CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

On his return from the vicar’s cottage he wrote to Francis as Mr Dee suggested, but as to the good it will do, Henry has little confidence. What the reverend said is true – what has occurred here is too far beyond the realms of reality. Still, Henry thought as he passed the letter to Cadoc Powell, it is worth a try. Francis surely cannot dismiss his claim so readily, not after all he has done for him in the past.

‘So,’ Linette says now, staring at Henry across her bowl of uneaten soup. ‘Mr Dee can suggest nothing?’

A light supper has been served for Henry, Linette and Rowena, but after the events of the day neither one of them is in the mood to eat, and the tureen of soup Mrs Phillips has concocted from the last of the leftovers sits growing cold on the dining-room table.

‘What can he suggest? He too thinks that very little can be done.’

‘Well, we cannot sit here and let them all think they can get away with this!’ Linette pushes her bowl away from her with such force that the soup splashes over the rim onto the tablecloth. ‘Everything Julian has done, everything he means to do … It is diabolical.’

Next to Henry, Rowena presses her napkin to her mouth, pushes her own bowl away with more care. ‘I feel ill,’ she says.

Henry takes her hand. Linette sighs her frustration.

‘Perhaps while we await a reply from your Mr Fielding we could write our depositions. At the very least, then, we’ll have a record of what has occurred. Anything is better than this. Would that help us, do you think?’

‘It might.’

What Henry does not say, is that he suspects this task too will do little good. You’d be accused of libel, Mr Dee told him. Hearsay, conjecture . Besides, after what Lady Gwen told them, can Bow Street even be trusted? A Bow Street official, she said. Still, writing down their accounts of the matter is a better use of their time than wallowing in this state of limbo they have now found themselves in, waiting for something to happen.

Waiting for Julian to act.

Henry shudders. Ritual sacrifice. Ancestral blood. Twins. The bond of two united . It is still too much for him to comprehend. For pity’s sake, how did Julian even expect to carry the deed out? And, of more concern at this juncture, where is Julian? At Lord Pennant’s, would be the obvious answer. Are they preparing, perhaps? He thinks of the others – Pennant’s wife, the Selwyns, Beddoe and Lambeth. There are other things, of course, they could be doing. Henry curls his lip in distaste.

Cadoc Powell, who has just now entered to clear the bowls, is looking at the near-full tureen, their barely touched bowls.

‘Are you not hungry?’ he asks. ‘It is not Mrs Phillips’ best offering, I confess, but—’

‘It’s not the cooking,’ Linette assures, managing a smile. ‘Under the circumstances we just cannot eat. Please, send our apologies.’

‘Of course. I quite understand.’ Powell dips his head, replaces the lid of the tureen. ‘Can I get you anything else? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ He looks between them. Henry, Linette and Rowena shake their heads. ‘Then I shall leave you to your thoughts.’

‘I don’t want to be left to my thoughts,’ Rowena murmurs, when the door closes behind him. ‘My thoughts frighten me.’

‘I am not frightened,’ Linette shoots back. ‘I am angry. I’m so angry I could kill Julian myself.’

The words – said with such bitter hatred – do not shock Henry, but they make him feel uneasy all the same. He sees the darkling look in Linette’s grey-green eyes, a look of dangerous intent. As if to acknowledge her anger the candles flicker in their candelabra, the light of their flames flashing reflections in the silver tureen like fiery tongues. The mantel clock ticks. Henry glances at it. A quarter to ten.

‘It is late,’ he says. ‘It will do us little good torturing ourselves like this. I say we go to bed, make a fresh start of it in the morning.’

In agreement Linette rises from her seat. Merlin, who has been sleeping beneath her feet, scrambles up with her, wagging his tail. He is, Henry thinks wryly, the only happy creature in the room.

In the vestibule Linette looks at Henry, at Rowena clutching her carpet bag, the meagre belongings she brought with her to Plas Helyg for these past two nights.

‘Why don’t you both stay here? Julian will never know. Besides, the reverend did advise—’

‘Safety in numbers,’ Henry says softly, ‘I know. But my things are down at the gatehouse now.’

‘And I need to get home,’ Rowena says softly. ‘Forgive me, but I’d feel safer there than here.’

Linette purses her lips. He lays a hand on her arm.

‘Please do not worry. I shall walk Rowena home and then I’ll lock myself in the gatehouse. I shall be perfectly all right. It’s you I worry for. Will you be all right, alone?’

‘I won’t be alone. Mamma and Enaid are only down the corridor. Cadoc will be downstairs.’ She glances at the lurcher pressing his lean body against her legs. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I shall keep Merlin with me and lock the door.’

‘It would.’

‘Very well.’ Linette nods over his shoulder. ‘Go on, then. Miss Carew is waiting.’

He turns. Rowena stands just outside on the gravel drive, tilting her face to the sky. Her hair is piled prettily atop her head and in the purpling dusk it looks the most delicious shade of auburn. Henry presses the lovespoon in his coat pocket, closer to his heart.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, she is.’

When he turns back it is to find Linette watching Rowena too. There is something strangely haunting about her expression now, a lost expression that makes her look heart-achingly young. When she notices him looking Linette swallows, forces a smile.

‘Goodnight, Henry.’ A pause. ‘Brother.’

Brother. The word makes his chest tighten. So strange to hear her say it, so strange to know that this strong stubborn woman before him is his own flesh and blood. His sister. His twin. He takes Linette’s hands, clasps them in both of his.

‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’

Linette says nothing, does not seem able to. Taken by a sudden surge of affection Henry draws her close, folds her in an awkward embrace. For a long moment she stands stiffly in the circle of his arms until little by little Linette softens, lets herself sink into him. It lasts mere seconds; he feels the shudder of a sob in the tilt of her shoulders and as if ashamed of her weakness Linette pulls away from him, shuts Plas Helyg’s heavy doors, leaving Henry and Rowena alone in the dying light.

He is not sure when the decision was made, if it was in the moment Linette shut the door or when Henry pulled Plas Helyg’s creaking gates apart, but at the end of the driveway both he and Rowena ignored the turn-off into Cwm Nantcol and instead took the path down to the gatehouse.

In silence they walk, the only sound an owl on the hunt, the whisper of leaves in the trees. He should lead her back up through the woods, out into the valley toward Moelfre, but he cannot quite force himself to do it. Rowena is here, alone, beside him willingly, their fingertips grazing softly together, the air between them charged and full of promise. When he puts the key into the gatehouse’s lock, Henry must remind himself to breathe.

It is a different place. Even in the dark he can see the gatehouse is neat and tidy, tastefully furnished. The smell of fresh wood and paint lingers on the air, mellowed by the polish of beeswax. Rowena places the carpet bag on the floor beside a small table at the bottom of the stairs. On it, a candle has been left in its holder next to a tinderbox, and Henry lights it. His reflection surfaces in the new mirror in front of him, and in the dim light his eyes look hollowed out. Behind him, Rowena presses a yawn into her hand.

‘You’re tired,’ he says pointlessly. ‘I should have taken you home.’

‘I am tired. But I …’ She watches him. ‘It felt wrong, somehow, to leave you after everything. I cannot even begin to understand how you must be feeling. Your mother, Julian …’

Something twists in his gut.

‘I’m not quite sure I know myself,’ he tells her reflection. ‘Linette is angry, but I feel nothing except confusion and …’ Henry tries to name what he feels. ‘Loss, I suppose.’

‘Loss?’

‘For a life that was never mine, the life that was and that I can never get back. The life I could have lived if not for Julian.’

She nods. ‘I can appreciate that, to mourn a life that should have been yours. To be denied it.’

He turns from the mirror, hesitantly closes the gap between them.

‘Rowena?’

‘Yes, Henry?’

The sound of his name on her lips thrills him. Before his courage deserts him he takes the lovespoon from his pocket, shyly holds it out to her.

‘I brought this for you. It’s only a small token, but I wanted to show you … to say …’

His nerves trip over his tongue and he cannot finish, but Rowena is reaching for the spoon now, is taking it almost reverently. He hears the little flutter of breath in her throat as she turns it over in her hands, runs her fingernail over the knots, the small heart set at the top.

‘It is lovely,’ she whispers.

‘I … I hoped you might like it.’

A pause. ‘No one has given me a gift before.’

‘No one?’

‘Not ever.’

‘Well, then.’ He feels himself flush. ‘I’m glad to be the first.’ Still she does not look at him, is as quiet as the woods outside, and for one terrifying moment he thinks he has offended her. ‘Rowena? Rowena, I—’

She is kissing him.

It is not like their first kiss, that fleeting moment of abandon he felt, the swift disappointment of her refusal. This kiss is freely given, laced with a passion that Henry could not have imagined ever coming from her, and he kisses her back fiercely, imprinting all his longing and lust into it. When she pulls away, he is panting.

‘Rowena …’ With his free hand he cups her cheek.

‘Come,’ she says, and heart pounding Henry lets her lead him up the stairs, his hand lingering on the banister in the wake of hers, Rowena’s fingertips a hair’s breadth away. At the top she crosses the landing into the room meant for him, takes the candle he holds, puts it down on the table beside the bed, the lovespoon with it. He watches her, already hard with need, but when she returns to him and begins to unfasten his breeches he wills himself to still her hands.

‘We don’t have to do this,’ he says thickly. ‘I said I’d never force you and I meant it.’

‘You’re not forcing me.’

She kisses him again, this time softer, gentler, and Henry knows in that instant he is incapable of refusing. Together, they sink onto the bed.

Her skin is satin-soft, her body pliant. She smells of lavender. Curling his fingers into Rowena’s thick hair he kisses the curve of neck where it meets shoulder, her cheek, her temple, her nose, her lips once again, drinking deep as if she were elixir. She rises into him, clutches his shoulders, nails digging in, and as Rowena sighs against his mouth Henry’s passion tips itself over, and he cries out her name in the dark.