hershortbread in particular was exemplary.” He pulled a loop of heavy keys from his belt and used them to open a robust metal chest.
“Well, that explains where my sweet tooth and lifelong love of biscuits comes from.” Giles was still a tad overwhelmed, she could tell, despite his determination to cover it with a façade of flippancy. His fingers gripped hers like a vise. “I always wondered.”
The vicar rummaged in the chest and produced a rectangular leather book, which he laid carefully on the table. “These are the burial records. We have to keep them under lock and key nowadays, though goodness only knows why around here. As I am sure you imagine, nothing much happens here in Llanyre. Ours is a small community and always has been. Most are born here and die here.”
“Was she born here?”
The reverend shook his head. “Your mother was an exception to that rule as she hailed from Presteigne, if memory serves, closer to the border, but we adopted her as our own. Everyone hereabouts turned out for her funeral. Despite her lack of family, she was much loved.” The vicar found the pertinent page and twisted the book to face them. Sadly, the record told them little more than the headstone.
“She died on September twenty-second.” Giles traced the entry, his dark eyes bereft because this confirmed his worst fears about her cause of death.
“She did, God rest her soul, but not without a fight.” The reverend sighed and touched Giles’s shoulder. “She had been gravely ill the year before with pneumonia. It almost killed her, and that had taken its toll. When the childbed fever hit, she had few reserves left, so do not blame yourself for what happened. She had waitedso long for a child. Called you her miracle. Adored you from the moment she set eyes upon you. Thankfully, she lived long enough to see you baptized, and that gave her some comfort.”
“I was christened? Here?”
“You were indeed, sir, and by me.” The vicar returned to the chest to pull out another volume and place it atop the first while he found the correct page.
Diana and Giles stared at it in shock.
September 5 1795 Giles Dafydd son of Ffion and Gerald St Clair of Llanyre
Gerald St Clair.
Too coincidental by any stretch of the imagination.
“You knew my father?”
