CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Linette’s study is a small but airy room situated near the back of the house affording a view of the stables. The view is not necessarily a scenic one, but she loves it all the same; she enjoys watching Rhys groom the horses, enjoys being able to see Pryderi safe in his stall. To Linette, there is gratification in knowing that Plas Helyg functions smoothly, that the old cogs of the estate are well-oiled, a sure mark of all her hard work these past five years. Sometimes she will sit on the window seat and simply watch life carry along on its course, content in her own quiet company. But in this moment Linette sits at her desk, Plas Helyg’s ledgers spread open before her like a map.

It is no easy task, managing an estate. Such a heavy workload – the collection of rent, the organisation of repairs and improvements for both the village and the farms, the bookkeeping all this requires – is an exhausting enterprise.

Linette adds a tally to the bottom of a column. Bites her lip.

Overall, the estate is performing well enough. Crops are plentiful, the livestock is healthy and producing on time. She was concerned a few months before that they would not be so lucky, for this past winter was especially harsh; hoarfrost had frozen the fields solid and spring, it seemed, was slow to show her face. But then at last the weather turned, made up for its lethargy by becoming unseasonably warm, and so Plas Helyg’s lands had flourished and blossomed. The coffers will begin to fill once more.

Still, Linette is aware that the estate is not as prosperous as it could be, and it has made its mark on her books. She offers low rent (too low, according to Julian), and does not make her tenants responsible for the upkeep of their homes as other landowners do. But, as she insisted to Henry, Linette finds this generosity is well-rewarded; her tenants work harder, make no complaints. How many of her fellow gentry can say the same?

There are other ways to make money, Linette knows. She could open Plas Helyg to the public, lease the land and bring in more industry, as Lord Pennant has done this past year and Sir John Selwyn plans to do next. It would help, of that there is no doubt, but Linette cannot bring herself to do it. This land belongs to Penhelyg’s people. Their livelihood depends upon it entirely, and she will do everything in her power to ensure its beauty remains untouched by foreign and exploitative hands.

Even if it means less for herself.

The money she inherited on her majority was a princely sum, but she has spent nearly all of it on rejuvenating the land. Flooding down at the salt marshes is scarce now the appropriate barriers have been put in place, and at least – when the weather does prove itself tempest-strong – the cottages are now protected. In addition, each tenant – Linette made sure – had been allocated a small plot of land on which to grow their own produce, keep a goat, a cow as well if they wish it. The farmhands up in the valley, too, benefited from her generosity: drainage has been improved, new ridge and furrow techniques employed. She has given everything she can to Penhelyg, her own small way of making up for Emyr Cadwalladr’s misdeeds, her cousin’s neglect. It is why, now, Plas Helyg itself is not all it should be. If one were to look closely, the wainscoting is woodwormed and the tapestries moth-eaten, the roof leaks when it rains, the external stonework is loose. Indeed, every time Linette hears that damned gate creak in its worn hinges it sends a shudder down her spine.

Linette sighs, places the quill into its glass well. She regrets nothing. Not one thing would she do differently. Except, she thinks grudgingly, ask for help. Yet who can she ask? When it comes to running the estate the only people she can rely on are Enaid and Cadoc and the servants who deal with the more menial management of the household, the upkeep of Plas Helyg’s grounds. But beyond that, Linette has no support.

She thinks of Julian, feels the familiar reel of frustration churn within her gut. She made light of it to Henry but in truth, Julian had not been entirely willing to relinquish his hold on Plas Helyg’s purse. He had, after all, spent two decades in control of it; to step aside must have vexed him greatly. She remembers perfectly her twenty-first birthday when she received a letter from a Dolgellau attorney requesting she and Julian grant him an audience. Linette remembers them sitting side by side in front of a man who reminded her of a trussed ham, round cheeks pink and shining (a predilection for wine, she later found), as he explained in a manner most clear how, in accordance with her father’s will, all estate accounts would be transferred into Linette’s name. She remembers how Julian – quietly and somewhat in shock – provided the information required, but when they were left to discuss the matter between them, he asked her, very gently, if she was quite sure it was what she wanted.

It can be overturned, you know. It’s a lot of responsibility for one so young. For a woman.

He offered to run Plas Helyg on her behalf, to run it just as he always had, but it was that very offer which had prompted Linette to sign those papers without a second thought. No more would he neglect the people who had come to mean so much to her, no more would he treat her friends as if they were nothing more than commodities. She meant to treat them fairly. Linette had a purpose, at last.

Julian simply did not understand.

There was no denying the transition had been hard. The attorney – Mr Ellis – had been unfailingly kind. It was he who opened up a new account with the bank, he who arranged the dismissal of Mr Lambeth (to Julian’s disbelief), he who put in place everything she asked for with regards to Penhelyg’s well-being. It was Mr Ellis who instructed her on the more complex particulars of managing an estate until Linette could get by on her own. She had been grieved indeed to hear of his death some months later, his bloated body found on the banks of Dolgellau’s river, having drunk himself blind in the tavern and fallen into its harsh winter currents.

After this Linette begged Julian to send her the latest treatises on land management from London, for how else could she keep abreast of new developments? And while he procured the literature she required and arranged subscriptions to periodicals on agriculture and farming it was all done with a look of long-suffering scepticism, as if he could not quite believe a woman should take such a thing into her head. Thankfully those subscriptions have since enabled her to send for books on other topics such as religion and philosophy, science and industry, the more distasteful but enlightening subject of slavery, books she is sure Julian would prefer she did not read. Unbecoming, he said. Unladylike.

Linette has devoured them, every single one.

Somewhere outside, Merlin barks. It is followed by the squawk of a bird, the harsh admonishment of the gardener, and pinching the corners of her eyes Linette sits back heavily in her seat. The ledgers in front of her have become a blur, her black cursive trailing across the pages like ants. Perhaps, Linette thinks grudgingly, she is done for today. She looks at the small carriage clock on the mantel. A quarter to four.

She has been working solidly since Henry left that morning.

With a groan Linette gets up. She winces at the rise – her back is stiff from sitting so long – but she presses her hands into the base of her spine, bends into a stretch and moves over to the window, half-open in its casement.

It is a lovely day. Too lovely to waste it hunched over a desk: the sun is shining, the clouds cotton-like in the azure sky. Linette can smell how fresh the air is, its floral tones undercut by the smell of hay and manure from the stables. She looks across to them, at Pryderi drinking from a water trough, tail swishing against his hocks. One of the hens loiters around the stalls and, with another loud bark, Merlin bounds out of the hydrangea borders with an excitable bark, gives leggy pursuit. Linette shakes her head.

That dog must chase everything he sees .

She watches the poor hen scarper toward a small pen on the other side of the stables where the rest of the chickens are busy pecking the ground. Merlin lurches after it, narrowly missing Geraint and his wheelbarrow; wood chippings spill from its sides as the gardener pulls himself up short, and he swears at the dog who, again, ignores him completely.

It is never a good day when Geraint finds the remains of one of the hens in the gardens. Merlin is scolded something rotten by Enaid and Mrs Phillips (who is most put out by the waste of a potential dinner), but even though she knows he deserves it Linette cannot bring herself to be angry with him.

Just as one of the hens loses a black feather in its desperate bid to escape, there comes a soft knock on the door.

‘Yes?’ she calls tiredly.

With a creak the heavy door opens, and Henry peeks his head through.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

‘Not at all,’ Linette sighs, turning from the window. ‘I’d be glad of the distraction.’

He comes in, moving as tiredly as she feels, and in that moment she realises how frightfully pale he is. His dark hair is dishevelled, his clothes rumpled; the satchel he carries is scuffed even more than it was yesterday, its handle askew. Linette looks more keenly. Pale, as she already marked, but there is also a tightness to his face and it takes her a moment to realise what it is.

Anger. Unmistakable anger.

‘What on earth is the matter?’ she asks, and the look he levels at her is hard as stone.

‘I had some trouble in the village.’

Linette sucks in her breath. ‘Not another shot?’

‘No, not that,’ and as the physician explains Linette listens with a rising sense of displeasure.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says when he is done. ‘But they were only boys.’

‘Only boys?’ Henry counters, voice pinched. ‘They were old enough to know right from wrong. They wished me harm, even if they hadn’t the compunction to act on it. And,’ he adds, ‘no one came to help. We must have been watched and yet no one came. Is there no discipline here, no compassion? What of conscience? Should their actions not be dictated by that?’

Though he is perfectly justified in his anger, Linette feels the beginnings of hers set to boil.

‘You accuse them of being quick to judge,’ she shoots back, ‘but are you not the same?’

He stares, clamps his mouth, and Linette narrows her eyes.

‘You are a proud man,’ she continues, ‘I see that, but your city ways are imprinted on you like ink for all to see. You’re as unlike them as the sun from the moon. You cannot come here and expect them to welcome you with open arms after only one day!’

At this, Henry’s nostrils flare.

‘While your loyalty to them is commendable, you are also blind to their faults. I’ve never known a people like it. So unwelcoming, so coarse!’ He takes a step closer. ‘My new home is ransacked, someone takes a shot at me, youths harass me in full view, the villagers turn me away from their doors. You claim your tenants are like family, but if these are the type of people you consider your kin then—’

‘Then what?’

‘Only that it makes me wonder what manner of woman you are, if you can so easily mix with heathens.’

Linette stares. ‘ Er mwyn y mawredd! You sound just like Julian.’ She stops short as a thought occurs. ‘You’ve been speaking to Julian, haven’t you?’

He does not look ashamed at this. Indeed, Henry looks her square in the eye.

‘Your cousin asked me to take my professional measure of you, yes.’

She would laugh if it were not so galling.

‘Well, then, doctor.’ She spreads her hands. ‘How do you find me?’

Henry hesitates. ‘I don’t know yet.’

‘You don’t know yet? Considering you’ve judged my tenants so quickly I find that surprising.’

He says nothing.

‘Are you Julian’s spy then? Come here to keep an eye on me at his instruction?’

Something flickers in his dark eyes. ‘No. I come here as a physician. That is all.’

Outside, Merlin barks again. Linette hears Geraint spout a long and vitriolic curse and – more to hide her frustration than anything else – she turns back to the window, raises the peeling sash.

‘Merlin, gad o !’ she shouts. ‘ Tyrd yma! ’

The lurcher pauses in his relentless chasing, looks toward the window, tongue lolling. His ears twitch, gaze sidling to the chicken pen, but then Henry is at her side and when he whistles the dog cocks his head, finally takes heed. Merlin trots away around the side of the mansion, and if Linette did not know any better she would think the animal was grinning.

‘He’s taken to you,’ she remarks grudgingly, pushing the window back down into its frame. ‘He does not take to everyone. Heeds them even less.’

Henry shrugs. ‘I like dogs,’ he says. ‘They are more truthful than humans – what you see is what you get with them.’

Linette says nothing to that. Instead she moves toward the small round table near her bookcases, sinks into one of the spindly wooden chairs, buries her head in her hands.

The room is silent but for the ticking of her carriage clock, the buzz of blood in her temples.

‘I did not mean to upset you,’ Henry says. ‘I’m sorry.’

His voice is quiet. Kind, almost. Linette raises her head.

‘Are you?’

‘I am.’

She is not quite sure she believes him. He steps forward.

‘What does “ sais ” mean?’

A beat.

‘Where did you hear that word?’

‘It’s what one of the boys said to me before he fled.’

‘What did he look like?’ she asks.

Henry describes him.

‘Cai Jones,’ Linette answers with a sigh. ‘Lives in one of the narrow houses down on the road. He is troublesome, I must admit. Cai’s father works in the mines; he worked there too, once, but then he broke his leg two years ago in an accident which made continuing impossible. His brother died in that same accident. Cai plays up sometimes, pilfers from the tavern mostly. Boredom, I suspect, but he’s harmless enough.’

‘Are you sure?’ Henry asks. ‘Perhaps he was responsible for the gatehouse. Perhaps it was him who shot at me.’

Linette considers this. Though unlikely, it is not impossible. Out of all the villagers aside from the Einions, Cai Jones would be the most likely to rebel, to resent another Englishman in Penhelyg’s midst. The gatehouse she might just be able to accept as his doing, and it is true a gun could easily be procured. All the farmers had one, after all. Even Arthur Lloyd kept a shotgun in the tavern. But would Cai actually take the risk to do it? She told Henry before that mining was dangerous work, and it was the truth. Cai never forgave Julian for not securing the cave shafts; the lad holds him personally responsible for the collapse of that tunnel, for the death of his brother, for making him a cripple, and Linette cannot blame him for thinking it either. He has not been the same since, either in body or mind.

‘Linette?’

She looks up, catches her nail against a whorl in the tabletop.

‘I cannot deny,’ she says slowly, ‘that Cai might be a likely culprit. But without proof I can do nothing. And neither can you.’

Henry gives a short sharp nod. ‘I’m not unreasonable. Of course I’ll do nothing. Not unless I have cause.’

‘Such as?’

‘Let’s put it this way. If Cai lays one hand on me or my property I shall have the magistrate called and he will be punished then, mark my words.’

Linette smiles without humour.

‘As the magistrate is Lord Pennant I fear you’ll be disappointed.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is a matter of status for him, nothing more. As long as his own property is secure then Pennant has no interest in dirtying his hands with those of lower social standing. Besides, like Julian, he’s rarely in residence. You would have better luck consulting Mr Dee – he holds more sway with the villagers. But the reverend is very protective of his flock; he prefers a Christian solution, a charitable one. Not that he has ever had to employ such a measure,’ Linette adds. ‘We have no crimes committed here.’

‘Except for shooting at people, ransacking a gatehouse, and thieving from taverns.’

Linette presses her lips. Henry gives her a pointed look but, thankfully, falls silent, turns away.

Their argument, it seems, is at an end, though neither of them has won it. She considers the young doctor’s broad back. Never has she met anyone who could hedge around a subject as well as she, never has she met anyone whose temper blows similarly hot and cold, and Linette cannot decide if she likes the fact.

At present Henry is looking at her wall of bookshelves. One is set aside for Plas Helyg’s ledgers, the other for her books on farming and agriculture. Linette watches him take in the treatises and annuals, subscriptions and journals. He stops at a middle shelf, reads the spine of Anderson’s Essays Relating to Agriculture and Rural Affairs , his mouth moving noiselessly over the title.

‘Impressive,’ he murmurs.

Linette feels a twinge of pride.

‘I order them in from London. Nowhere here stocks texts on modern methods of land management.’

‘You read them all?’

‘I do.’

‘ All of them?’

‘Of course.’

‘And these ledgers …’ He counts them. ‘One for each season?’

‘ Ie . I keep meticulous records.’

Henry turns around. His look of admiration is unmistakable.

‘When you told me you managed Plas Helyg’s estate I never fully appreciated the enormity of the task. Seeing your library –’ and here he gestures at the shelf housing the ledgers – ‘the administration such a task requires … well, it puts things into a different light.’

She touches her tongue to the roof of her mouth, dares to test him.

‘You must agree that a madwoman could hardly be so well-read.’

He stares a moment. Then he barks a short laugh, turns back to the shelves, continues perusing them. At length he reaches out to stroke the spine of a green book lower down.

‘You have some Welsh texts here too.’

Linette rises from the chair, goes to stand next to him, plucks the volume of Welsh folklore from the shelf.

‘A book from my childhood,’ she murmurs. ‘It tells of the namesakes of Gwydion and Pryderi. Of Merlin.’

She flicks through the pages, the old myths and legends she could recite off by heart. Linette remembers how Enaid would read them to her as a little girl tucked up tightly in bed, and even then – at so young an age – she would wish it were her mother telling the tales of Branwen and Blodeuwedd and Bedwyr instead.

The memory pains her. Linette places the book back on the shelf.

‘How went your visits today?’ she asks. ‘Aside from your encounter with Cai.’

Henry grimaces. ‘I looked in on Tomas – he does a little better, by the way – then the coastal cottages, then tried my luck with the ones in the square. All refused to see me.’

‘I am sorry for it. Truly, I am.’

Henry says nothing. Linette licks her lips.

‘You asked what “ sais ” meant.’

‘Yes.’

She hesitates. ‘There is no literal translation for the Welsh language does not always work that way, but …’

‘But?’

‘It is an insult. Cai was essentially calling you an Englishman, but the word – and the intonation of it – is generally derogatory. Like a curse.’

‘I see.’ A pause. ‘No, actually, I do not see. Don’t you think it time you tell me the real reason why the people of Penhelyg should resent me so?’

He is looking at her with such a hard unflinching gaze that Linette knows she cannot avoid the subject again, and with a sigh she rubs her nose, lays her palm flat against the spines of her books as if she might find strength there.

‘There have been rumours—’

‘So the vicar advised when I saw him in the village. Ancient history, he said, troubling interactions.’

Linette purses her lips. ‘Will you let me speak or not?’

Henry falls silent. Linette tries again.

‘There have been rumours,’ she repeats quietly. ‘Tomas told me of them, many years ago.’ Linette takes a steadying breath. ‘I said last night that all my grandfather cared about was his pleasure. Well, his pleasure, apparently, went beyond gambling. Before the Tresilians took over the estate, he used to invite his English friends up to Plas Helyg. It was said …’ Linette stops, feels shame at even saying the words. ‘It was said there had been distasteful gatherings, that village girls were used in illicit ways for their own entertainment.’

‘Like whores.’

Linette flinches at the term. ‘If you must be so blunt. One of the girls died.’

‘Died?’

‘Her body was found down by the road, under the willows. Do you remember the dark-haired girl I spoke to in the square?’ Henry nods. ‘Her name is Rhiannon, Heledd Einion’s granddaughter. Of course, all this was long before I was born so I cannot vouch for the truth of it. Enaid tells me I must not listen to village gossip, and it does all seem incredibly unlikely – it’s perfectly possible Heledd simply slipped on the tree roots and broke her neck. But whatever the truth of it the people of Penhelyg believe wholeheartedly that my grandfather was responsible, and that if it were not for his English friends none of this would have happened. As a consequence they do not trust Englishmen, and so they do not trust you.’

Henry is watching her.

‘I see,’ he says, and this time, it seems, he does. Instead of looking angry as Linette thought he might, Henry instead looks contemplative.

‘You kindly offered your assistance earlier,’ he says, ‘to come with me when I visited your tenants.’ Linette waits. He clears his throat. ‘I still want to make a try of it on my own. I think that’s important. But you accused me of being quick to judge just now and it did not sit well with me. Perhaps you might agree to help in other ways.’

‘Oh?’

‘I need to learn your language. For my sake, as well as theirs. How can they learn to trust me if I do not speak their tongue? I have the dictionary, of course, but it’s clear I need more specialist knowledge, of the kind only a native speaker can provide. The pronunciation, the nuances, all of that.’ His dark eyes are bright, suddenly keen. ‘Will you teach me?’

Linette feels a rush of unexpected pleasure, of gratitude, and she says, more brightly than she is prone, ‘I would gladly teach you, if you really wish it. Shall we start tomorrow?’

But Henry has hesitated, is shaking his head.

‘I planned to visit Dr Beddoe tomorrow.’

He indicates his medical bag which he left by the study door, and Linette once again marks its scuffed hide, its lopsided handle.

‘I need more supplies, something suitable in which to carry them if I am to visit my patients on horseback.’ He hesitates again for the briefest moment before continuing. ‘I was hoping he might advise me.’

Linette marks his hesitation with guarded interest.

‘There’s a boatman who can take you across to Criccieth.’

‘A boatman?’

‘It’s the only way over the estuary. You must catch it from the port six miles from here. I’ll have Cadoc send word down to Mr Morgan who can take you. But why the rush? I can advise you just as well as he can on such a trifling matter.’

Something shadows his face. ‘There are some things only a doctor can answer.’