CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Julian’s guests left at noon. Linette watched them from the small dragon window of her bedroom, half-hidden behind a curtain. She watched through a red stained-glass wing as the carriages were brought round from the stables, watched as farewells were exchanged during which Lady Anne leant a little too close into Julian’s polite embrace, the bodice of her travelling cambric straining hard against his waistcoat. Linette watched as he helped her into the Pennants’ carriage, Lord Pennant pulling his squat figure up after her, and then Mr Lambeth – clearly still foxed from whatever he imbibed after dinner – as he climbed up after him. Sir John entered his own carriage with ungainly movements, followed pertly by that hateful Dr Beddoe, but Selwyn’s wife was altogether more serene. She dipped her knees in a perfectly executed curtsey, allowed Julian to kiss and linger over her gloved hand. Then she placed it on the carriage’s doorway, turned in the direction of the house, her gaze resting on the topmost window of Linette’s bedroom. Too slow to hide, Linette met that cold gaze of Lady Selwyn’s head on. Then, as if she still thought the whole matter a joke, the lady smiled in that sardonic way of hers which Linette has grown so thoroughly to loathe, and raised her hand in a small mocking wave.

Linette could only grip the curtain so hard that it pulled free from one of its rings. The sound caused a rook to burst upward from the slate overhang with a loud discordant caw , and the shock of it broke the moment. By the time Linette looked down to the drive again, Lady Selwyn had climbed into the carriage.

Within moments, all of them had gone.

Now, lying once more on her bed, Linette pinches her eyes shut and tries to stem the ache behind them. She has not slept. Could not. All she could think of was her mother, of Julian, of Enaid’s betrayal. At one point Linette heard a soft knock on the door and Enaid’s frail voice sound through the panelled wood, but she did not have the energy to respond.

It was simply all too much.

In the space of twelve hours everything she knew – or thought she knew – about her life has changed. Until now Linette assumed her mother’s condition was hereditary, a canker present from birth; that she has been weak and fragile in both mind and body, always, but her father’s death affected her so deeply there had been no recovering from it. Now, to learn Lady Gwen has been made this way and given tinctures to keep her so under Julian’s orders, is something Linette cannot comprehend. And Enaid knew. She knew!

Linette turns over, presses her face into the pillow.

She could confront Julian, of course, ask him why he ordered her to do such a thing, but after dinner last night, what use would it be? It would simply garner more dismissals, more lies.

No, Linette would get nothing from him now.

She wonders where Henry is. When he knocked at her door earlier she was too wretched to respond. Perhaps, Linette thinks, he is with Miss Carew and the reverend.

Miss Rowena Carew. Mr Owain Dee. Did Linette not deserve to know Henry’s suspicions? Did she not have a right above them? Henry suspected long before the collapse at the mine, and evidently his qualms were confirmed the day Miss Carew came to call upon him.

It was cruel, unfair. Can she truly trust no one?

Plas Helyg’s old floorboards creak. A sharp breeze whips the air, making the trees outside sigh like forlorn maidens. Linette turns her face to the window, marks the mackerel sky. She should go and see her mother. She longs to see her mother, but Enaid will undoubtedly be with her and she cannot bear to see the housekeeper, not yet. But she cannot continue to lie here and let bitter thoughts drown her in wasted hours.

She simply must get out of this room!

A walk, Linette thinks as she dresses, and in consideration of the weather that looks wholly unfitting for June shrugs into one of her father’s old hunting coats. She pulls on her worn walking boots, treads carelessly over the green silk gown she ripped from her body in anguish the night before. A sharp crack sounds as her heel presses down into a bone of the corset, and with a little smile of vindictive pleasure, Linette imagines it to be Julian’s spine.

Linette follows the footpath down to the valley west of Plas Helyg’s lands. On a low knoll she comes to a stop, sinks cross-legged onto the ground amongst slug trails that glisten on the grass like silken thread. The copper mine is a bank of ugly stone, but the distant mountains behind it are starkly green against the sky, and rippling clouds weave above Yr Wyddfa like spun wool. Linette takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, smells on the air that all too-familiar scent of gorse and grass, the sweet pungency of manure, a hint of salty sea.

But still her heart thumps so wildly she fears she might choke on it. All Linette has are questions. All she has are secrets, with no means of discovering the truth of them. They tumble over themselves like butterflies trapped in a bell jar – Julian, her mother, Enaid, Dr Evans, Henry – so many of them, all with different-coloured wings. For minutes she sits staring into the valley before lying down on the grassy knoll, the ground warm against her cheek, and at length her heart begins to slow to a calm, steady beat …

‘Miss Tresilian?’

Linette opens her eyes, realises with a start that the sun has moved far across the sky; there is a crispness in the air which denotes the afternoon’s shift to early evening and, indeed, shadows have lengthened across the valley. Blearily Linette leans on her elbow, looks up to find Rowena Carew standing above her.

Unbidden, a lump forms in her throat. She feels the hot swell of tears at her eyelids and angrily brushes them away.

‘Still here, I see,’ she mutters.

A pause. Awkward. Shy.

‘Might I sit?’

‘If you must.’

The younger woman hesitates in the face of Linette’s cold response, then gathers her skirts, settles down on the grass, leaving a polite distance between them. In silence they watch the clouds shift lazily across the sky.

‘You disapprove of me,’ Miss Carew says eventually.

Linette picks at a blade of grass.

‘In truth I do not know what to think of you. You’ve ingratiated yourself into my life and appear to know more of it than I do myself. Can you blame me for being wary?’

‘I cannot,’ Miss Carew replies. ‘I should feel the same.’

Linette nods, does not know what else to say. None of this, she grudgingly admits to herself, is Miss Carew’s fault.

The sun appears from behind the great bank of cloud, piercing a patch of grass on the valley floor, and together they watch it – its single golden beam – until it disappears. Miss Carew tucks her chin under her knees.

‘My mother died when I was a young girl. My father had suffered some misfortune, drove himself to drink.’ Miss Carew pauses. ‘He used to beat her. For years, my father ruled with his fist until she could stand it no longer.’

Linette stares. ‘What happened?’

‘She hanged herself.’

‘I … I’m so sorry.’

‘Yes,’ Miss Carew says, as if she had divulged nothing more interesting than the weather, ‘it was rather terrible. It’s a dreadful thing for a child to grow up without a mother. But at least, in some way, you had someone to love you in the absence of yours.’

Enaid’s name hovers between them. Linette feels her stomach twist.

‘She lied to me,’ Linette whispers. ‘Is that love?’

‘Is it not?’ Miss Carew counters, finally turning to look at her. ‘You and I both witnessed your mother’s fit last night. She is clearly a danger when she’s like that. I see that bruise on your jaw.’ Involuntarily Linette touches it. She has forgotten it is there. ‘Perhaps it isn’t right to keep her this way,’ Miss Carew continues, ‘but I think your Enaid did what she did out of love. To protect your mother. To protect you. To help you both find some measure of peace.’

Linette is silent a moment, her thoughts tangled like a fly caught in a web. Some measure of peace . Is that what she has here at Plas Helyg? Peace? It feels to her more like a kind of purgatory. As much as she loves her home, not once has Linette ever felt at peace in it.

Not once.

‘The tincture she gives my mother,’ Linette says quietly. ‘Henry said it would have killed her eventually?’

A pause. ‘She need not take any more. Henry has confiscated them.’

‘But there is no telling how much damage has already been done, is there?’

Miss Carew hesitates again. ‘It’s quite possible that your mother’s life has been shortened as a consequence. All you can do is find a way to cherish what time you have left.’

Linette sucks in her breath, the pain with it. What state will her mother be left in without the tincture keeping her bound? What manner of woman will remain? Linette is under no illusion that Gwen Tresilian will suddenly turn into a loving mother, that she will be, after such prolonged mistreatment, normal . Again she touches the bruise on her cheek. It is – and here, she fights down a hysterical laugh – the only time her mother has ever touched Linette of her own volition.

‘I have something for that, if you’ll permit?’ Miss Carew reaches for a small reticule which hangs from her wrist. ‘I always carry some herbs with me. Just in case. Sit up.’

Linette does as she is told while Miss Carew removes from her reticule a small hessian pouch, and from within that a selection of leaves. She watches as Miss Carew pinches her bottom lip with her one crooked incisor before selecting a limp one reminiscent of a miniature oak leaf. She crushes it between her fingers then looks at Linette, amber eyes bright in the low sun.

‘May I?’

Linette nods. She leans in.

‘Feverfew,’ Miss Carew murmurs. ‘Better of course mixed with the juices of ribwort and sage, but this will ease the tenderness for now.’

Linette’s eyes sting with tears. Such kindness, from a woman she barely knows. From a woman she has treated with such cool disdain.

They worked well together at the mine, she remembers, and Linette was grateful for Miss Carew’s calming presence. As the younger woman rubs the sap into Linette’s skin with short and tender strokes, she remembers too how gentle Miss Carew had been administering to the miners’ more superficial wounds, and she did not charge them a single penny for her troubles.

Yes, Miss Carew is kind. She cares about the villagers. Truly cares. If anything might commend a person to Linette, it is that. How lonely she must be, alone in her cottage up in the valley. Lonely, just like her.

All this time, Rowena Carew might have been a friend.

‘Thank you,’ Linette whispers.

‘You’re welcome.’

They are sitting so close their faces are only inches apart, Miss Carew’s fingers lingering gently on her chin. The two women look at each other, grey-green meeting amber-brown. Linette’s mouth grows dry. Her breath hitches. She can count every single freckle on Miss Carew’s finely turned nose …

Behind them there comes a loud bark and quickly Linette pulls away, confused at the wild fluttering of her pulse. She turns to see Merlin bounding from the trees, Henry following close behind.

‘There you are,’ he says, relief evident on his tired face. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’