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“When I was around ten, a pig farmer moved in not terribly far from the shipyard. There was one piglet they could never seem to keep contained, and he took to wandering into the Llanelli, following me everywhere I went. The men would toss him scraps from their lunches. We called him Teithiwr.” She glanced up. “It means wanderer.”

He nodded for her to continue, reining in his confusion.

“Pigs are unbelievably smart, you know. Smarter than dogs. Teithiwr knew exactly when I finished my studies with my aunt and would be waiting outside, no matter the weather, to make his rounds of the yard with me.”

A soft, sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“For months, we were inseparable. At first, his growth was natural, steady, exactly what a young piglet’s should be. But around five months, they began feeding him relentlessly to ready him for slaughter… naturally he gorged himself, because,” she shrugged, “well, he was a pig.”

She drew an unsteady breath, and he felt her stiffen beside him, a reaction that made little sense in the context of their conversation. Obviously the pig was destined to die at the end of this little childhood tale, yet no matter how he examined his own heart, he could find nothing remotely troubling about the fate of an animal bred for consumption. Still, he pushed aside his own bafflement and listened.

“Despite his dwindling agility, Teithiwr still came, for a time, determined to keep up, while his legs wobbled beneath him and his lungs labored to carry the weight of all that he’d consumed.”

Her steps slowed, and she looked up at him with wide, expressive eyes, clearly frustrated by the confusion he’d been laboring to hide. “Don’t you see? They fed him, and he ate every bite because that’s what pigs do. But it was too much, too fast.”

For long, uncomfortable seconds, their gazes remained locked, but before he could manage the appropriate response, Gwen turned away. Her expression quickly smoothed, yet something of that wounded look remained. He couldn’t tell if what he saw was the dregs of an old hurt or the fresh bruise of a disappointment he himself had caused. Whatever it was, it lingered on her face, and the sight of it made him feel like a disappointment in a way he could not begin to understand.

“When he didn’t come one day, then another, I begged my da to go to the farmer, begged him to buy Teithiwr. He went, of course—because he… well, because he was my da. But it was too late. Teithiwr hadn’t been slaughtered yet, but he could no longer even stand. I snuck away then and went to the farm. I had to see for myself what had become of him.”

“It was… horrific. And even after he could no longer bear his own weight, they kept him alive for a time. And still, he ate—because that is what pigs do.”

She shook her head. “Not all pig farmers behave in that manner, mind you, and I don’t think I would have been half so heartsick at his slaughter had they gone about it differently. But to that farmer he was never Teithiwr—never something to be tended or valued in his own right—only so many pounds of pork waiting to be counted in coin.”

Her eyes sharpened then, her voice lowering, and something of the iron willed woman from their letters reemerged. “That is precisely what Walter would have done to this company. Fed and fed until it could no longer support itself. Too many contracts to manage with any semblance of quality. Impractical designs, risky ventures in the endless pursuit of coin. He would have forced us to grow until we collapsed, crushed beneath the weight of his greed… because that is what men like him do.”

“I see,” Michael murmured. And he did, swine analogy aside. He’d known plenty of Walters in his time. There was danger in wanting everything and knowing nothing. The yard had paid the price for Walter’s egregious stupidity.

“Eight months have passed since I gained control of Llanelli, and I’ve scarcely begun to undo the damage he wrought. Now, with Lord Michael circling like a buzzard, I feel as though I spend nearly as much time flapping my arms to prove we’re still alive as I do running the yard.”

Michael felt an intense rush of relief as the conversation veered away from the murky waters of sentimentality and back onto the familiar ground of business strategy. This, at least, was terrain he could navigate. Even a conversation involving “Lord Michael” was preferable to… whatever that had been. Better still, it returned his attention to a question that had been troubling him since Smythe’s report. By all accounts, Walter Bevans had been woefully ill-equipped for the position he’d inherited, which made Michael all the more curious how he’d managed to weasel his way into ownership of the company.

“Was it always your father’s intention to leave the yard to Walter? Did he press for a marriage between you as a means of affording you some influence over its management?” Nothing Smythe said had indicated as much, but he felt compelled to ask it anyway.

Gwen’s lips pressed together in a stern line, her chin lifting in a way he was beginning to like. “Llanelli was always meant to be mine, it was. No other possibility had ever so much as been suggested until… until the final months of his life.” She tucked Michael’s scarf tighter around her neck protectively. “I believe the closer he drew to leaving my side, the harder it became to reconcile the idea of how completely alone I would be.” She paused, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. “But I’m not alone. I have Harry and the men… and I have the memory of my da every time I step into the yard. Losing Llanelli to Walter was like losing Da all over again, only this time it felt like watching someone tear him away piece by piece, destroying the legacy my father devoted his life to building.”

Michael bowed his head, concealing the irritation that stirred whenever someone felt compelled to spill their emotions at his feet. “Were any of Walter’s clumsy attempts at growth profitable? Was there no merit at all in the changes he sought to instill? I understand, from speaking with Mr Pryse, that you mean to restore the yard to the way it was in your father’s lifetime. But surely you see the wisdom in expansion and development when carried out with proper diligence.”

Through the dense fog that had settled around them, Michael could just make out Llanelli in the distance. With every step, they drew closer to the moment when they would part ways. He needed this answer, needed to know if it was simply Lord Michael she’d taken a dislike to, or if it was everything he stood for.

Lord! One day in her company and he’d already taken to thinking of himself as two separate Michaels. Perhaps he should have stuck to Mr Anson; it certainly would have been less complicated. But he liked the way his name slid off her tongue in that lilting Welsh accent.

When she finally replied, her answer, as he’d expected, was as much rooted in sentiment as in sense. She didn’t seem capable of separating the two.

“This is a tight-knit community, with families that depend on the yard’s stability. Expansion would inevitably attract outsiders; their inexperience weakening the quality of our product, potentially eroding the trust and cohesion we’ve established over generations of working together. Were we to stretch the bounds of what we currently produce with the workforce we have, it would mean longer hours for the men, fatigue, and ultimately accidents in the yard. I won’t have my men killing themselves for the hope of a heavier purse. And that’s to say nothing of the financial risk inherent with expansion, the strain on supply chains, and the pressure on every single cog of the yard were we to exceed our practical limits.”

She turned to him once they reached the wrought-iron gates that marked the entrance to Llanelli, pride and ferocity and absolute certainty smoldering in her green eyes.

“My men are brilliant at what they do, they are. Their dedication to their craft draws contracts from Cardiff to Holyhead, and every one of those clients knows precisely what they’ll receive: a beautifully crafted boat they can trust.” She smiled then, a little sadly. “Sometimes, more is simply more, Michael, and even if we pursued expansion with all due diligence, I cannot help but wonder if we would lose something of ourselves in the process.”

She turned away before he could respond, calling out over her shoulder as she skirted around a group of men, who nodded as she passed. “South of the yard, Michael. I’ll see you tomorrow—os gallwch god.”

He watched her go, then drew the attention of the workers milling nearby. “What’s that mean, os gallwch god?” he asked, slaughtering the pronunciation.

The man assessed him with a smirk, shifting the heavy hammer from one shoulder to the other. “Had a few too many pints, did you? It means if you can get up.” Then he added, with no attempt to conceal his amusement, “A word of advice, son—never drink with Wyn Bevans.”

CHAPTER 5

Gwen