CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIX

Their walk back up to Plas Helyg is achieved in relative silence, more so because Linette keeps a brisk pace and there is no chance to speak easily at such a speed. Her pace is deliberate – she did not like Henry Talbot’s probing questions and what they implied, has no wish to give him the opportunity to ask more. Nor does she like the troubling thoughts now spiralling about her head like a waterwheel because of them.

I assume he performed a post-mortem?

Such a distasteful practice. To think of Dr Evans laid out on a bloody slab, butchered … Linette sets her teeth, continues up the dirt path, the new doctor at her heels.

She glances at him briefly. His dark head is down, concentrating it seems on not tripping over the roots of beech trees protruding from the ground, and so Linette turns her gaze back to the path, the ornate gates of the mansion up ahead.

She thinks of the gatehouse, the mess left behind. Linette did not lie when she told the new doctor she had been verbose in her reaction. Indeed, it is just as well she was alone and no one heard her (poor Enaid would have despaired), but seeing it in the cold light of day … Such needless destruction! Such waste! Many of the items destroyed had belonged to poor Dr Evans. Linette remembers how proud he was of the canvas that now lay smashed on the rug in the hallway; a seascape of Harlech Castle he painted himself as a youth. But who could be responsible? Was it the Jones boy? One of the Einions? Linette never would have thought them capable. All the villagers are good people, are they not? Mistrustful, yes, in many ways, but surely they would not stoop to this.

To be sure, Cai or Rhiannon may feel they had cause, and had plenty of time to plot their attack, for gossip travels as swift as the gull in Penhelyg. The linens were brought from Cerys Davies, the ale for the gatehouse’s stores from Arthur Lloyd at the tavern and Ivor Morgan knew to collect the doctor from Dinas Mawddwy. It would have been common knowledge Dr Talbot was coming here. In theory, she thinks, holding open the gate for him, it could have been any one of them.

‘I won’t be a moment,’ the new doctor says as they approach the house and Linette nods in answer, watches him disappear through Plas Helyg’s cavernous doors.

As she waits Linette shoves her hands deep into her trouser pockets, worries her bottom lip with her teeth. What to do about it is the thing! Not once, not ever has Linette needed to exert authority. She has been a good mistress, and they in turn have been good tenants. Never have they taken her kindness for granted. However they felt about an outsider coming to Penhelyg, Linette finds it hard to believe they could behave so terribly, that they would mistreat her property. And since there is no way of knowing who it was … can anything be done at all?

Dr Talbot reappears, a cumbersome satchel in his hand. It looks worn, the leather crusted at the clasp, and Linette thinks she sees a spot of blood on the bottom, as if he placed it down upon a dirty surface … Again, she has a vision of Wynn Evans’ lifeless body under the unforgiving blade of a scalpel; swallowing, Linette turns sharply away.

‘Come,’ she says. She walks in the direction of the stables, and her heart lifts a little to see Pryderi poking his head from one of the stalls, flies flitting noisily about the chestnut cob’s ears.

There is a shuffle of dirt behind her, footsteps coming to a stop.

‘We’re to ride?’

The surprise in Dr Talbot’s voice is evident. Linette must suppress a smile.

‘You must ride,’ she throws over her shoulder. ‘Unless you’d prefer to walk the two miles down to the beach?’

‘Can we not use the cart—’

‘It’s cumbersome and would slow us down. Are you afraid, sir?’

There is no answer. She stops, turns to face him. Some distance away now Dr Talbot looks at her, jaw clenched.

‘I cannot ride.’

Linette regards him. When Julian informed her Dr Evans’ replacement would be from London she had expected someone very much like this – someone who never had to travel anywhere except by carriage, a spoilt man wholly unsuited to country living. An arrogant man, with the same prejudiced sensibilities as her cousin, and so far he is quite living up to her expectations.

‘Then you must learn.’

He blinks at her rudeness. And she is being rude, Linette knows she is. But she is used to speaking without a mind to others, of managing everything on her own, and it is a hard habit to quench. Besides, riding a horse is not difficult. Surely anyone, including sheltered city men such as he, can master it?

Rhys opens Pryderi’s stall, leads out the large chestnut, ready saddled. She slips her foot into the stirrup, swings one leg over the cob’s broad back, settles herself easily into the leather. Dr Talbot’s eyes widen. Linette knows what he is thinking – no woman should ride astride – for she has been told often enough by both Enaid and Julian, but she looks down at Dr Talbot with eyebrows raised, daring him to pass comment.

He does not. Instead he turns his face, stares at the black horse in front of him with a wary expression. Linette shares a look with the young stable-hand.

‘Rhys, will you assist our guest?’

The stable lad shoots her a look. Linette holds his gaze. Then, reluctantly, he helps Dr Talbot up into the saddle, begins to explain in stilted English how to instruct the animal. When the new doctor makes it clear he understands, Rhys passes up the medical bag which the man balances across his lap.

‘This will take some getting used to,’ the doctor grimaces.

Linette guides Pryderi into a turn. ‘You’ll have a lot of things to get used to, I suspect …’

She trails off. Dr Talbot is frowning at the reins in his hands. With a sigh Linette raises her own, shows him how they lie looped between her fingers.

‘Hold them as I do,’ she says.

He peers at them, does as instructed. Linette lets herself be impressed.

‘You’re a fast learner,’ she remarks.

The physician shifts in the saddle, evidently uncomfortable.

‘I have a mind suited to learning.’

‘You should find Gwydion easy to master then.’

He frowns. ‘Gwydion?’

‘A sorcerer from a story Enaid used to read me as a child. All the animals here are named after the folklore of these lands.’

The new doctor stares without expression, but she can read the judgement on his face all the same. Linette raises her chin, cannot help the defensive heat that brims in the hollow of her throat.

‘I’m riding Pryderi. He’s a prince from the same story.’

‘And what of those?’

A couple of small black chickens loiter near Pryderi’s stall, pecking at the hay.

‘Those are breeding fowl. We’d not be able to kill them if I named them.’

He says nothing to this. She clicks her tongue, guides the chestnut cob into another turn. Gwydion follows automatically, and Linette leads them back down Plas Helyg’s drive, through the gate, onto the woodland path beyond.

They ride in silence. Often Linette wants to ask a question, to break what is soon becoming an awkward tension, but she cannot quite bring herself to manage it. She too has been hesitant to welcome an Englishman here. Are they not all the same as each other? Superior, rude, quick to judge? Will you – she wants to ask – also treat those that live here with condescension? Another question, whispered into her ear like a taunt, rises to the fore of her mind: Will you be kind to my mother? But Linette does not ask these things for she is afraid of the answers. Instead, she will simply watch and wait.

Dr Henry Talbot will reveal himself to her soon enough.

Finally, they emerge from the woodland. Linette indicates the narrow cottages a little further along on the other side, their willow-tree canopies.

‘Those belong to some of the miners,’ she tells him. ‘It’s these you’ll likely be attending to the most, since mining is dangerous work. Dr Evans often visited the mine when the digging proved particularly difficult. He set three broken arms last year.’

Dr Talbot is frowning at the end house as they pass. Linette wonders why.

‘Your cousin told me a little about the mine last night,’ he says. ‘I saw it from my bedroom window this morning. I’d not realised it was so close.’

Linette purses her lips, crosses the dirt road, indicates for him to follow, and they descend a sloping pathway between houses three and four.

‘It never used to be,’ she answers when they are clear. ‘The Cadwalladr mines began further down the valley, but when Julian took over he expanded their reach.’

He nods. ‘I suppose he was eager to capitalise on the gold deposits.’

‘Ah. You’ve seen his little treasure then?’ Linette tightens her grip on Pryderi’s reins, tries not to let her disapproval rule her. ‘It is a fool’s errand. My cousin has found a few odd nuggets over the years but nothing substantial. He kept digging closer to Plas Helyg because he’s convinced a vein runs through the fields.’

The young doctor looks confused. ‘It’s not a gold mine?’

‘No. It used to be slate, but as they expanded the terrain shifted and began producing copper ore. It does not matter, either way. Julian has ruined this valley in the pursuit of his enthusiasms, torn it up piece by piece.’

Her voice wobbles, and from the corner of her eye she sees the young doctor turn his face to look at her.

‘I’m not sure I understand. Doesn’t the land belong to you?’

Linette shakes her head. ‘Not the land on the south-eastern side of the mansion. My grandfather claimed there were caverns hidden there, and it was passed to Julian as part of the original mine settlement. Even so, if my father had been alive I’m sure he would not have allowed such a thing. It’s quite ruined Plas Helyg’s beauty.’

They have emerged now into the little clearing that acts as Penhelyg’s village square. A stone well stands in the middle; smallholdings surround it – houses and shops belonging to Linette’s merchant tenants – and on the far side a tavern and stable stand at an awkward angle on the edge of a copse of willow trees. It is here Linette brings Pryderi to a stop. Dr Talbot, after a moment’s struggle with Gwydion, manages to do the same. A few of the village girls loiter outside one of the barns, whispering to each other behind their hands.

‘How did your father die?’

Though the doctor’s question is asked gently, Linette feels her hackles rise.

‘Why? Do you mean to suggest foul play there, too?’

Dr Talbot simply watches her. There is no judgement in his eyes but they make Linette feel, somehow, exposed. Still, she experiences a measure of guilt for her churlishness and turns her face, focuses her gaze on the stone well instead.

‘He died when I was a baby,’ she replies. ‘Fell from his horse on his return from a trip to London. My mother, unable to cope with the grief, could not care for me. A trust was set in place that made Julian my guardian.’

Bitterness digs like a thorn in her chest. It is not on account of her father (how could she feel anything for a man she never knew?) but of her mother, a mother who has never shown affection, who barely seems to recognise her own daughter, a mother who has lived in the shelter of her own troubled mind for as long as Linette can remember.

Henry Talbot is watching her. When she looks at him she fancies she sees a measure of understanding in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry.’

Linette shrugs. ‘Don’t be. Julian has been good to me, in his own way. I’ve wanted for nothing.’

She does not tell him that despite his care of her in a monetary sense, Julian has never really understood her. How could he when he was so often away, his attentions caught completely by his social circle in London? The majority of Linette’s Christmases and birthdays have been spent alone with the servants, and when Julian does come to Penhelyg he keeps to the company of the Pennants and Selwyns, or locked away in his study.

He spends more time with his damned books than he does with her.

One of the girls – Rhiannon, the Einions’ eldest – is nibbling at her fingernail, staring at the new doctor insolently over her thumb. Dr Talbot appears to notice but makes no remark. Instead he says, ‘Tell me of your mother,’ and Linette shifts uncomfortably in her saddle.

What to say about her? The truth, she supposes. What else?

‘My mother speaks but little and what little she speaks is not worth hearing. Fanciful things. Queer untruths. Sometimes Mamma can hold an eloquent conversation but those moments are short-lived.’ Linette hesitates. ‘She is prone to screaming fits, Dr Talbot, fits that can go on for hours if left unchecked. Mamma says she can hear wings beating in the dark, that there are people in the room. Sometimes she speaks words in a language I do not understand. Often she mentions blades of gold.’ Linette picks at a fly caught in Pryderi’s mane. ‘It is Enaid – Mrs Evans, that is – who cares for her, never leaves her side. She sleeps in Mamma’s rooms.’

A movement to her left catches her eye. A curtain has twitched in one of the holdings that surround the clearing. Rhiannon – joined now by a few more girls – watches them still, and Linette realises they are too exposed here, that her companion is under deepest scrutiny. Many eyes, she suspects, watch them now although she cannot see them, and Linette thinks again of the gatehouse, her stomach twisting with unease.

‘We’d best continue on,’ she murmurs, gesturing to a pathway that wends itself by the side of the tavern. ‘The Morgans live further down, near the dunes.’

Dr Talbot digs his heels into Gwydion’s flanks. The horse whickers sharply. Linette holds out a hand to steady him.

‘Be gentle. The lightest pressure will do.’

This time she keeps a hand on Gwydion’s bit, guides them down into the privacy of the path. When she is sure they are out of sight again Linette releases the horse.

They emerge onto the green swards of the salt marshes, the sea a thick band of blue on the horizon. Free of the confines of the lane she urges Pryderi into a trot, turns her head to find that Dr Talbot has managed to persuade Gwydion to do the same. Above them seagulls dance between the clouds, shrieking loudly into the wind, and Dr Talbot raises his face into it, holds down his hat, slows his horse. She does the same.

‘It must be a lonely life,’ he says suddenly, and the comment pulls her off guard.

‘Lonely?’

‘Yes, lonely. Your father is dead, your mother indisposed, Lord Tresilian rarely in residence.’

Linette turns her face sharply to look at him. Truth though it may be, she does not like the way he lays her vulnerability out so plainly and so she counters, ‘I have Enaid and Cadoc, and my friends in the village. Merlin and Pryderi. Besides, I’ve plenty to keep me occupied.’

‘Oh?’

A sharp breeze cuts her cheek; she tastes salt on her tongue. In the distance the coastal cottages have appeared, spotted between trees bent with the long push of sea wind. Beneath her Pryderi huffs, and gently Linette reaches out to run her fingers through his tangled mane.

‘As a young girl I spent my days exploring Plas Helyg’s lands. I loved the call of the sea, the hills, the woods, and would spend hours in its wilderness. Wales is a place of uncommon beauty, Dr Talbot, as I’m sure you can see.’ Linette smiles now, wistful. ‘Over the years I saw how the people of Penhelyg lived. I’ve come to know them, respect them. They in turn have given me their trust.’ She gestures at the houses ahead. ‘The winter after I turned eighteen these lands suffered from severe flooding – homes were damaged, crops destroyed. When I offered to help, the people told me what they needed, what Mr Lambeth, Julian’s agent, had failed to provide. Supplies of food, temporary shelter, men to clear and renew the land. I went to him but he did nothing. I wrote to Julian, and still nothing was done. They were left to manage, alone. So, as soon as the estate passed to me, I dismissed Mr Lambeth. I trust no one to look after Penhelyg. Only myself.’

She meets his eyes. Dark brown, she realises.

‘I care for my people, Dr Talbot. They’re the only true family I have.’

The Morgans’ cottage is a small holding set within a patch of sandy land bordered by a fence made of driftwood. Shells of all shapes and sizes hang from the sea-worn beams with string and tinkle merrily in the breeze; nature’s very own wind chimes. Henry Talbot pauses to look at them, reaches a hand out to cup a grey scallop shell as he passes, a little chip at its fan.

His mouth lifts slightly at the corner, but Linette cannot decide if it is a smile or a sneer.

She knocks on the door. As they wait for an answer Linette glances across at the sand dunes dotted with yellow-wort and sedge, at Tomas’ small fishing boat moored on the makeshift quay beyond. Its mast rises tall like a javelin, its tattered sail quipping in the breeze. Dr Talbot follows her gaze.

‘He’s a fisherman, then?’

Before she can answer, the door opens a crack. When Mair sees it is Linette she begins to open the door wider, but pauses when she notices the man standing beside her.

‘It’s all right,’ Linette says, mollifying. ‘This is the new doctor – I’ve brought him to help.’

The woman hesitates a moment before widening the door. ‘The Englishman,’ she says, and though Mair speaks in Welsh there can be no mistaking her accusing tone. No indeed, her companion has marked it well, for Dr Talbot stands taller, tips his hat.

‘Good morning, ma’am.’

Mair’s lips purse, prune-like. She shoots Linette a look that says without any doubt that she fiercely disapproves.

‘It’s all right,’ Linette says again. ‘Please, let him try. I’ve done for Tomas all I can.’

Mair hesitates. It seems she might refuse, but then there is a cough from within and something sharpens in Dr Talbot’s face. He pushes past both of them into the low-ceilinged house, follows the sound to Tomas’ small, cramped bedroom at the back of the cottage.

‘Miss,’ Mair begins, looking put out. ‘I do not like it. Ivor says he’s not fit for a country doctor. How can he know our ways?’

‘Maybe that’s the point,’ Linette replies, closing the door behind her. ‘We’ve tried a country doctor as well as the old remedies, and they have not worked. Perhaps it’s time we try something else?’

Mair’s watery eyes watch her a moment. Then the woman sighs, gestures for Linette to follow.

Dr Talbot already has Tomas sitting up in the narrow bed, the palm of his hand on his forehead, his other hand flat between the young man’s shoulder blades. Tomas, Linette notes with concern, is more florid than the previous evening, a sheen of perspiration spotting his skin like dew. The young doctor looks up as Linette enters, indicates to Tomas with a nod.

‘How long has he been like this?’

Tomas is looking at Linette above the crown of Dr Talbot’s head, apprehension clear in his wide eyes. Many years ago they used to play together. Once, in the throes of adolescent fancy, she thought herself in love with him. But then age and duty interfered, adoration shifted to friendship and, finally, to polite affection. Linette feels the dull ache of sadness pull at her chest. The villagers are like family to her, she told the new doctor. Not quite then, not really. She is no closer to them than her own mother, but at least she might speak to them and be heard, understood. Liked.

At least she has that.

‘Three weeks ago,’ Linette replies now, ‘though it’s only this week he’s got worse. Fever, sweats. He’s been vomiting …’

‘Vomiting?’

Linette points at the small basin next to the bed and the physician stares down at the bilious material swimming in it. He puts two fingers to Tomas’ wrist, extracts a silver-chained watch from his pocket, silently counts. Then, after a moment, he reaches into his medical bag open at the side of the bed. From within the doctor removes a sheet of paper. Linette expects him to take a pencil from the bag too but instead he does something she has never seen a doctor do before – not Dr Evans, nor Dr Beddoe, not any of the others she has been acquainted with over the years: Henry Talbot rolls the paper into a tube and puts it between his ear and Tomas’ chest.

Beside her Mair unfolds her bony arms.

‘What is he doing?’ she murmurs, and all Linette can do is open her mouth and close it again. The doctor keeps his position for a full minute before raising his head.

‘Will you come here?’ he says, beckoning Linette to sit on the other side of the bed. When she does he turns to Tomas, a kind smile on his face. Tomas – who has not yet said one word and looks for all the world like a terrified hare – snaps his eyes to Linette in alarm.

‘Do you feel any pain?’

Dr Talbot says the words slowly, with a gentle intonation meant only for Tomas, but Linette deduces she is to act as interpreter. When she asks him the same, he gives a hesitant nod of the head.

‘Where?’ The doctor begins to pat his hand on his own head, his arm, his ribs. ‘Show me,’ he says, and Tomas – evidently understanding – presses his own hand to his left side.

‘And does it hurt to breathe?’

Linette translates.

‘ Ydy .’

‘Yes,’ she returns.

‘When you lie down? When you sit up?’

Tomas thinks a moment.

‘I can breathe better upright. It’s painful when I lie on my good side, easier when I lie on the side that hurts.’

‘When you breathe in, does it feel sharp?’ Dr Talbot himself breathes deep, makes a stabbing motion in the air with his finger. Immediately, Tomas nods.

The physician looks up. ‘Did this Dr Beddoe come to him?’

Linette purses her lips. ‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘He advised bed rest.’

The doctor blinks. ‘Was anything else done?’

Linette turns to Mair. ‘Will you fetch the herbs?’

Tomas’ mother disappears from the room, returns moments later with a basket, holds it out to Dr Talbot who looks inside. Linette sees him mark the dried leaves of nettle, coltsfoot and elderflower with something bordering on distaste.

‘You disapprove?’ Linette asks, defensive without quite knowing why. Their ways must feel so primitive to him, and heaven knows Tomas’ lack of recovery is proof enough the herbs have not worked. But still …

‘It is not that, precisely,’ he replies, rifling through his bag without looking at her. ‘There has been evidence that certain herbs do have some measure of success. But in my experience I find they do not work as well or with such fast results as more proven scientific methods.’ He stops, frowns. ‘Suffice to say they do not harm but nor do they do much good; recovery for patients who rely on herbs is slow and unpredictable. I prefer more immediate methods.’

‘Such as?’

Dr Talbot sits back, finally looks at her. ‘There’s a fishing boat outside. He is a fisherman?’

‘Yes.’

Linette glances at Mair. Her withered hands are clasped tight to her mouth in prayer.

‘And the symptoms began three weeks ago, you say?’

‘Yes, he …’

Next to her, Mair swallows a sob.

‘I made the mark too late,’ she cries. ‘I should have done it sooner. My boy would not be suffering so if I had!’

Linette licks her lips. She will not repeat this to Dr Talbot.

‘Yes,’ she confirms. ‘Three weeks ago, give or take a day or two.’

Dr Talbot is looking through his bag again. ‘And I assume this started after Tomas came in after a fishing trip.’ When no one says anything he looks at Linette. ‘Am I right?’

Linette poses the question to Tomas, and to her not-quite surprise, the young man nods.

‘It were a horrible squall. Freezing cold. But the fish come closer to shore when the weather’s bad, so I took the boat out.’ Tomas coughs. Linette passes him the bowl and he spits into it. ‘I got such a good haul. We ate well that week. Earned plenty from it, too …’ Weakly he sinks back against the wooden headboard, and it is only then Linette notices what the physician is holding in his hand: a small knife, a thin metal barrel.

She stares.

‘What do you mean to do?’

Dr Talbot looks between mother and son. ‘A more immediate method,’ he replies. ‘Of course, it is entirely up to the patient. But my recommendation is to reduce the swelling in his lungs.’

‘How?’

‘My belief is that Tomas has an inflammation caused by a severe chill that has been left untreated. Pleurisy. The inflammation is made up of fluid that rubs on the lining of the lung which is causing the stabbing pains, making it difficult for him to breathe. I would prefer to drain the fluid by making an incision in the back of the chest and drawing it out.’

Linette looks at the knife and the other implement Dr Talbot holds in his hand, and a cold chill spreads fast across her chest.

‘No.’

He blinks. ‘But you’ve not asked them.’

‘I don’t have to.’

‘Still,’ Dr Talbot says, pointed. ‘I would rather the answer came from them.’

Reluctantly Linette explains in their own tongue, but she can tell by the way both mother and son pale at the mention of an incision that their preference is for the ‘safer’ route, and she tells him so.

Dr Talbot looks at each of them in turn – Tomas, Mair, Linette. Then, with obvious reluctance, he replaces the implements in his satchel, closes it with a snap .

‘Other methods are vigorous coughing to release the mucus, bloodletting, cold bathing –’ here he picks at the pile of heavy blankets covering Tomas’ legs – ‘all to reduce the inflammation. Drinking milk and consuming fruit would also be of help. This is something that can go away on its own, but my concern is Tomas will develop pneumonia, and since he is already so weak …’

He trails off. Linette stares, feels the claw of guilt at her chest. All this time she has been helping them, sending those woollen blankets down to keep Tomas warm … it is quite possible she has made the situation worse. But how could she have known, when Dr Beddoe dismissed Tomas’ case so readily? Linette clamps the guilt down, repeats everything the doctor dictates, and on the promise she will have milk and fruit sent down to the cottage by evening she and Dr Talbot rise from the bed. The physician shakes Tomas’ hand.

‘I’ll see you again,’ he says.

Though Tomas clearly does not understand the words he recognises the sentiment behind them, and for the first time in a long time, he smiles. It is a pained and tired smile, but for Linette the sight of it is almost as good as any cure.