Chapter 14
She was as reluctant to end the night as he was, he realized. She was no more ready to say good night than he.
"Marged," he said, "I do not doubt your courage or your commitment to the public cause or your personal grievance. I honor you for what you have done tonight."
"But," she said. "I hear a but in your voice. Don't say it. Please. I have admired and respected you so much tonight. Don't spoil it by talking about a woman's place. A woman's place is not always at home. Her place is where she must be. And I must be with my people during these protests, sharing the exertion and the danger—and the exhilaration with them. I must be with you. With Rebecca, that is. Don't forbid me to go."
Damnation! All his resolve was melting away. "And if I did?" he asked her. "Would you obey?"
She did not answer for a few moments. "No," she said at last.
"Rebecca must demand total obedience of her children," he said. "It is necessary for the success of our cause and for the safety of all. I suppose, then, I must not issue a command that cannot be obeyed. Doing so would merely place us both in an impossible situation, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," she said. And then more fiercely: "Thank you. Oh, thank you. I knew you were a man I would like almost more than any other."
His heart turned over at the compliment, though he knew that it was a compliment for Rebecca rather than for the man behind the mask.
"Come," he said. "It is time you were safe in your bed." He dismounted, holding her firmly in place with one hand as he did so. Then he reached up both arms and lifted her to the ground.
She stood in front of him, staring up at him. His hands were still at her waist, he realized, though he did not remove them. She looked absurd and rather endearing with her cloth cap covering all her hair and with her blackened face.
He lifted one arm and took off the cap. Any hairpins she had been wearing to hold her hair in place must have come away with it. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back in thick waves. He had not seen her with her hair down, he realized, since she was a child.
"I must look a mess," she said.
He was touched by the vanity of the words, so rare with Marged. She did look a mess. And strangely lovely.
"It is the blackening that really does the trick," he said.
"Oh." She brushed the knuckles of one hand ineffectually over one cheek. "I had forgotten that. So you have seen me with part of my mask removed. Let me see you. It is dark and I would never know you to identify."
"Marged," he said, taking her hand in his and drawing it away from her face, "I am Rebecca. There is no one behind the mask." He was about to carry her hand to his lips, but realized that it might be too familiar a gesture. He squeezed it instead. "Good night," he said. "I will stand here until you are safely inside."
"Good night," she said, returning the pressure of his hand. "Good night, Rebecca. And thank you for riding so far out of your way."
He released her hand, but she did not turn away from him fast enough. She paused long enough to smile at him. Too long. He set his hands at her waist again, drew her against him, and kissed her.
He could feel nothing but her lips, trembling against his own—the wool of his mask kept his face from touching hers. But it was enough. Too much. He deepened the kiss, parting his lips over hers, licking at them with his tongue. Marged! Love, he was discovering, could lie dormant for ten years but did not die. It could flower again with one kiss. Flower into a more intensely glorious bloom than before. Yes, it was like the flowers of springtime, blooming out of plants seemingly dead at the end of a long winter.
"Oh," she said, her eyes and her voice dazed when he lifted his head. Her hands were stroking across his shoulders. "Who are you? Who are you?"
"Go in now," he said. "Go now, Marged."
She gazed into his eyes for a moment longer and for the first time he saw a frown between her brows and doubt in her eyes as if she were recognizing him. But she shook her head and turned away. Before he could assist her, she was through the gate and hurrying across the farmyard to the house. He could scarcely see her by the time she opened the door, but he thought she turned to wave to him. He lifted a hand in response and kept it there, motionless.
If only he had not been so foolish as a boy, he thought. If only he had not cut himself off from Tegfan so ruthlessly that even a personal letter from the woman he had loved had not made it into his hands. She could love him again. He had seen it in her face and heard it in her voice and felt it in her kiss. If only he had not done things to make her hate him, he could woo her back. But those things were irreversible. He could not bring her husband back to her. And if he could, he would lose her anyway.
He would do it gladly, he thought with a jolt of pained surprise, if only it were possible. He would bring back the husband she had admired and loved. And so cut himself off from her forever. It would be enough to know that she was happy.
And that perhaps she would remember him with some kindness.
He stood at the gate for a long time before turning back to his patient horse and swinging himself back into the saddle.
She was in chapel at the usual time on Sunday morning. She sat very erect, looking straight ahead instead of giving in to curiosity and looking about to see how many of last night's Rebeccaites had managed to get themselves out of bed in time.
She realized that she had had no more than four hours of sleep. What surprised her was the fact that she had had that much. She had not expected to sleep after scrubbing her face and undressing and climbing into the cupboard bed, exhausted as she had been. There had been too much teeming around inside her head.
But she had found as soon as her head was on the pillow and the blankets up beneath her chin that there was only one image in her mind after all. There was Rebecca's face covered by the pale mask, surrounded by the blond ringlets. And Rebecca's light eyes, beautiful and compelling. Eyes that for a moment before she had come inside had had her reaching for something in the recesses of her memory that just would not come into her conscious mind.
And Rebecca's mouth, warm and inviting and wonderful—and giving the startling lie to any lingering myth that there was no man behind the mask.
She had relived his kiss and the memory of the feel of him, burrowing farther beneath the blankets and keeping her eyes firmly closed, unwilling to let go of the magic of it. She had been kissed again after so long. She had been desired again. And she had desired. A man she had never seen without the disguise, a man she would not know if she passed him in the village. But there had been desire between them.
And she would see him again. Perhaps never to talk again. Perhaps he would never look at her again. But she would see him. And follow him as Rebecca wherever he chose to lead her. Because she admired and trusted him.
Because she had fallen a little in love with him. She had smiled at the thought. And fallen deeply asleep.
She wondered now if it was wicked to be sitting in chapel after such a night. She had been part of a mob that had destroyed a tollgate and a tollhouse. She was a criminal in the eyes of the law. And she had kissed a stranger and desired a man who was not her husband. Oh, yes, she had desired him. She had wanted to lie with him, all the disguises stripped away. She had wanted him in her bed and in her body, man and woman together.
But she would not feel ashamed.
And then someone sat in the empty seat next to her, Eurwyn's place that no one had taken since his death. Except that one Sunday. And again today. Without turning her head, she knew. She could feel that it was he. And she could smell the distinctive musk of his cologne. She stiffened with resentment.
"Good morning, Marged," he said very quietly.
So he had decided to notice her this morning, had he? She considered ignoring him, but she was in chapel. Not that that should make any difference. If she acknowledged him only for that reason, she was being very hypocritical. She turned her head to find his blue eyes steady on her. They gave her a jolt of awareness.
"Good morning, my lord," she said equally quietly.
It was the limit of the communication between them, and he did not try to walk home with her after chapel as he had the time before. It would have been difficult, anyway. She drew Mrs. Williams and a reluctant Ceris away from the crowd far sooner than usual after service, linked her arms through one each of theirs, and marched them off homeward, talking determinedly about the spring flowers blooming wild along the banks of the river.
But he had ruined her morning. She had been unable— again—to concentrate on any part of the service though it had sounded as if her father had been fuller of hwyl even than usual if the chorus of responses from the congregation during the sermon was anything to judge by.
And what was worse, he had ruined last night for her. She had tried to ignore her awareness of him by concentrating her mind and her emotions on Rebecca and their ride home together and their shared kiss. But it had not worked. Not as well as it had the night before when she had gone to bed.
He had merely been a stranger being gallant. And taking advantage of the situation a little at the end by stealing a kiss. Though there had been no theft involved, of course. He must have known that she was pathetically willing. It had been nothing more than that for him. Perhaps he even had a wife at home, wherever home was.
Only she had felt the magic.
And damn Geraint Penderyn for making her see that sooner than need be. Yes, she would use the word again quite deliberately in her mind.
Damn him!
Ceris walked with Marged but did not participate at all in the conversation. She had always known her friend's views and had always sympathized even if she could not agree. Marged after all had lost a husband cruelly. It was enough to make any woman bitter. If it had been Aled…
But Marged had gone beyond talk. She had joined Rebecca last night, as had Aled, and they had gone to smash a tollgate. A legally erected tollgate. She knew they had gone. Her father would have gone too if the distance had not been so great. But he was no longer a young man and found it difficult to walk great distances. Aled had advised him against going, he had explained last evening to Mam and her. But he would go another time, when it was a gate closer to home.
Ceris marveled at how well rested Marged looked. No one would know that she had been up for most of the night and marching through the hills and breaking down a tollgate.
She herself had not slept at all. Worse, she had been sick with worry all night. What if they hurt someone? Or killed someone? What if they were caught? What if some of them were hurt or killed? Or thrown in prison to await trial as Eurwyn had been? She had felt sick for every one of them, especially those she knew. She had visualized them one at a time in her mind, all those men she knew had gone. And Marged.
She had not thought of Aled. And she had thought of no one else. Her father had told them that Aled was playing the part of Charlotte, Rebecca's favorite daughter. The one who would be closest to Rebecca. The one who would be in most danger.
She had still been sick with worry this morning. Had they really done it? Had they all returned safely? And then in chapel she had seen that no one was absent except Miss Jenkins's elderly father, who sometimes stayed in bed on a Sunday morning although they lived right next door to the chapel.
Marged was there.
And Aled was there. Her legs had felt like jelly as she walked behind her mother to their pew. Thank God, oh, thank God, Aled was there. He had come back safely.
And then of course, just when relief should have helped her to relax so that she could concentrate on worship, the guilt hit her. She had worried all night and all morning over Aled—and had not spared a thought for Matthew. She had put Matthew off when he had wanted to walk with her last evening. She had been afraid he would see something.
She had thought she was growing fonder of him. She was. She enjoyed his company. He talked to her about his childhood in England and about life there. He opened up a different world to her imagination. She was trying to enjoy his kisses. She did enjoy them. And she was trying not to flinch from some rather more intimate touches. Aled, after all, had done more than just kiss her. There had to be more than just kisses between two people when they were courting.
And she had agreed to be courted.
He was showing interest in her, making her feel that she mattered to him as a person. He was asking her about her life and her people. He had even asked her about Aled and why they had broken up.
"Well," he had said, not pressing the point when she had given him a vague answer, "all I can say, Ceris, is that I am glad you did and that I never thought him worthy of you."
She was glad he had kissed her then. She could not have responded in words.
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."
"I am thankful to see that you are as outraged as we are, Wyvern," Lady Stella said. "From the way you have been talking about tolls and tithes and rents, we wondered if you would be sympathetic to the mob."
"It is one thing to give some favor freely, Aunt," he said. "It is another to have it taken by force. We can allow no such thing. What measures are to be taken, Hector? Has the army been summoned?"
"I have talked with others since this morning," Sir Hector said. "We will request that soldiers be sent, of course. In the meanwhile we will have special constables sent to the area. But it will not be easy. We will rely heavily on informers. We will offer a reward for the capture of anyone who takes part in the riots—fifty pounds is one suggestion, with one hundred for one of the leaders, or daughters as they are foolishly called, and five hundred for Rebecca. What do you think, Wyvern? Are you willing to pay your share of the cost?"
"It is a great deal of money," Geraint said.
"You can afford it." His aunt made no attempt to hide the contempt in her voice.
"I meant that it should not be long before we round up the ringleaders and put an end to this insanity," Geraint said. "Surely informers will flock to claim their reward."
"It is obvious you have not been in this part of the world for a long time," Sir Hector said. "They are a foolish and stubborn people, the Welsh peasantry. And as closemouthed as clams. They would prefer to protect one another than to make their lives a little more comfortable with blood money."
"Someone will surely talk," Geraint said. "It will take only one."
"Or one caught red-handed," his uncle said. "A man might trade information for the assurance that he will not spend the next seven or so years of his life at hard labor in a foreign land."
"I will do my part, certainly," Geraint said. "By this time tomorrow my people will know that it would be wiser to let the Penfro gate be the first and the last they will ever attack. I thought I was prepared to take a closer look at rents and to take a more lenient view of tithes. I thought I was prepared to see a lowering of the tolls to help my farmers. But they have just alienated my sympathy."
"Well," Lady Stella said, "that is something, at least."
Sir Hector cleared his throat. "Far be it from me to criticize, Wyvern," he said, "but I predicted this as soon as I heard about your salmon weir and the gamekeeper's traps. It never does to show even a hint of weakness to these people."
"I can see that now," Geraint said humbly. "But it will not happen again, you may rest assured. It does not amuse me to be spat upon." He turned to Lady Stella as he rose to his feet and approached the bellpull. "You will be ready for tea, Aunt."