CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Their procession to church is accomplished on the skirts of an unseasonably brisk breeze.

The rain that lashed the fields so vigorously the day before has abated but left in its wake sodden earth that sinks and squashes underfoot, and reluctantly Linette must cling to Julian’s arm in an effort to keep her footing. On the surface Julian is everything patient and accommodating; he touches her elbow, guides her around muddy puddles, and the whole time Linette must pretend she does not mind.

But she does mind. All she has wanted to do is confront him, but Henry has advocated for silence; given his lies, and what they now know of his intimate connection to Dr Beddoe, it may not help them to alert him to their investigation.

Even if they had decided to confront him, her cousin gave no opportunity. Julian was tired, he said (and indeed he looked tired – pale and gaunt, leaning heavily on his cane), and retired immediately to his room whereupon neither she nor Henry had seen hide nor hair of him until breakfast this morning. Henry he asked all manner of questions: how have you settled in, do you like your room, have the servants treated you well? He was shocked and outraged by the news of the gunshot, but though Henry had looked at her pointedly across the table he brushed the incident off as a hunting accident and Julian settled back into his seat, a look of grave contemplation on his face. Indeed, his behaviour was beyond reproach.

And that – knowing what she does now – makes her all the more suspicious.

Linette and Julian lead Plas Helyg’s party up the church path to where Mr Dee waits beneath the arched stone doorway. He greets Linette with a polite nod, a perfunctory bow for Julian. On Henry, however, the reverend bestows a warm shake of the hand.

Plas Helyg’s party enter the church, Julian’s cane clicking on the stone floor, and there is a hush as people turn in their seats. Cold hard stares, that now familiar stab of hostile eyes. It was a surprise when Henry asked to attend the service, considering he has made it clear to her he is not a religious man. ‘Why?’ Linette asked as she buttoned her coat at the door. ‘ You have no obligation as I do,’ to which his only response was to say that he was not a coward. ‘But it will be in Welsh,’ she exclaimed, ‘you will not understand,’ and at this he levelled her with one of his intractable stares.

‘I shall manage well enough.’

As they walk down the aisle Linette tries to catch the gazes of some of the villagers, but none look to her; instead their attention is held completely by Julian and Henry. They have looked at Julian this way before, of course, and he has never batted an eye. But Henry … though she cannot see his face, Linette fancies his eyes would betray him if she looked into them. Truly, this hateful silence is deafening, could be cut clean with a scythe.

They slip into the box reserved for Plas Helyg – Linette nearest the wall, Julian in the middle, while Henry takes the aisle. The bench is cramped, a claustrophobic press, Julian’s expensive London cologne cloying sickly in her nostrils. Linette turns her head so as to lessen the impact of the scent, and as she does, she catches Henry twisting in the pew. She thinks, at first, he is looking at her, but no; his gaze is focused on the space beyond her shoulder, the pew behind. Linette turns too, only to see Enaid, wrinkled hands clasped in her lap, head bowed in reverence.

Linette frowns. Why does Henry stare so? Perhaps, she reasons, turning back to the front as Reverend Dee ascends the pulpit, he wonders why she is here. In the bustle of the morning Linette clean forgot to tell him that on Sunday mornings her mother is dosed with laudanum and locked in her room.

Safe, where she can do no harm.

The vicar clears his throat, grips the pulpit with heavy fingers.

‘My children,’ he intones, grave and heavy. ‘Today let us think on Jonah and the lessons his story might teach us.’ A bristle goes around the congregation in a rustle of breath and cloth. ‘God did speak to Jonah, calling him to go and cry against the city of Nineveh. Foolishly, Jonah thought he could flee the presence of God, but our Lord intended Nineveh to hear his warning! He wished Jonah to deliver that warning, and God punished him for his disobedience until he repented. Yet Jonah kept his resentment with him, wore it like a chattel, let it rot away at his heart. How could he bask in God’s almighty love? How could he find peace?’

Next to her, Julian twists his gold signet ring. Linette watches the strange curling symbol on its face, once again wonders why he claimed it was the family crest. Such needless deception! Surely it would not matter if she knew of his club. It would have simply been one more thing to exclude her from, one more thing Julian cared about more than he did her, so why should it signify that he was part of some so-called Hellfire club at all?

Unless, of course, there was something specific he wanted to hide …

A smell of damp permeates the Welsh stone, betraying a hint of stagnant moss. Though it is early morning the church is steeped in shadow; candles have been lit in the sconces, their flames throwing flickering shapes against the walls as they shiver in the draught, and in turn Linette shivers herself.

The Reverend Mr Owain Dee drones on about the power of humility and forgiveness; a sermon, Linette realises, in support of Henry. She turns in her seat, hopes to communicate this to him somehow, but as Linette angles her head to look past Julian’s shoulder she sees that directly behind Henry sits Miss Carew, whispering intently into his ear. She hears the strains of English, realises that the young woman is translating the sermon, and something twists in her gut. Linette did not miss the way Henry looked at Miss Carew that day in her cottage, the way his cheeks flushed pink or his words stuttered on his tongue. Nor can she blame him – Rowena Carew is a very pretty woman indeed – but it is Linette who is Henry’s teacher, Linette who took the effort to help him understand the language of her people, and to see Miss Carew take her place … She cannot explain how she feels. Annoyance is too strong. Jealousy does not quite fit either, though an echo of it is there. A strange sense of abandonment grips her, a feeling of treading water at sea, and Linette presses her fingers into the soft leather of her prayer book, scolding herself internally. She is being irrational, she knows, and yet …

Yet.

A pew creaks as someone shifts on it. The vicar spreads his arms wide in a slow, reaching arc.

‘Let your anger and resentment be dust before the face of the wind,’ he intones, voice heavy with accusation. ‘Let the angel of the Lord scatter these unjust thoughts. They are slippery like the snake of Eden, filled with corrupt darkness. Release them! Purge yourself of all such sinful thoughts, and let the good Lord pursue and vanquish them.’

There is a hymn, a psalm. Linette fidgets, restless. To stand and not be moving, to hear the wind in the yew trees outside the window, it is all she can do not to fight her way down the nave to escape. When they sit once more, the reverend drones on and on (are his sermons usually so long?) and it irritates her that Miss Carew continues to whisper in Henry’s ear, that Julian twists the ring between his clubbed fingers again and again and again. Linette clenches her jaw, focuses her gaze upon the trefoils above Mr Dee’s box-like head.

It is a relief when the congregation kneels to pray. A hush descends from the rafters, whispers filling the pews like wasps. Linette herself stays silent, shifts her weight uncomfortably on the prayer cushion until, finally (at last!), the service is done.

As the villagers take their leave, the vicar waits at the open door. Ahead, Henry and Miss Carew are already saying their farewells. As she and Julian approach, Miss Carew leads Henry away leaving Mr Dee free to converse, and in English Linette says, ‘It was very kind of you to consider Henry in your sermon today.’

The reverend acknowledges this with a bow of his head.

‘I’m glad my sermon met with your approval, my lady. I do not dare hope too soon, of course, but I feel in time a positive change will come. Dr Talbot deserves a chance to prove himself, and God does not bestow upon us more than we can manage.’

‘To deliver such a sermon,’ Julian remarks, ‘you must be on agreeable terms?’

The vicar smiles. ‘He is a recent acquaintance, yes, but one I like very much. He’s a man of sense. I like men of sense.’

‘Indeed? How gratifying.’

A breeze pulls sharply at the air. Linette catches on it the dank but sweetish smell of bracken and sheep droppings.

‘I plan to hold an intimate dinner in the coming days in Dr Talbot’s honour,’ Julian continues. ‘The usual party are to attend, of course – Lord Pennant, Sir John, a few others. If you are so pleasantly acquainted, Mr Dee, perhaps you would agree to dine with us, set our new doctor at ease amongst strangers?’

‘It would be my pleasure,’ the vicar replies. ‘That is, if Lady Linette is agreeable?’

Beside Julian, however, Linette has gone very still. Another dinner, another evening of flowered insults delivered by her cousin’s caustic friends. But what can she do? What can she say? Nothing, as always, except play her part.

‘But of course, Mr Dee,’ Linette says with a smile she hopes does not appear forced. ‘Henry will be glad of your company.’

As the men discuss what days might suit the reverend best, Linette searches for Henry in the dwindling crowd. For a moment she does not see him, but then – over the head of one of the miners – she spots him standing at the lychgate with Miss Carew. Their heads are bowed together, intimate. Then, Henry hands Miss Carew a small glass vial. Linette squints. Not the one he found in the gatehouse; this vial is full, not empty. He says something more and Miss Carew nods, slips the bottle into her reticule before disappearing into the lane. Julian presses her elbow.

‘Linette?’

Both men are looking at her.

‘I’m sorry, what was it you said?’ and her cousin purses his lips.

‘I asked if Wednesday was convenient?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Linette says faintly, ‘of course,’ and the reverend shifts his bulk beneath the arch.

‘Then if you will excuse me. So much to do, and a sermon this evening as well. The Lord’s work never ends.’

The men bow. Linette curtseys. As they turn it is to find Henry approaching them, hands buried deep inside his pockets.

‘Ah, Henry,’ Julian says. ‘Are you ready to return to the house? I’m keen to hear your thoughts on what we discussed before I left.’

Henry goes very still. For a moment Linette does not understand, but when a look of unease crosses his face the answer suddenly clicks into place. After everything else, she has forgotten. What was it Henry told her?

Your cousin has asked me to take my professional measure of you .

‘Very well,’ he says, and Linette can hear the deep reluctance in his voice.

‘Splendid. Linette, my dear, I’m sure you can manage without Henry for an hour or two?’

Julian does not wait for an answer. Instead he turns on his heel, heads in the direction of the road.

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry murmurs, as they follow behind.

‘’Tis not your fault,’ she replies.

Her tone is subdued, but he does not reply. Linette licks her lips.

‘What were you discussing just now with Miss Carew?’

His hesitation is obvious. ‘Nothing of consequence,’ he says, and avoiding her gaze he needlessly adjusts the rim of his hat.

Linette stares. Why, she wonders, should he lie about such a simple thing?

Suddenly, she does not want to go home. On the one hand she should stay close, perhaps find a way to listen to Henry and Julian’s conversation unobserved. On the other, she does not want to be near either of them.

‘Cousin,’ she calls, and the tall man turns. ‘I feel like walking home today.’

‘Walking?’ Julian scorns. ‘In all this mud?’

‘ Ie , Cousin. A little peace.’

Julian stares at her. She thinks for a moment he will object, but then he simply shrugs his shoulders, turns his head.

‘As you please.’

It is not the comment that stings but Henry’s lack of reaction to it, and with a scowl Linette strides past them between the sinking gravestones of Penhelyg’s dead, through the lychgate on the other side.