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Had he stood too close? Been too improper? Had his gruff manner upset her? He strode to his niece, who was peering in the old farmhouse door.
“Is this where Saint Dwynwen stayed, Uncle?”
Inhaling deep, he perused the old croft which had once housed the Thomas family. They’d farmed the land for centuries yet abandoned the countryside for employment in the town of Conwy, where the wind didn’t drive you mad and the sheep failed to outnumber the men.
“No, that’s another twenty miles or so north.”
She prodded a curved sharpening stone abandoned on the windowsill, the granite carved with the past. “Can we ride there one day?”
“One day, perhaps, Mari. To the sanctuary in Anglesey also.”
Miss Beaujeu inspected a Celtic cross etched into the stone and then twisted with a frown. “I have not heard of this Saint Dwynwen.”
“She’s quite famous in Wales, Miss,” replied Mari, swinging her arms.
Rhys narrowed his eyes at his niece.
“So what is she patron of?” asked Miss Beaujeu.
Mari grinned. “Lovers.”
His governess’ brows elevated and a faint flush rippled her cheeks. “A lady saint for lovers? How unusual. But I thought Saint Valentine held that post?”
“Ach.” Rhys groused. “In Wales, we have our own saint from whom to seek assistance with affairs of the heart.”
“How beautiful. Who was she then?”
Rhys shuffled his feet. Miss Beaujeu’s voice had lowered to a rich husk that brought to mind silk sheets and clutching fingers… But this was his niece’s governess, so once more he instead brought to mind mathematical fractions and Latin verbs.
“I will never fall in love.” His niece scrunched her nose. “For being an actress or an adventuress will be too time consuming, but poor Dwynwen was a Welsh princess, Miss. The prettiest of a king’s twenty-four daughters.”
“I pity the governess.”
Mari sniggered. “Dwynwen fell in love with a young prince called Maelon Dafodrill but her father had already promised her to another, and so left distraught…” Mari flung a gloved hand aloft, twisted and placed her forehead to the slate wall. “She fled to the wild woods and wept with all her heart.”
Rhys grinned as wails ensued but thought he’d better hurry the tale along. “Dwynwen pleaded with God to help her forget her love, and so once asleep, an angel tendered a potion to erase all memories. Then the blessed angel turned Prince Maelon to ice.”
Miss Beaujeu’s eyes were wide. “What had he done wrong?”
Mari twisted. “I’ve never been sure either and there are a hundred and six versions of the legend, but we do know God then gave Dwynwen three wishes.” She stabbed a finger out. “Number one, she thawed out poor Maelon.” Mari then thrust out a second and flung her head back. “Two, if she could not be with her love, she asked to remain unwed forever.” She sighed a sigh from the depths. And held out a third. “And lastly, she wished for God to aid the hopes and dreams of true lovers everywhere.”
“Then she fled from her father,” continued Rhys, with a little less drama, “and travelled north, some say through this area, till she founded a convent on a tidal island just off Anglesey. An ancient water well still exists there that people visit for aid in marriage and love.”
Miss Beaujeu tapped her crop upon her skirts. “A somewhat sad tale. Perhaps Dwynwen never should have fallen in love.”
Rhys watched a lone peregrine falcon dart across the sky and towards the coast. “I do not believe it a sentiment that we can control, Miss Beaujeu. Perhaps that is why we strive for it in its purest form – an unfettered natural emotion that allows us to be ourselves for once, to have someone love our true self without the burdens of earthly life interfering.”
He glanced down to find her gaze upon him, eyes grey as the seeking dawn. “How–”
“Pah,” interrupted Mari, “I would rather have the love of an audience. And speaking of nauseating adulation, we’d best return before all your brides find us, Uncle.”
Which brought him back down to his current earthly situation with rather an abrupt thud.
Without Rhys’ assistance, Miss Beaujeu hurled herself into the saddle and together they all ambled back over the fields, yet as a flock of honking swans flew overhead, Rhys could not help but ask…
“Do you truly believe Saint Dwynwen’s life would have been better without love, Miss Beaujeu?”
Her gaze flickered to the sky and the fading swans. “No,” she said quietly. “I do not.”
Rhys smiled to himself because for all Miss Beaujeu’s stern governess demeanour, she was a romantic at heart.
