CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Late afternoon inched into night. By ten o’clock four more miners were recovered from the cavern, leaving another four yet to be found. The atmosphere had been solemn, the air filled with such fearful melancholy that Linette could almost taste it, and it was not until one in the morning that she and Henry returned to Plas Helyg. On Linette’s invitation Miss Carew accompanied them – it was not right, Henry said, to let her walk up to Moelfre alone at such an hour – and after all she had done to assist them that day, Linette felt it uncharitable to refuse.

Sleep, though, was an elusive promise. Ink blue turned to steel grey as dawn crept up over the mountains, and the sun had barely risen as Linette and Henry made their way back up to the mine, the servants’ trap in tow. Again Linette gave succour where she could, while Miss Carew tended to those possessing more superficial cuts and grazes. To her dismay Dr Beddoe did not come, the letter Linette hastily wrote the day before pleading for help ignored, and Henry was, in the main, left to deal with the miners by himself.

At nine, young Alwyn – Arthur Lloyd’s lad – was found. Cold and hungry, a broken rib, yet, miraculously, otherwise unscathed. It gave Linette hope the others would be found in no worse a condition.

But no such luck was to be had.

She and Miss Carew were serving refreshments the moment the shouts came some hours later. Heart in her mouth Linette had rushed to the cavern entrance where Henry was tying off a stitch on the knee of one of the donkeys. Below, the darkness within the tunnels flickered with candlelight, getting brighter and brighter as footsteps splashed noisily in puddles on the path. ‘ Doctor, dewch ar frys! ’ called one of the men. ‘ Rydyn ni wedi dod o hyd iddyn nhw! ’ shouted another, and Linette swallowed hard.

Doctor, come quickly. We have found them.

The wait for Henry to return was torturous. Minutes passed in which the premonition in the pit of her stomach clenched so painfully Linette felt sure she would soon be sick. Indeed, she almost was when the bodies were finally brought up on their meagre pallets. All were covered with thick mine dust, could be mistaken for stone statues had it not been for the fact that Linette knew who they were.

The first body was a man of indeterminable age, whiskers caked with dried blood; his mouth fell oddly, teeth missing, tongue bitten near in half. The next was no more than a year or two older than Henry. Punctured lungs, he told her softly with a sad shake of the head, an agonising way to die. But the last … A boy of thirteen. There was no question of what killed him; his skull had been crushed, an ugly pit in the left side of his head the size of a fist.

Pedr and Hywel. Afan.

One of the other miners covered the bodies with a blanket, wiped his eyes with the cuff of his dirty sleeve. For a long moment neither Henry nor Linette spoke, the horror of it all too poignant.

‘Where were they found?’ she managed at last.

‘That final cavern,’ Henry replied, a haunted expression on his face, and Linette sucked in her breath.

Two men and a boy.

Two red, one blue .

Did Henry remember what he saw down there that day? Those strange flickering lights?

Both Linette and Henry tried to delay the welcome dinner that evening, but Julian would not hear of it. Their argument – that such a meal would be in bad taste under the circumstances – fell on deaf ears. Would you have the servants’ efforts go to waste? her cousin lectured, and to that she had no answer. Now, standing in the vestibule to await their guests, Linette shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.

Her skin itches, her ribs hurt. Linette sighs, twists her shoulder, tries to unpick the dress from her armpit. It is the pretty full-skirted affair of green silk which Julian gave her for her birthday, but she hates it – why suffer so, when she has the means to be comfortable in her father’s old clothes? But Julian, says he, will not have it. Not tonight.

Tonight, he says, is special.

Next to her he is everything elegant, from his coiled black hair to his neat slippers, his formal suit of satin to the cloying cologne that sticks in Linette’s nostrils. He appears completely at ease, embodies perfectly the lord of the manor, but then, Julian is in his element in formal situations. He dines with the upper echelons of society, drinks with politicians, the cream of the beau monde . He need not suffer people he does not like, nor need he wear a too-tight corset of whalebone and stockings that pinch behind his knees. It is just as Linette moves to prise the offending garment from her leg that Julian whips around sharply, his patience clearly at fray.

‘Please stop fidgeting,’ he snaps.

‘Forgive me, Cousin,’ Linette bites out. ‘But you know I am not used to wearing a dress.’

He looks at her then, slides a considering gaze up and down her figure, before raising it to the full-bloomed gorse flower Enaid has placed in her pomaded hair.

‘A pity, you know, considering you can look rather lovely when you make the effort.’ Julian pushes a finger beneath her chin to raise it, and Linette stiffens. ‘Yes,’ he murmurs. ‘A great pity indeed.’ He releases her then, looks toward the staircase. ‘Where’s our guest of honour? I’ll be most put out if he is late to his own dinner.’

As if on cue Henry appears at the top of the stairs, Merlin at his heels. Tall and handsome in a simple yet elegant suit of fine black wool, Henry is concentrating on taking one step after the other so he might not trip, but halfway down he looks up. The polite smile on his face slips as he takes Linette in.

She feels embarrassed, ashamed. Henry has only ever seen her wearing old unflattering garments, garments in which Linette feels completely at ease, but this attire makes her feel like a trussed-up doll, a sham of herself. A fraudulent fool.

Henry comes to stand in front of them, bows stiffly in greeting.

‘Good evening.’ He nods politely at Julian, then looks to Linette. For a moment he appears not to know what to say. ‘You look …’ Henry ducks his head, catching himself. ‘Forgive me, Linette. I’m not used to seeing you like this.’

‘I was just saying so myself,’ Julian says. ‘Is she not a picture?’

‘She is indeed,’ Henry replies softly.

Linette flushes in her discomfit. ‘Where is Miss Carew?’ she asks to change the subject, and this time it is Henry who colours, a soft shot of pink staining the high plane of his cheekbones.

‘She returned home to change,’ he says. ‘It was good of you, sir, to invite her.’

Julian inclines his head. ‘Under the circumstances I felt it only proper. I’m not ignorant of the fact that she has been invaluable help to you both at the mine. Indeed, adding one more to the party was no hardship.’

The doorbell jangles loudly on its pull.

‘Ah!’ Julian exclaims, taps his cane. ‘The first of our guests.’

Over Merlin’s shrill barks Linette’s nerves tighten like harp strings. She is dreading tonight’s enforced formality, the tedious company she knows she will keep, the condescension, the veiled insults. Cadoc, who has been waiting quietly beside the fire, steps forward to open the door.

‘Sir John Selwyn, Lady Elizabeth Selwyn,’ he announces needlessly, and Julian moves forward to shake the former’s hand.

‘Ah, my good fellow, welcome. I’m very pleased to see you.’

‘A pleasure, a pleasure!’ Sir John booms, crossing onto the flagstones, trailing gravel. ‘The roads are dry for which I am grateful. All that rain we had, I was sure the way would be flooded.’ He pushes his hat into Cadoc’s waiting hands without a glance. ‘We feared we’d have to send our apologies, did we not, Liza?’

Lady Selwyn sweeps through into the vestibule, peeling finely embroidered travelling gloves from her fingers one by one, looking around her with a vague kind of interest.

‘Yet here we are,’ she says as Julian bends to kiss her hand. ‘I hope we’ve not kept you waiting.’

‘Certainly not,’ Julian demurs. ‘You’re the first to arrive.’

‘Capital, capital!’ Sir John claps, squirrel eyes pin-bright.

He is a man of average height and average build, but there is something of the blathering dandy about him, Linette has always found, and tonight is no different – he is dressed in a suit of navy pinstripe, the elaborately embroidered waistcoat too tight for his paunch. Sir John wears a dove-grey coiled wig in the French style, silver buckles on his shoes, and is as far a cry from a Welsh country squire as he could possibly be. Presently, he is looking at Henry with an expression of abject fascination on his face.

‘And this is Penhelyg’s new doctor,’ he says, pumping Henry’s hand with more force than is entirely necessary. ‘ What a pleasure!’

Angharad appears behind them, divesting Lady Selwyn of her cloak and gloves, and as she does Sir John’s gaze shifts to Linette, then back again.

‘Do you know you’re both exactly the same height?’

At her husband’s side, Lady Selwyn’s lips stretch into an insincere smile.

‘Linette, my dear. How charming you look,’ she says, and Linette suppresses a sigh.

So, it begins.

Over the years she has learnt to play her part, to curtsey and smile and pretend Lady Selwyn’s condescending comments do not bother her when they do; under Julian’s watchful gaze Linette finds herself politely tilting her head in thanks without missing a beat.

Lady Selwyn feigns a gasp. ‘Oh! You have flowers in your hair. What are they?’

‘Gorse, madam.’

‘How quaint ! I,’ she says, tapping her own towering black hair that can be none other than a wig, ‘prefer something a little more regal. Citrine and diamonds, my dear. Are they not magnificent?’

Linette regards them. The jewels are pinned up high on the side of the wig, large baubles with dangling pear-shaped drops which – if Lady Selwyn were to move her head with any force – Linette is sure would fall off. The colour of champagne and starlight, they match perfectly the mustard-gold silk of her dress, the shining needlework on its fine hem.

‘Very beautiful, Lady Selwyn.’

Linette’s voice is flat, but the older woman’s satisfaction is nevertheless apparent.

‘A gift from my husband. He is always so unfailing generous.’

Henry clears his throat. ‘You’re very privileged indeed to receive such gifts, and I must say they suit you admirably. But if you’ll forgive me, madam, I think flowers suit Linette far more than jewels ever could.’

Lady Selwyn’s satisfied smile slips from her lips. Then, quite unexpectedly, she trills with laughter.

‘La! Oh, Sir Henry, you tease. Still, I shall not be offended.’

‘Indeed you shall not,’ her husband says, taking her hand.

He raises it to his lips. Linette sucks in her breath. Henry’s gaze sharpens too on their clasped fingers, the gold rings that shine there. The pointed look shared between them is interrupted when the bell chimes again, a discordant jangle. When Cadoc opens the door once more it is to find Lord Pennant and his wife, Lady Anne, on the other side.

Pleasantries are exchanged. The butler distributes small glasses of wine from a gilt tray, and Henry is pulled from her side, leaving Linette to suffer the indignities of the older women. They attempt many times to draw her in with carefully aimed barbs and back-handed insults – how clever you are to read so much , how patient you must be to converse with farmers – but Linette simply cannot bring herself to pretend not to understand them. Instead she keeps her head low, acts meekly as Julian would wish her to, all the while striving to keep the boredom from her face. Both ladies know perfectly well that Linette does not share their interests or a knowledge of their social circle – indeed, they have ceased trying to include Linette in their discussions and moved on to news out of London: the scandal of an earl’s inappropriate relationship with his niece, the imprisonment of a Haymarket theatre manager for not paying his debts, the death of a much-respected viscount at the hands of a Borough ‘butcher’ in December last year … Linette watches them with a look that feigns a politeness she does not feel.

Neither woman can be much older than Gwen Tresilian, but each wears her age differently. Lady Pennant is a short, squat woman in a too-tight plum-coloured dress who has allowed her penchant for sweetmeats to get the better of her; her teeth are bad, her skin is dry, the small scars left by a cluster of spots on her cheeks ill-disguised by the powder she wears. Lady Selwyn’s skin is powderless; her face is smooth and pale, her age only apparent from the fine lines about her eyes and mouth and neck. But her paleness is accentuated by the black wig she wears, the rouge she has painted on her lips. She was, Linette remembers, attractive once in a darkly seductive way, but now her figure – which was at one time willowy – is gaunt.

The doorbell rings again, and Cadoc admits the last of the party: Mr Lambeth, Dr Beddoe, and at their heels Miss Carew and the Reverend Mr Owain Dee. A look of relief crosses Henry’s face and Linette envies him in that moment, that he should have found friendship outside of Plas Helyg where she could not. Merlin, excitable with so many new people in his midst, trots over to Lady Pennant, tail wagging wildly, snuffles loudly at her skirts. That lady swings them almost violently out of the way, wrinkles her powdered nose in distaste.

‘Can’t this ghastly animal be removed? I have no wish to smell like dog at the dinner table.’

Linette settles on Lady Pennant a scowl, curbs the desire to say it would make not one jot of difference, but Julian clicks his fingers, a short sharp snap that echoes loudly in the vestibule.

‘Take it, Powell,’ her cousin says.

‘Yes, sir.’

Cadoc leans down, grasps the lurcher by the scruff of his neck. Merlin looks soulfully at Linette, brown eyes large. Then the butler leads him away, and all the while the dog looks back at her and Henry until the door to the servants’ quarters shuts behind him.

‘Well, then,’ Julian says, a broad smile upon his pale face. ‘Now we’re all here, shall we go through?’