“You would be recognized anyway,” his friend said.
“I think not,” Geraint said. “The disguise is a good one for hiding form and figure. Everyone will assume that I am someone from another town or village, someone they have never met before. And who in his right mind would even dream that it might be me?”
“Your voice?” Aled said.
“You are the only one to whom I have spoken Welsh since my return,” Geraint said. “Do I speak it with an English accent?”
“No.” Aled frowned.
“Rebecca will speak only Welsh. And it is no problem to deepen my voice a little just in case,” Geraint said, doing just that. “No one will know. And no one would guess that I would disguise myself in order to lead my own people against me, would they?”
“Even those who knew you were mad as a boy would not realize that you are totally insane,” Aled said. “You are, Ger. I am surprised that someone has not chained you to the wall of one of your elegant London mansions before now.” Geraint grinned. He had not felt so vibrantly alive for—he could not remember for how long.
“In the meantime,” he said, “I am going to have to halt reform on my own land. I don’t want anyone to become confused and perhaps pity me. The destroyed weir and mantraps will have to do for now.”
Aled straightened up on his bench suddenly and looked wary again. “Oh, Duw, Ger,” he said, “you had me going there for a while. That was an amusing fairy tale.”
Geraint chuckled. “Too late, Aled,” he said. “I saw the truth in your face, and I saw the excitement in your eyes. You need a Rebecca and you know I am the perfect choice—perhaps the only choice. Are you on the committee? And don’t ask what committee.”
Aled stared at him.
“Take me to them,” Geraint said. “They can all hide behind disguises if they wish. You can keep the location a secret from me. You can even blindfold me. But let me talk to them.”
He watched as Aled closed his eyes and paled again.
“Aled,” he said, “why would I be setting a trap for you? You are the only thing I have resembling a friend here. Marged hates me bitterly and I understand why now. You can go and see for yourself that the salmon weir has gone. Is that not proof enough for you that I mean well? Will you not trust me?”
Aled was looking at him again, his eyes troubled. “I dare not trust you,” he said. “There are too many people dependent upon my judgment.” He grimaced. “But I suppose those very words show that I am wavering. Damn you, Ger, why did you not stay in England where you belong?”
“I think I came because you need a Rebecca,” Geraint said quietly. “Do you believe in fate, Aled? Seemingly insignificant events can be enormously significant in retrospect. Two men passed me on the street in London, talking Welsh. One of them was saying something about missing the hills. And here I am. For almost three weeks I have thought that perhaps it was a dreadful mistake to come. Certainly my return has brought me no happiness. But now I know why I was made to pass those men and overhear a snippet of their conversation. I was sent here to be Rebecca.”
“By Satan,” Aled said.
“Perhaps.” Geraint looked steadily back at him. Silence stretched between them. “Well?”
“You used to talk me into trespassing for the sake of trespassing,” Aled said. “You talked me into playing ghosts that one night. You talked Marged and me into hiding you in that cupboard in the schoolroom one Sunday afternoon before Sunday school. You talked me into participating in every mad scheme you ever dreamed up, Ger. Why not this one too?” There was no amusement in his voice, only a sort of irritated frustration.
“Where? When?” Geraint jumped to his feet.
“Soon.” Aled got more slowly to his. “I’ll let you know, Ger. But I wouldn’t get my hopes too high if I were you. You will not find the other members of the committee quite as gullible as I am.”
“Aled.” Geraint held out his right hand, as serious as his friend. “You will not regret trusting me, man. I’ll not let you down.”
“I’ll fight you to the death if you do,” Aled said quite seriously. “Assuming I am free to fight, of course.”
They clasped right hands.
Matthew Harley paid an afternoon visit to Pantnewydd. He called at the office of Sir Hector Webb’s steward, but as usual he soon found himself walking outside in company with Sir Hector himself. The two men had a mutual respect for each other, and Harley had always realized that Sir Hector—and through him, Lady Stella—used him in order to gain news of Wyvern in England and in order to oversee the estate that would perhaps be his wife’s one day. It had always seemed to Harley that Sir Hector was more his employer than the Earl of Wyvern.
“He ordered me to have the salmon weir destroyed,” he explained to Sir Hector when they were well launched into the topic they had come together to discuss. “And he has had Tegid take away all the mantraps.”
“Fool!” Sir Hector said viciously. “Does he expect to be better respected for it? Does he not realize he will be merely laughed at and seen as a weak man?”
“With all due respect, sir,” Harley said, “I do not believe he fully understands the situation. He is trying to be popular. He has attended their chapel and a birthday party for an elderly lady on one of the farms.”
“Fool!” Sir Hector said again.
“I suppose it is understandable,” Harley said. “He was, after all, one of them as a child. It must be difficult—”
