CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY

It has been some time since Linette has seen the dining room look like this. Candles have been placed in every sconce on the wall so it seems as though the fading damask wallpaper glows from within, and the finest of Plas Helyg’s porcelain has been laid out in all its splendour, the silverware shining brightly in the light of the setting sun that streams orange through the window. The table has been expanded to accommodate the extra guests, piled with so many dishes that the crisp white tablecloth can barely be seen underneath. As Linette enters on Julian’s arm she must commend Mrs Phillips’ efforts. Carrot soup, leek pie, sparagrass, and a medley of vegetables are arranged at the head of the table, whilst at the other end sit plates of oyster loaves, stewed haddock and potted lobster. In the middle are dishes of roast mutton, mumbled hare, and dotted between them all a selection of jams and jellies, pickles and preserves. The crowning dish, however, is one of Plas Helyg’s hens – it has been placed on a bed of its silken black feathers, roasted skin glistening crisp and golden in the candlelight.

‘Oh, Julian,’ Lady Pennant says, eyes bulging greedily, the curls of her full-bodied wig bobbing. It is an unusual colour of grizzle, with what appears to be an odd shade of cherry-red powdered on top. Behind her, Cadoc clears his throat.

‘Do you wish me to serve the soup, my lord?’

‘Yes,’ Julian replies – short, clipped. ‘Before it grows cold.’

‘Very good,’ comes the reply, and the butler proceeds to ladle the soup into their waiting bowls.

There are eleven seated at the table. At the head sits Julian, on his left Linette; next to her Mr Dee, followed by Lady Selwyn, Lord Pennant and Mr Lambeth. On Julian’s right (sitting far too close for propriety) is Lady Pennant. Then comes Henry, with Miss Carew, Sir John and Dr Beddoe taking the remaining seats.

Linette looks at the older doctor as he flicks his napkin across his lap. Would he really have killed Wynn Evans for money, as Henry intimated? He scarce looks as though he needs it. His wig is still crisply white with no signs of yellowing, and his gilt-buttoned coat expensively tailored. What need does he have for the living here at Penhelyg? Indeed, considering he did not attend to the miners when Linette requested his presence, Dr Beddoe could scarce wish for it.

‘A toast,’ her cousin says, raising his glass of wine. His guests follow suit, and Linette takes the opportunity then to mark their hands.

Each and every one of them – except for Reverend Dee and Miss Carew – wears a gold signet ring.

‘I am most pleased to welcome our new doctor to Penhelyg,’ says Julian now, his tenor grave and resonant. ‘Your presence here has been long-desired, and I am sure you’ll bring us all very good fortune indeed. To Henry.’

‘To Henry,’ the guests echo.

Henry dips his head awkwardly in appreciation. The others drink. Linette frowns into her glass. Something about the wording of the toast rankles, but why she cannot put her finger on.

Cadoc finishes serving the soup, leaves the room. The party dip their spoons.

‘Penhelyg must be,’ Sir John says, leaning over his bowl to address Henry further down the table, ‘a great change from what you are used to in London.’

Politely Henry turns his head. ‘Yes, a very great change.’

‘I understand you taught?’

‘I did.’

‘And what was your specialism?’

‘I taught many subjects, lecturing on how to set broken bones, amputate limbs. Remove tumours, that sort of thing.’ His voice wavers at the last, and Linette knows he is thinking of the patient he lost.

‘Most impressive,’ Lord Pennant says.

‘Most excellent, indeed,’ follows Sir John, and next to him, Dr Beddoe sniffs loudly. With a chuckle his employer pats his shoulder. ‘But you are, like my own good doctor here, so I understand, acting as physician not just for Penhelyg but the household too?’

The air shifts; as one, the party look to the conspicuously empty chair at the far end of the table, and Linette braces herself for the inevitable words of false pity.

‘How is dear Gwen?’ Lord Pennant asks. He smiles, frog-like, rubs the bezel of his ring. ‘You know, Dr Talbot, that she and Linette’s father Hugh were dearest friends of ours. We used to all be very close.’

Linette stills her spoon. A vision of fleshy bodies appears unbidden in her mind’s eye. She swallows, turns her face.

‘ Very close,’ Lady Pennant adds. ‘It grieves me she never recovered from Hugh’s loss. She was so full of spirit! So uncommonly beautiful. But she has lost her bloom – her mind quite, quite gone.’

‘Indeed, such a shame about poor Gwen,’ Lady Selwyn echoes, dipping her spoon into her bowl. ‘She did love a party. What larks we had together in London! I assume, doctor, you’re doing all you can for her?’

Henry shares a brief look with Miss Carew. The exchange is fast, bare above a second, and Linette would have missed it had she not been sitting opposite them. Again, her insides quail but this time for a different reason. Her grip tightens on her spoon. Is the secret they share to do with her mother ?

‘For now, yes,’ Henry says. ‘It is a complicated case.’

‘Complicated?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot discuss the treatment of my patients. Discretion, you understand.’

Lady Selwyn tilts her head. The jewels in her wig gleam. ‘But of course.’

The group lapse into momentary silence, in which the only sounds are the tinks of spoon against bowl and loud unpleasant slurps.

Lady Pennant shifts in her seat, its spindle legs creaking.

‘I’ve heard of some healing springs near Aberystwyth, much like those in Hampstead and Bath. Would those help her condition? I hear a great many positive things about the cure.’ She leans conspiratorially across the table at Lady Selwyn. ‘The Duchess of Devonshire took the waters last year, and I hear it has been to great effect !’

The women titter, and in the wake of it Miss Carew gives a small cough.

‘If I may,’ she says quietly, ‘the waters do nothing for one’s health except leave a sickly taste in the mouth.’

Again, Dr Beddoe sniffs.

‘Now now, Miss Carew,’ he says. ‘This is not the place to share your outdated methods.’

He looks about the table, a sneer etched across his face, and Miss Carew flinches as if struck. Henry’s jaw tightens. If they were not in polite company, Linette is quite sure he would strike the man.

‘I must say,’ says Henry with narrowed eyes, ‘Miss Carew’s expertise has been extremely helpful these past two days up at the mine.’

The barb does not go unnoticed by Linette, but Dr Beddoe diligently keeps his gaze fixed upon his plate.

‘Herbal remedies,’ Miss Carew says now, cheeks flushed, ‘cannot always compete with more modern treatments, but many plants have curative properties.’

‘Such as?’ Mr Lambeth, this.

She lowers her spoon.

‘Such as chickweed. I used a salve containing it on the miners who had only mild cuts and grazes. It’s very effective at reducing inflammation and itching.’

‘But surely it’s all in the mind?’

‘Not at all, Mr Lambeth. I’ve used the treatment often and with great success.’ Here Miss Carew hesitates. ‘But I admit that there are those who do believe plants have a spiritual use.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, chickweed is also thought to aid in the strengthening of relationships and family bonds. Mistletoe is considered a promoter of good fortune, sage enhances spiritual awakening, dandelions cleanse away impurities, and garlic has been known to ward off bad spirits. Maybe these measures are all, as you say, in the mind, but people claim they work. Perhaps believing they work is all that matters.’

Linette said something similar to Henry once. It is gratifying, she thinks, that there is at least one woman at this table she can share an opinion with.

‘What of trees?’ Mr Dee says, clasping his hands together in an upside-down basket. ‘Do they hold the same power as plants? There are an awful lot of yew trees in the churchyard, you see; I’ve tried digging them up many times over the years – their roots are awfully bothersome and interfere with the graves. I always had the notion they were thwarting me on purpose. Does that have any significance?’

Miss Carew dabs her mouth with her napkin. ‘Yew is often referred to as the Immortal Tree, for they are steadfast and hard to kill, as you’ve found. They are synonymous with longevity and resurrection.’

Henry is looking thoughtfully at Linette. ‘I’ve been told rowan is the tree of enchantment.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘What of gorse?’

Linette stills, swallows the last of her soup. She raises her eyes to meet his. He stares right back.

‘Gorse? It is a tree for protection, to guard against evil intentions.’ Miss Carew hesitates. ‘Some say it wards off demonic spirits.’

The soup is finished. As if on cue Cadoc enters to clear the bowls, leaving the party to help themselves to the remaining dishes. Lady Pennant wastes no time in reaching for a slice of roast mutton as the door swings shut behind him.

‘Demonic spirits,’ Julian murmurs, filling his wine glass to the top. ‘How interesting.’

‘But not to be taken lightly,’ says Mr Dee. ‘The Devil and his demons are to be feared.’

‘Are they now?’

‘Certainly. As God has angels do His bidding, so the Devil has demons to do his.’

‘Bidding?’ Miss Carew asks.

‘ Ie ,’ the reverend replies, blinking in earnest. ‘Demons are fallen angels with a mission to promote sin, induce temptations or frighten us, to do anything that will keep us away from the light of God. Demons torment people through possessing them or by provoking visions that induce them to sin with only the merest whisper. They tempt with promises of wealth and status, of bestowing the heart’s greatest desires, and it depends on which demon one communes with as to the reward. As the Bible says, “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”’

The light shifts in the room. Outside, the dusk casts purple patterns in the sky. Soon, the lengthening twilight will turn the sky as black as pitch. Julian lounges back in his chair, teases the folds of his cravat. Lady Pennant reaches for her fan, waves it so hard the curls of her wig ruffle.

‘I suppose, vicar,’ Mr Lambeth says, ‘a man such as yourself would take great heed in such things. But it is my opinion that the villagers here too often mix up their Christian beliefs with their own little folk tales. Leaving offerings for their mine creatures and painting their doors white, for instance. It is all too absurd.’ He turns to Henry with a sneer. ‘For a man of scientific principles, you must find such things abhorrent.’

Henry spares Linette an apologetic glance. ‘I confess I set no store in them.’

‘You are familiar with them though?’ Sir John asks, poised over a slice of oyster loaf.

‘Linette had me read a book of Welsh folklore, sir. To aid in my understanding of the language.’

‘And you don’t,’ Lady Selwyn ventures, ‘even in some small measure, believe the tales?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What of the tylwyth teg ?’

‘Nonsense.’

‘The Lady of the Lake?’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘Dragons?’ Miss Carew whispers.

‘The stuff of fairy tales,’ Henry replies softly, indulgent almost.

‘And what of the tolaeth ?’ asks Lady Pennant, looking very much as if she is enjoying this absurd back-and-forth and here Henry hesitates, lowers his fork.

‘What are the tolaeth ?’

Linette’s pulse thrums heavily in her neck.

‘The tolaeth are omens of death,’ she provides softly. ‘There are many different kinds, but the most common are corpse candles.’

Henry frowns. ‘Corpse candles?’

‘If one were to see a candle flame suspended in mid-air,’ Linette explains, ‘then it means a death is imminent. It could be your own or someone else’s, but if a canwyll corph is seen then the outcome is always the same. Someone is fated to die.’

Henry shakes his head with a wry smile. ‘I’m sorry, Linette, but you know I cannot believe in any of it. Not fay folk, ladies of lakes or stone women. Or corpse candles.’

The tips of Mr Dee’s fingers dance together as if he is composing a psalm in his head.

‘My dear boy, just because you do not believe does not mean they are not real. I’ve seen a corpse candle myself.’

Henry blinks. ‘You have?’

‘Once, many years ago. Darkest red it was, a large flame that bobbed along the road before me as I journeyed home from the tavern. Three days later, my father died.’

‘The tavern?’ Lady Pennant laughs. ‘Are you sure, vicar, you had not imbibed too much?’

‘No indeed, madam, for I only ever partake of one cup of cwrw . I assure you, I still had my wits about me.’

‘Then you must have seen something else,’ Henry says. ‘Candle flames are not red.’

‘Neither are they blue or white, but a corpse candle is a very different thing.’

Henry pales, goes very still.

‘I do not understand.’

Mr Dee smiles patiently. ‘The colour of the flame denotes the gender; red represents a man, white a woman, blue for a child. One for each impending death.’

Henry looks then to Linette. Two red, one blue .

He knows, then, she thinks. Finally, he sees.

‘Dr Talbot?’ Miss Carew asks. ‘Are you well?’

He does not look well. Linette wonders if he will admit to it, wonders if he will mention the bodies of Pedr, Hywel and Afan. But Henry says nothing, instead forces a smile.

‘Yes. Yes. It’s just fascinating, that’s all.’

‘Fascinating indeed,’ the reverend says. He takes a long sip of wine and licks his lips before continuing. ‘Magic could be considered a kind of science, as yet unexplained. We sometimes use stories of myth and legend to rationalise that which we do not understand – rainbows become a bridge to cross realms, earthquakes are put down to the thrashings of fighting beasts, the strange sounds of the forest are considered to be the hauntings of lost spirits. Such stories help us make sense of strange phenomena.’

‘Is that so?’ Lady Pennant whispers, and Mr Dee nods vigorously.

‘Take Harlech, for instance. Some years ago a blue mist rose from the marshes causing a fire that destroyed the barns and the hayricks. Soon the grasslands withered, the crops failed. Some believed that mist to be ghost lights. There may well be a scientific explanation but such ancient stories persist in many forms. Heroes battling giants have become a metaphor for Christian saints besting the Devil, whereas in other cultures another belief might be held. But of course,’ the vicar adds, ‘they could still be as real as you or I. Science might not have anything to do with it at all.’

The last of the sun disappears behind the towering trees outside, and the dining room shifts into flame-lit shadow. Julian coughs throatily into his napkin. This time, Linette is sure she sees blood on its white hem.

‘I commend your thinking, vicar,’ he says, ‘that science and magic can be considered the same entity depending on the conviction of the individual, but as you know I subscribe to a different philosophy.’

There comes upon the table then a shifting. It is a subtle thing, like when rain clouds edge across the skyline to stamp out the cumulus, and Linette finds herself holding her breath.

‘I would not,’ her cousin continues, ‘ascribe rainbows to bridges or earthquakes to beasts, nor would I consider magic an unexplained science. I rather subscribe to the notion that science and arcane magic are two very real and separate things.’ Julian twists his ring. ‘As you’re aware I’ve collected many books over the years that speak of ancient scientific arts and spiritual awakening, texts which offer a more nuanced and broader view of the world and its many mysteries. Henry and I spoke of it a few days ago, did we not?’

Linette looks sharply at him. He meets her gaze, does not look away, and again she is conscious of what secrets he keeps. What else is Linette not privy to? Henry offers a tight-lipped smile.

‘You mentioned alchemy, but I did not realise you considered it to be magic.’

‘Nor do I. I consider alchemy a science. But if that science were to combine with the mystical knowledge the ancients held, well. Think what might be achieved. Such a powerful combination of the two has not yet been seen.’

Mr Dee frowns deeply at him. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I do not understand.’

‘Gold,’ Julian says softly, ‘is the world’s most precious commodity, is it not?’

He gestures to a space behind him, at nothing in particular it would seem, but Linette sucks in her breath, realising in that instance precisely what he is referring to. A piece of stone stored within a glass cabinet, the shining yellow flecks that sparkle within it …

‘Think of the possibilities. Slate to copper, copper to gold. The world at one’s feet. This is why we must keep up our work in the mines, despite its dangers.’

Linette stares. Expansion, investment; that is what Lord Pennant said. Is this what he meant? Julian is not looking for gold, then, but a fresh vein of copper. Copper to turn, somehow, into gold, and a fissure of fury spindles up her spine.

‘My God, Cousin,’ Linette breathes. ‘Three people are dead, many others injured. Some have been maimed for life. Was that all for this ?’

Her ribs hurt against the corset, chest tight in its laces. Julian merely regards her over his wine glass, his expression a perfect blank.

‘I fear,’ he says softly, ‘that the conversation might be taking an unfortunate turn. Come, Linette,’ and here he smiles in that way of his she has grown to hate. ‘Let us not ruin this evening by quarrelling. This is a night of celebration.’