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Chapter Twenty
“Where applause is so ardently coveted, it is seldom obtained.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“We could do that ballad you used to sing with Tristan,” ventured Hugh with a clap to Rhys’ shoulder. “Ar Lan y Môr. The sea shore one.”
Rhys rubbed his chin, felt the burgeoning of stubble. He’d not thought to sing that song ever again without his twin at his side. Thought the pain of loss would stab his guts or a loneliness would grip him but…
“I’d love to hear it, Uncle.” Mari was nodding, a smile upon her lips. “Papa so enjoyed singing it with you.”
He swung his eyes to Hugh but he was now rocking on his heels and peering to the plastered ceiling, and Rhys’ gaze settled on Miss Beaujeu’s lowered head, his mind mulling her words in his study the other night.
That Tristan lived in his heart, and to remember was good. To recall the sheer pleasure of singing which he’d avoided for so long.
Over the border, men bawled out bawdy ditties when half-cut, but here in Wales, it was a different matter, employing song to tell their tales and legends from bygone centuries. Some branded the ancient melodies heathen but they were a part of their history, their soul, and the people of this land would never give them up – for the English or anyone else.
An elbow to his waist punctured his musings.
“So?” probed Hugh. “It’s either that or the current sensation, There’s None Can Love Like a Welshman.”
“I thought it was an Irishman?”
“Plainly an error,” replied an affronted Hugh.
“Well, I…”
Miss Beaujeu abruptly glanced up as if she sensed his gaze, a tender smile upon her lips as though understanding his indecision, and he felt her strength, her acceptance, her entreaty.
“Yes, Hugh, yes.” He clapped him on the back. “Let’s sing Ar Lan y Môr in honour of Tris.”
“Do you require accompaniment?” Miss Beaujeu queried from the pianoforte. “I’m not familiar with this one.”
“No need,” called Rhys. “We’ve sung this since we were lads. In English it’s entitled, Down by the Sea.”
And with arms around each other’s shoulders, they threw their heads aloft and sang.
“Ar lan y môr mae rhosys cochion
Ar lan y môr mae lilis gwynion…”
The audience joined them, the verses mournful and romantic, until the last lines declared the beauty of the dawn and how fair was the face of his beloved by the sea.
Hugh roared his enjoyment, Rhys vainly suppressed a strangling in his throat, but tears streamed Mari’s cheeks and he so worried that–
“Oh, that was beautiful,” she wailed, hurling herself into his arms. “It was like Papa was here.”
Choking, he hugged her so close, affection for his brother’s daughter surging, for this land, this house with its magnificent memories and–
“Ahem!” cried Cousin Elen with a stamp of foot. “This is all very well, but our Famed Personage awaits.”
Tears were dried, jackets straightened, shoulders thumped, and Rhys considered putting off the unfortunate demise of Hugh until the weekend.
Not the dove, though. That wouldn’t pull through.
“Oy,” hissed Hugh in his ear. “Don’t tell Elen but I’m going to forgo the Famed Personage. Make some excuse, will you?”
