Even then, when he reached the farmhouse, he was not sure he would have had the courage to go inside. He paused outside the door, hearing the sound of voices. But then he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the fluttering of fabric. He turned his head to see that someone was standing at the far side of the farmyard, close to the chicken coop. A small woman. Ceris Williams, he believed, though he could not see quite clearly in the darkness. But she had seen him and curtsied to him. He inclined his head in return.
And so he had no alternative but to lift his hand and knock on the door. And when it opened and he saw the kitchen crammed with people, all of them with turned heads to see who the late arrival was and all of them falling silent with amazement and embarrassment, his course was set. He had to step inside, take off his hat, and acknowledge with nods all those whose eyes he met.
Chapter 9
HE had spoiled the party, he thought a few minutes later after Ianto Richards had rescued him by coming forward to welcome him. He made his way to the fireplace where Mrs. Howell was seated—a path opened before him as if by magic—and wished her a happy birthday and talked to her with the conversational skill learned long ago and practiced so often that it had become almost second nature to him. And then the Reverend Llwyd was at his side and engaging him in conversation.
The silence had dissolved into the buzz of conversation again. But it was a self-conscious conversation, Geraint thought. For such a large gathering and such an occasion, and in the presence of such a feast as he could see loaded onto the table, it did not appear to be a merry party. It had been before his arrival, he would wager, and would continue to be after he took his leave.
He must take his leave. He had done his duty. He had made his point. Now it was time to leave the occupants of the house to enjoy themselves. Aled, he noticed, had kept his distance and had kept his eyes averted. Some friend he was.
He remembered suddenly running home to the moors one day, excited with the news that there had been a wedding in the chapel and that everyone was going to the house of the bride’s father to feast. There had been two long tables of food set up outside the house. He had managed to snatch up a large bun that had fallen to the ground and Mr. Williams had spied him and tossed him a handful of small coins. He had shown his mother his treasures and had broken the bun carefully in half to share with her.
It was almost the only occasion when he had seen his mother cry. She had sat holding him, telling him about the parties she had attended as a girl, when she had been the daughter of the minister—the one who had preceded the Reverend Llwyd. They had been the most wonderful of occasions, she had told him, pain and wistfulness in her voice. Not only because of the food and the merriment, but because of the laughter and the company and the wonderful sense of belonging, of being with people who cared.
Yes, he thought now. He had been outcast then because the people who cared had put limits on their caring, cutting off those they believed had transgressed their stern moral code. And he was outcast now—perhaps more justifiably so. But even so, he had tried and was trying to show friendship and the willingness to reach out in sympathy and they were giving him no chance.
But before he had the opportunity to take his leave, Mrs. Howell spoke up.
“Marged, fach,” she said, “sit down at your harp, girl. It is time for the singing. A few folk songs on your own, is it? And then we will have a gymanfa ganu, a singing together. We will sing to be heard across the hills. We will sing to be heard by Eurwyn’s gran, who cannot travel any more than I can these days, and by his mam, who stayed at home to keep her company. Come, fach.”
Marged smiled and kissed her cheek before seating herself and drawing the harp toward her. She completely ignored him, Geraint noticed, though he was standing close.
“I would rather have the gymanfa ganu right away, Mrs. Howell,” she said. “But for you I will sing folk songs.”
She spoke in Welsh, the first that had been spoken since Geraint’s arrival. Aled was the only one—and Idris—with whom he had spoken Welsh since his return to Tegfan. Perhaps everyone thought that he had forgotten the language he had heard and spoken every day for his first twelve years. Marged’s choice of language now was perhaps a deliberate snub.
He knew that her singing voice was still lovely. He had heard it in chapel on Sunday. But there was something about harp music and something about the Welsh folk songs she chose that made it sound hauntingly lovely tonight. He listened enraptured and felt again that tightening in his chest and aching in his throat. Had he really believed until very recently that he could live happily in England for the rest of his life? Had he really believed that he could ignore his Welsh heritage?
Had he really believed that Marged was just a bittersweet memory of his past?
He stayed for the gymanfa ganu even though he kept telling himself that he should leave so that everyone else could relax and enjoy the singing and the feast that was to follow it. He kept telling himself that he would stay and listen to just one more hymn—he would not sing himself, though he remembered the tunes and even most of the words. But the harmony all about him was just too soothing to his rough and battered nerves. And after a while everyone seemed to forget his presence and relax anyway.
Aled slipped outside during the singing. He stood quietly outside the door for a while, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. She might have gone home, but he did not think she would do that without a word to her mother and father. And then he saw the lightness of her dress down by the gate leading into the pasture. She was standing with her arms along it, her back to him.
“Ceris,” he said softly as he came up behind her. He did not want to startle her.
She set her forehead down between her hands and said nothing.
“You will be cold,” he said. He noticed for the first time that she had not brought her cloak with her. He shrugged out of his coat and set it about her shoulders. She whirled around then, perhaps to shrug free of his coat. But he did not drop his arms. He kept them about her and tightened them, bringing her close against him. She did not struggle. She rested her forehead against his chest and sighed.
He turned his head to rest his cheek against the top of her head. It had been so long.
“There is one thing I regret more than anything else in my life,” he said. “I should not have been so concerned about paying off my father’s debts and getting the business back on its feet before marrying you. I should have listened to you when you pleaded with me to marry you, poverty and all. You would have been my wife now. We would have had some little ones together.”
She did not say anything for a long while. He held her to him, listening to the singing from inside the house, feeling that happiness was this, this fleeting moment. And unhappiness was the same moment.
“I am glad you were so stubborn,” she said. “I am glad we never married, Aled.”
He swallowed awkwardly. “I love you, cariad,” he said.
“No,” she said. “It is something other than love that rules your life, Aled. It is hatred and the desire for revenge. It is the desire for destruction and violence.”
“It is the desire for a better life,” he said, “and the conviction that we have a right to it. It is the belief that I owe it to myself and to my neighbors and to my unborn children—if ever I have any—to do something to bring about that better life. It is something I cannot allow others to do for me, cariad.”
“Neither could Eurwyn,” she said bitterly. “But he died and left Marged and his mam and gran to manage without him. And no one has a better life as a result of what he did.”
He lifted one hand to cup the back of her head. “It is what you are afraid of?” he asked softly. “That I will die and leave you alone? It is better, you think, not to marry me and not to have my little ones if I recklessly court death?”
