Chapter 26
"Well, Wyvern." Sir Hector Webb spoke heartily and rubbed his hands together as he paced to the library window at Tegfan and gazed out at lawns and trees. ''It seems we are close to the end of this madness of rioting and gate smashing."
"You think so?"' Geraint sat back in the chair behind the desk, his elbows on the wooden arms, his fingers steepled together. "One hopes you are right, Hector."
"This reporter from The Times," Sir Hector said. "I daresay he will print the truth and enough soldiers will be sent here at last. The rebellion will be crushed and the ruffian who calls himself Rebecca will be caught and suitably punished."
"It is an outcome we must hope for," Geraint said. "But I have heard that Foster has interviewed Rebecca and some of the people. Perhaps he believes what they have said."
Sir Hector turned his head to look over his shoulder at Geraint. "But who are the people who read the newspapers, Wyvern?" he asked. "And who among their readers would advocate granting rebels what they demand? Pretty soon every commoner in the country would be demanding something and destroying property and harassing law-abiding citizens. There would be anarchy. No, the reporter's articles will only help our cause, mark my words."
"It seems likely," Geraint said, "that a commission of inquiry is about to be sent down here, Hector. Thomas Foster says so, and letters I have received from London confirm it. They will talk to everyone, rich and poor. I suppose it will be for them to decide if the Rebecca Riots are justified or not and if anything should be done to redress the people's grievances."
"It sounds," Sir Hector said, his eyes narrowing, "as if you may still be in sympathy with the rabble, Wyvern."
Geraint looked directly back at him, eyebrows raised. "I am merely saying," he said, "that if and when the commissioners arrive, the matter will be out of our hands, Hector. And out of Rebecca's too. The issues will be judged by impartial observers—we must hope. We must hope too that some just settlement will be made. We do not, after all, wish to oppress the people who are to a certain extent in our care, do we? Just as we do not want to be terrorized by a mob. Though they have behaved with remarkable restraint so far."
Sir Hector was watching him with pursed lips. "Well," he said, "you have always spelled trouble for my wife's family, Wyvern. I don't know why I would expect anything to change now. I shall take myself off to have a talk with Harley. About sheep. I assume he is still in charge of the business of your farms?"
Geraint inclined his head and watched his uncle stride from the room. Perhaps he had been unwise. Perhaps until this whole matter was settled it would be better to pretend to think in harmony with the other landowners and not to breathe a word about fairness or justice.
But he was tired of pretending. And that was all he seemed to have done for several weeks. With Sir Hector and the other landowners and with his own people when he was not wearing disguise, he pretended to be the mindless aristocrat, guarding his wealth and his property and his consequence at all cost. With the followers of Rebecca he pretended to be the people's champion, one of them but with the strength and the courage to lead them. With Marged…
Geraint sighed and locked his hands behind his head. He was tired of pretending. And pretense was not even a recent thing with him. For years he had pretended that Geraint Penderyn had not existed before the age of twelve. He had pretended that Tegfan did not exist or Glynderi or the rudely thatched hovel on the moors. Or Marged…
He was tired of pretending. Geraint Penderyn was a real person with a real lifelong history. His roots were in Tegfan and the vast estate surrounding the house and park. The Earl of Wyvern was also a real person and had grown through hardship and adversity and stubborn will into the man he now was. And even Rebecca was real. Rebecca was not the mask, but the man behind the mask. And the man behind the mask had been shaped by all the experiences of Geraint Penderyn and the Earl of Wyvern and had come to confront the peculiar set of circumstances that had met him on his return to Tegfan. Rebecca, one might say, was the culmination of everything that had shaped him throughout life.
Rebecca was his destiny.
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.
"Rebecca is in trouble for sure tomorrow night," Idris said, gazing about him in awe. Had all the books in the world been gathered in this one room? The carpet under his feet was softer than his bed, he would swear. "And so are you. Sir."
"You like what you see?" the earl asked, his voice definitely amused now. He had switched to speaking Welsh, Idris noticed. "If my sources are correct, Rebecca is not going to be anywhere around tomorrow night, lad. Perhaps never again. And as for me, I can look after myself. Is your dada enjoying his new job?"
"They know who Rebecca is," Idris said, gawking at the inkstand and letter opener on the desk and wondering if they were really silver or just polished tin. "And they are going to trap him and make him look bad and catch him tomorrow night. They know where he hides his stuff too." He looked at the earl and knew that he finally had the man's full attention. Humor was all right in its place, Idris thought, but people ought not to laugh merely because one was nine years old and not a grown man.
"They?" his lordship asked, lifting his eyebrows in a gesture that made him look wonderfully haughty—Idris had practiced imitating the expression but could succeed only in looking surprised.
"Sir Hector Webb," Idris said, "and Mr. Harley."
"Indeed?" The earl clasped his hands behind his back, another gesture that Idris had tried to imitate until his mother had asked what he was hiding and his father had threatened to come and look if he did not answer smartly. "Suppose you tell me everything you came here to tell me, Idris. If you feel it right to give the owner of Tegfan information about the enemy, Rebecca, that is."
Idris giggled. But he was feeling too full of importance to give in to childish hilarity. He told his lordship everything he had heard and wished as he spoke that his hair would curl like the earl's and that his eyes were blue.
The earl was looking at him intently by the time he finished speaking. "I believe, Idris," he said at last, "I am going to have to give you employment at Tegfan. You might as well have a legitimate reason for being here since you are always here anyway."
At first Idris was indignant. His dreams would all come true if the earl was serious. But this was not the time to talk about such matters. Idris wanted to know what he could do to help thwart the dastardly plans of the true enemy. He wanted to be taken seriously. He wanted to sit down with his lordship so that they could plan out a scheme together.
"It could well be," his lordship continued, setting a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezing it, "that you have done more for the cause of Rebecca this morning, Idris, than anyone else has done before you. Well done, lad."
Idris felt that his chest might burst. He would gladly at that moment have died for his hero. "What can I do to help?" he asked.
The earl looked gravely at him. "You have done enough, lad," he said. "You must go directly home and not let Mr. Harley suspect that you overheard any part of that conversation."
"But there are things to be done, sir," Idris said impatiently. "You will not be able to ignore the invitation to meet the man from the newspaper in London. Rebecca will have to go out, because if she doesn't, Mrs. Phillips might be hurt anyway."
"We will leave that matter in the hands of Rebecca," the earl said. "I want you to go home now, Idris. With my heartfelt thanks."
They were not quite enough. "Rebecca will collect her bundle from the usual place tomorrow night," Idris said, "and they will be lying in wait. She will not even get one foot out of the park. And then she will be dragged over to the Cilcoed gate so that it will seem to be her who destroyed it and hurt Mrs. Phillips."
"I believe Rebecca will realize that and plan accordingly," the earl said. "I would send for cakes and lemonade, Idris, but I do not want anyone to know you have been here. The day after tomorrow I will bring a barrel of cakes up to your house."
Duw, but he hated being treated like a child who could be fobbed off with the prospect of good things for his stomach. "I will take the bundle with me now, sir," Idris said. "I will keep it safe at the house and Rebecca can get it from there tomorrow."
His lordship drew a deep breath and expelled it from puffed cheeks. "Idris," he said, "do you not realize that there may even now be a watch on the place where the bundle is hidden?"
"If I couldn't spot watchers a mile off," Idris said scornfully, "I would be dead by now, sir, or in one of those big ships on my way to the other side of the world."
"And so you would," his lordship had the grace to admit. "Do you know the old ruined hovel almost a mile from your own house, Idris? The one built against a rock face?"
"Where you used to live?" Idris said.
The earl smiled at him. His eyes crinkled in the corners. Idris was going to practice that expression too. "That is the one," his lordship said. "Will you take the bundle there, Idris? And leave it there and not go anywhere near it for the rest of today and tomorrow? I am going to regret this. What am I doing deliberately involving a boy in dangerous matters?"
But Idris was not going to lose his chance now. "Remember when you were a boy, sir," he said, "and how much you would have wanted to do something to help. Something really important."
"Heaven help us," the earl said, "you are right. In those days I would have been willing to give a right arm for something as exciting as this."
"I'll be on my way," Idris said, crossing the room back to the window. "I'll not fail you, sir. If there is anything else I can do…"
And then be damned if the earl did not stoop down and grab him as he had done once before on the road below Ty-Gwyn and hug him hard enough to get all the breath whooshing out of him.
"Be careful," he said. "I must be mad to allow this. If by any chance you are caught, Idris, you must say you found the bundle and thought your mother would be pleased to have it. If that explanation does not work, you will be brought here to me and I will vouch for you. Go now."
Idris went. One thing about the earl he was never going to imitate. He was never going to hug children just as if they were helpless infants. When he was grown up, he was going to treat children as if they were adults. But it was the only flaw he could detect in his hero. And even heroes, he supposed, could not realistically be expected to be quite perfect.
Aled was alone in his forge, his apprentice having already been sent home for his dinner.
"Good day, my lord," he said with a curt nod when Geraint walked in. "What may I do for you?"
"We have an audience?" Geraint asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Not to my knowledge," Aled said.
"But there may well be certain people set to keeping an eye on me and all with whom I associate," Geraint said. "I'll be brief, Aled, and then I'll be on my way."
"Trouble?" Aled frowned.
"One might say so." Geraint gave a brief summary of the story Idris had told him an hour before. "Rebecca and Charlotte and perhaps some of the children from hereabouts are going to have to go early to the Cilcoed gate, Aled, to destroy it and to rescue Mrs. Phillips. Hector will doubtless burst a blood vessel when he arrives later."
"It will be dangerous, Ger," Aled said.
Geraint grinned. "When was this game not dangerous?" he asked.
"And you are loving every moment." Aled's frown deepened.
"Regrettably," Geraint said, "this is going to have to be our swan song, Aled. Rebecca and Charlotte are going to have to disappear without trace after tomorrow night. We will have to hope that we have accomplished what we set out to do, which was to attract enough attention that something will be done to change the system here and make it more fair to the ordinary man and woman—and child."
"Our swan song," Aled said, shaking his head. "And then the swan dies. But you are right. Tomorrow night's scheme has to be thwarted. Foster is to be there, then, to observe the chagrin of the second Rebecca?"
"I thought he might enjoy observing both," Geraint said. "Rebecca will send to invite him to come a few hours earlier than originally planned. All will be over tomorrow night, Aled. I cannot say I am sorry. You will pass the word around here as usual? But not quite as usual. I think this is too dangerous for women. You will neglect to let Marged know?"
Aled nodded and Geraint turned to leave, anxious not to stay too long and perhaps arouse the suspicion of anyone who was set to keep watch in the village. Though he did not believe there were any spies at the moment. He would have sensed their presence.
There was someone else walking along the street, though. Marged had just stepped out of Miss Jenkins's shop and they met outside the chapel. As luck would have it, the heavy clouds that had threatened all morning had just decided to drop their load in a miserable drizzle. And he had an umbrella—a large black affair—while she did not.
"Marged?" He acknowledged her with a nod as he put the umbrella up. "You are going home?"
"Yes," she said, that tight, angry expression she reserved exclusively for him descending on her face. "Alone, thank you."
He turned, nevertheless, and offered his arm and raised the umbrella over her head. "I could not allow it," he said. "Take my arm and I shall escort you."
But he knew that today was not the day to tell her the truth, after all. The truth must wait another two days.