Three persons—Geraint Penderyn, the Earl of Wyvern, Rebecca. And yet they were one, all inextricably woven together. And he wanted to be that one person. He wanted to be done with pretending and be himself—his final, complete self—with everyone he encountered. He wanted to be done with masks, both real and figurative.
He was going to ask Aled to arrange a meeting with the committee, Geraint decided. He was going to suggest that the Rebecca Riots in this particular part of West Wales be suspended until they saw how Thomas Foster and the commission of inquiry could help them. Perhaps they could make a public declaration through Foster that they were doing so as a gesture of goodwill.
And Marged. Perhaps he could bring himself to go to her and tell her the truth. She was both his lover and his love. He owed her the truth perhaps more than anything else. She had loved Geraint Penderyn until she was sixteen and he was eighteen. She loved Rebecca. She hated the Earl of Wyvern. It was impossible to predict how she would react to hearing the truth. Would her fond memories of Geraint and her love for Rebecca outweigh her hatred for the earl? At one moment he thought that they must. She loved so totally and so passionately—his loins ached at the very memory of her passion. But at the next moment he was less sure. She blamed the Earl of Wyvern for her husband’s death and there was no doubt of the fact that she had loved her husband dearly.
But fear of her reaction must no longer stop the truth from being spoken, he thought with a sinking of the heart. He was going to have to tell her. It was very possible, even probable, that he would lose her as a result, and the thought of losing her—again—was frankly terrifying. But it was a risk that must be taken. He owed her the truth. Besides, he was sick of pretending.
Always pretending.
They talked about sheep for a while and about horses and about crops, all in the hearing of other people. And then they strolled out across a lawn and in among the trees, where they could safely discuss other matters. It was almost dark among the trees. The clouds above were heavy with the promise of rain.
“Any further developments?” Sir Hector asked.
“Yes, sir.” Matthew Harley’s tone had changed from businesslike to excited and conspiratorial. “I spent a long time scouting around after returning from Pantnewydd yesterday. I found the bundle—and inside it a white gown, a white wool hood and mask, and a blond wig. The bundle was in an old gamekeeper’s hut on the northern boundary, one that is no longer used. I was on the brink of having him arrested after all, but I waited for your visit and your instructions.”
“Good man,” Sir Hector said, pausing to shake the steward by the hand. “But it still cannot be done. Anyone could have hidden the things there, Harley. Even their discovery in Tegfan park and your eyewitness account may not be sufficient to convict Wyvern. And we certainly do not want him to slip through our fingers when we are so close. No, we need a little more patience and a little more planning. And there is still the difficulty that he is fast becoming something of a folk hero.”
“You have a plan, sir?” Harley asked respectfully.
Sir Hector looked carefully all about him, but there were no gamekeepers in sight. They were safely alone among the trees.
“This is it,” he said. “Tomorrow night the Cilcoed tollgate, the one kept by Mrs. Dilys Phillips, is going to be destroyed—by a Rebecca and a group of followers of my choosing. They will carry guns and they will be brutal and unruly. Mrs. Phillips will be roughed up and beaten—perhaps worse. She is old and frail, I have heard, and may not survive the shock and the manhandling. All the better. And the whole thing will be witnessed by Mr. Thomas Campbell Foster of The Times. He will be invited by Rebecca.”
Harley frowned. Guns in the hands of a mob sounded dangerous. And the beating and perhaps killing of an innocent and defenseless old woman disturbed his conscience. But he was an angry and bitter young man, and he wanted to see other people suffer as he was suffering, most notably the Earl of Wyvern and Ceris Williams and the blacksmith. And this plan just might do it. Besides, he was not being asked to be personally involved.
“Foster will be convinced if the leader is dressed right,” he said. “But what about the people, sir? Will they believe that their precious Rebecca would go out without the bulk of them and would behave with uncharacteristic violence?”
“They will have no choice,” Sir Hector said. “Rebecca and perhaps Charlotte will be caught the same night. Rebecca will be unmasked and will turn out to be the Earl of Wyvern. And the people will realize that they have been duped, that their Rebecca has been leading them by the nose only to betray them and discredit them before the English reading public and the government, which is about to send a commission here. He will not have a friend left in the world, Harley. Not a single one—for as long as he has left in this world. I shall press for the death penalty. If Mrs. Phillips should happen to die, I will not even have to press hard, will I?”
“How are they to be caught?” Harley asked.
“It will be tricky,” Sir Hector admitted. “Rebecca must receive a message from Foster, and I am not sure that Foster knows how to contact Rebecca. Perhaps it can come through the blacksmith. You are sure of the blacksmith?”
“Absolutely sure,” Harley said.
“Foster will send the message that he wishes to meet the two of them in some secluded spot in the hills,” Sir Hector said, “in order to obtain a little more information for his articles. They will, of course, go in disguise since they will not wish Foster to know their identities. Constables will be waiting to grab them. We will set the meeting for half past ten, a half hour before the gate goes down.”
“It sounds perfect,” Harley said. He laughed. “Almost too perfect.”
“It had better work,” Sir Hector said grimly. “If it does not, Harley, they will know we are on their tail. I want you to watch tomorrow night. Watch Wyvern leave. If for any reason he does not do so, send a messenger in all haste and I will postpone the attack on the gate. But I do not anticipate any problem.”
“No, sir,” Harley said. “It all sounds masterly. If only you can get the message to Rebecca.”
“Leave that to me,” Sir Hector said. “It will be done, Harley. Now, we had better return. We do not want to arouse suspicion by spending longer than usual in company together.”
They turned back in the direction of the house and the stables.
Idris Parry stayed where he was for a full minute, his back flattened against the broad trunk of a tree. But it seemed they really had gone. Gone where, though? To the stables, probably, to fetch Sir Hector Webb’s horse. Or perhaps up to the house. Either way, it was not safe to go dashing up to the front door. Not that he would get anything for his pains by doing that except a clipped ear and a kicked backside.
Idris sped off through the trees in order to make a wide detour around to the back of the house and the kitchen entrance. He would ask for Glenys Owen, he decided. He would say he had an urgent message for her from her dada or one of her brothers.
That part was easy enough. The boy who answered his knock on the door reluctantly agreed to fetch Glenys and meanwhile shut the door again. Glenys appeared, wide-eyed and fearful that all her family had dropped dead in a heap. But she was indignant and discouraging when she knew Idris’s true errand. How could she take him to the earl? she asked him rhetorically. She never went out of the kitchen herself and never set eyes on him.
But she did—much against her better judgment, she explained—point out to Idris the window of the library, where she had heard the earl spent much of his time. At least, she thought it was the library. Actually, she admitted, she was almost as ignorant of the layout of the house as Idris himself.
Idris peeped through the window and was relieved to see the Earl of Wyvern seated behind a large desk, his chin resting on his steepled fingers, apparently staring into space. There was no one else in the room as far as Idris could see. He tapped on the window and made urgent beckoning signals when the earl looked up, startled.
“Do step inside, Idris, won’t you?” his lordship asked, all formal politeness after he had slid open the sash window and Idris was stepping over the sill. He sounded faintly amused, Idris thought.
