She was trying very hard to fall in love with him. She had thought she was close. And yet all last night and all this morning she had thought only of Aled.
She wondered in some despair, as she walked home after chapel, not participating in the conversation Marged and her mother were holding, if she would ever stop loving Aled. One should be able to stop loving someone of whom one disapproved. One should be able to fall in love with someone one liked. But love did not work that way.
Sometimes she wished—although she had denied it to Aled at Mrs. Howell’s party—that they had married before all this had started to happen. And sometimes she wished that on one of those occasions when they had walked up into the hills together and their embraces had grown hot, one or other of them had not stopped the embrace before it went too far. Sometimes she wished that she had known Aled in the biblical sense at least once in her life. And that she had at least one of his little ones to hold in her arms.
And God forgive her for the sinfulness of such thoughts.
Perhaps if she married Matthew and knew with him what she had never known with Aled, and perhaps if she had a child with him—perhaps . . . Did love work that way? she wondered. She had no way of knowing—yet.
“Ceris,” Marged said, speaking to her directly at last and forcing her friend’s wandering thoughts back to the present, “you are walking out with Mr. Harley? I have known it for some time—everyone knows it by now—but we have not been exactly the closest of friends lately, have we?”
She smiled rather awkwardly and Ceris noticed that her mother had walked on up the lane to the house, leaving them alone together.
“Is it wise?” Marged asked.
“Wise?” Ceris became instantly wary.
“Well, he is the steward at Tegfan,” Marged said, “though he cannot be blamed for what he has done there, I suppose. He is merely doing a job. We all know where his orders come from.” Her voice hardened.
“He is courting me,” Ceris said. “I—I like him, Marged.”
“But he is the Earl of Wyvern’s steward,” Marged said, “and loyal to him. You know what is going on here, Ceris. What if you say something to him that you ought not?”
Ceris did not often lose her temper. But her eyes blazed now. “You think I would?” she said. “You think I would stoop that low, Marged, just because I will not support what you are doing?”
“No!” Marged looked stricken. “I meant inadvertently, Ceris. Without realizing it. I—oh, forgive me. I did not mean—”
Ceris’s anger died as quickly as it had flared. She stepped forward and hugged her friend impulsively. For some reason, they were both in tears.
“He is a good man, Marged,” she said. “I may marry him if he asks. I am twenty-five years old and l-lonely. But I would never betray my people even if I cannot support what they do. I would never say anything to put you in danger or Dada or . . .”
“Or Aled,” Marged said. “Oh, Ceris.”
Ceris blinked away tears. “What happened last night?” she asked miserably. “Was anyone hurt? Was a gate destroyed? Was anyone recognized?”
“A gate was destroyed,” Marged said. “We have a wonderful Rebecca, Ceris. He has complete control and uses it wisely. He allowed the gatekeepers to leave in peace and gave them time to take their possessions with them. And Aled supported him throughout. He was very—brave. It is not an easy risk to take.”
Ceris paled. “Aled is nothing to me,” she said quietly. “I am walking out with Matthew Harley. But Marged, I will say nothing. You must not fear betrayal from me.”
“I did not.” Marged’s voice was contrite. “Friends again, Ceris? I have missed you.”
Ceris nodded. “Me too,” she said.
Sir Hector Webb called at Tegfan during the afternoon with his wife. Geraint, who was busy in the library writing letters, had them shown to the drawing room and joined them there a few minutes later.
“I suppose you have heard what has happened?” Sir Hector said almost before they had finished greeting one another. His look was thunderous, Geraint noticed.
“Happened?” he asked politely.
“It is disgraceful,” Lady Stella said from her place on the sofa.
“The tollgate near Penfro was pulled down last night,” Sir Hector said. He had not seated himself. He was pacing the floor. “And the house too and everything in it. The keeper and his wife were fortunate to escape with their lives. As it was, they were threatened and beaten.”
“Indeed?” Geraint raised his eyebrows and took the chair opposite the sofa. “Were there many persons involved? I trust they were apprehended. They must be made a public example of.”
“It was a lawless rabble,” Sir Hector said. “Several hundred strong, all wielding guns and axes and knives. And of course it was led by a man calling himself Rebecca. And no, no one was caught. That is always the trouble with these Rebecca Riots. There is so much countryside and so many gates. It is almost impossible to know where and when they will strike next.”
Geraint’s eyebrows rose again. “And so we sit back and allow ourselves to be made fools of?” he asked, his voice cold and haughty. “And will it be our hayricks and our stables and our houses next? I think not, Hector.”
