CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Linette returned to Plas Helyg heart-worn and dizzy. Not wanting to speak with either Henry or Julian she retreated to her bedroom and slept through dinner, waking the next morning with a dry throat and pounding headache.

Enaid, of course, scolded her mercilessly when she discovered where she had been, but when Linette remained silent the old woman sank down on the bed beside her and stroked her tangled hair.

‘What is it, cariad ?’

‘Nothing,’ Linette replied, voice muffled within her pillow. For what could she tell poor Enaid, without revealing the rest? The rest that, now, Linette doubts is even true? And so that day she stayed in her room, listening to the sounds of building work down at the gatehouse, the clanging bell of the front door as Plas Helyg received deliveries for Julian’s dreaded welcome supper for Henry.

It was only when Julian sent for her for dinner that she ventured from her room, and even then she held her tongue. More than once Linette caught Henry watching her across the table, disturbed perhaps by her odd behaviour, for she had never been short of words before. Despite her defence of Henry to the villagers, Linette’s misgivings burnt a hole in her throat whenever she looked at him. It had been a relief to escape to her bedroom once more and lock the door behind her, to hold Merlin close and bury her face in his wiry coat.

The next day is a beauty – the sun shines brightly like a jewel, no clouds mar the brilliant turquoise sky, and the birds sing merrily in their nests. The air is ripe with the smell of cut grass and the scent of fresh linen wends its way from the back of the house, where Angharad has hung the bedsheets to dry. Linette has taken breakfast in bed much to Enaid’s continued concern. Now, however, she grows bored.

It is most unlike her to shirk her duties, but never has Linette felt quite so tormented as she does now. She has always been used to solitude, her days regimented, carefully ordered, her hours timed to precision so there would never be any instance for a maudlin thought in her head. But now? Now Linette’s whole life has been upturned, and she does not know what to do about it.

At the foot of her bed Merlin yawns, stretches his long legs across the coverlet, oblivious to his mistress’ torment. At the window Linette looks down onto Plas Helyg’s drive, watches Dylan remove the weeds from the gravel as she teases her long hair into an untidy plait. Through the open window she can hear the faint sounds of woodsaws and hammers. Henry will be removing there within a few days, it seems.

Perhaps, she thinks, tying the end of her plait with a green ribbon, it is just as well. Linette’s life can return to something more like normal. Or it will, when Julian has left for London. Linette frowns, calculates the days. It is, now, the second week of June; he usually stays no later than the end of the third. She heard his phaeton leave just past the hour of nine, the crunch of wheel on gravel waking her from a restless sleep. Julian rarely stays at Plas Helyg above a day or two, entertaining himself at the expense of Lord Pennant or Sir John. Sometimes she wonders why he bothers to come here at all.

Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimes the half-hour, making Merlin twitch.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Linette mutters. She simply must snap out of this tiresome stupor, must apply herself to some sort of task before she runs herself quite mad. ‘I shall help Mrs Phillips,’ she announces to Merlin, and the lurcher stares at her from the bed. ‘Oh, come now, you lazy brute.’ Linette tickles him beneath the chin. ‘I’ll find you something to chew on.’

She likes the kitchen. It is a place where she has always found some semblance of comfort. Linette loves the homely atmosphere of cooking, the calming smells from the array of herbs hanging from ceiling hooks, and the dish of buttermilk on the stone hearth meant to appease the bwbachod . When she was a child, Cook would pour her a glass of that buttermilk and find her a cage bach to nibble on, just as long as she did not get under anyone’s feet. As Linette grew older and took on more responsibilities this happened less and less, but there were still occasions when she would come down to seek out a treat and settle down by the warmth of the range. This, though, is the first time in some months she has ventured to the kitchen, and Linette is surprised to find the servants’ quarters so disordered – dirty linen piled high in baskets, tableware that Linette has never even seen before stacked along narrow sideboards flanking the stone corridors, all in various stages of cleaning. Soap-suds clash with the smell of cooking meat, making Merlin sneeze. When Linette appears in the kitchen itself it is to find Cadoc polishing a soup tureen, Mrs Phillips elbow deep in dough, and Angharad battling to fold a large sheet beneath a brace of pheasants hanging from a hook, their once-bright spotted feathers now dull, necks hanging limply to the side. All three look at Linette in surprise when she appears on the threshold, and their eyes grow even wider when she announces why she is there.

‘We couldn’t possibly allow it, Miss Linette,’ Cook says, thin cheeks red with effort. ‘’Tis not proper.’

‘Nonsense,’ Linette says, rolling up her father’s shirtsleeves. ‘Besides, I crave something to do.’

Cook hesitates, looks at the table. On it are an array of bowls and plates, each filled with the raw ingredients of dishes yet to be made. Linette spies carrots, leeks and asparagus; a hare lies ready to be skinned, and next to it one of Plas Helyg’s black hens.

‘I don’t know, miss. There’s such an awful lot …’

‘Surely I can do something to help things along? Grease pans, measure out ingredients –’ she points at a bowl of peas still in their nobbly pods. ‘I can shell these, perhaps?’

Mrs Phillips flushes with gratitude. ‘Well, miss, that would be mighty fine. His lordship, he’s been so—’ She cuts off, thin face souring. ‘It’s a lot to do. I won’t refuse your help if you’ve a mind to give it. Heaven knows Angharad is already run ragged.’

‘There, then,’ Linette says, pulling up a chair. ‘It all works out nicely, does it not? Cadoc, can we find something for Merlin? I promised him a treat.’

‘No, Cadoc can’t,’ Mrs Phillips says sharply, glaring at Merlin who sits at Linette’s feet, tail wagging in anticipation. ‘Another of the hens has gone missing. Found out when Geraint dropped off that one –’ and here she nods at the corpse on the table. ‘Feathers everywhere, apparently. No, miss, he’s had quite enough treats for one day.’

‘Merlin,’ Linette scolds, and the lurcher looks up at her, all innocence. ‘How many times must you be told?’

The dog recognises when he is in trouble, utters a small whine before slumping down on the flagstones, rests his chin on his paws, and with a sigh Linette draws the bowl of peas to her and sets to work.

Cadoc continues his polishing in grave silence, nor do Cook or Angharad say much beyond offering instructions, but this is a silence Linette does not mind. It is a relief to be busy, to satisfy her restlessness with the shelling of peas. It is a comfort to dig her thumb into a pod, to hear the tinny ping of its bounty fall into the bowl like raindrops, and so each of them passes a companionable hour saying hardly anything at all. It is only when Enaid comes into the kitchen carrying a basket full of linen and looking thoroughly haggard that the peace is disturbed.

‘That’s the last of them,’ she says, hauling the basket onto a small table by the range. ‘All the beds stripped, all the rooms cleaned. Is her ladyship’s lunch ready?’ She notices Linette, then. ‘By heaven, child,’ she says, her surprise evident. ‘Why are you down here?’

‘I’m helping,’ Linette says, raising aloft the skin of a carrot curling from its peeler. ‘I insisted.’

Enaid raises a veined hand to her forehead with a sigh.

‘His lordship will not be pleased if he finds out.’

Pursing thin lips Mrs Phillips wipes greasy hands on her apron, turns to prepare a tray.

‘Well,’ Linette retorts, ‘his lordship need not find out if none of you tell him, will he? Besides, I am mistress here, he is not.’ She pauses. ‘I don’t suppose you know where he’s gone?’

Cadoc clears his throat. ‘To Abermaw. He has a meeting with Lord Pennant.’

‘Did he say when he’ll be back?’

‘Tomorrow, I believe.’

Linette feels a quiet sense of relief. For tonight at least, she may have some peace. Except …

‘Where is Dr Talbot?’

‘In his room, miss, last I saw.’

It is Angharad who answered. She stands at the far end of the kitchen table, fingers slick with blood, the hare’s pelt half-stripped in her hands.

‘I took him his breakfast this morning. Reading medical books, he was – they were strewn all over his bed, barely had space to put down his tray.’

Above them comes the clang of the doorbell. As one, they look to the beamed ceiling, then at each other.

‘Another delivery, perhaps?’

Cook shakes her head. ‘No, miss. I have everything here.’

The bell rings again.

‘Maybe it’s one of the men from the gatehouse.’

‘I already sent Aled down with a basket.’

Linette looks at the servants. Enaid holds the cup and saucer in one hand, the teapot in the other; Cadoc’s arms are full with a silver serving platter, half-polished. Mrs Phillips is in the process of filling Lady Gwen’s lunch tray and at the far end of the table Angharad brandishes her bloody knife above the hare. None are in a position to leave their stations. Linette wipes her hands on a cloth.

‘I’ll go.’

It takes her a full minute to reach the vestibule in which the visitor pulls the bell again, and when Linette opens the door she means to scold them for their impatience, but when she sees who it is her words catch in her throat.

On the threshold stands Rowena Carew. She is dressed in a pretty walking dress, hair coiled neatly beneath a prim straw bonnet, and the sight of her is enough to ruin Linette’s short-lived peace.

‘Miss Tresilian,’ the young woman says quietly, amber eyes shadowed by the rim of her bonnet. ‘I am very sorry to disturb. But might I speak with Dr Talbot?’