A String in the Harp (35 page)

“Can’t find a thing wrong. Nothing short of a miracle.”

“Not at all,” countered Jen. “It’s perfect timing and organization.”

“Aren’t you going to let them in?” asked Becky.

“Goodness, yes! I almost forgot, I was so dazzled by you.” David grinned and opened the front door.

“Hullo, hullo!” cried Mrs. Rhys cheerfully. “Fearful evening, isn’t it?
So
nice of you to invite us—we’ve been looking forward to it. Isn’t it lovely and warm in here?” Becky nudged Peter. “It’s still so cold for spring, I think. I always forget how long it takes for the chill to leave.” She beamed around at them.

David helped her out of her coat. “Come and sit by the fire and I’ll get you a glass to warm you inside. Gwyn, good to see you.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dr. Rhys quickly before his wife began again. “I just thought I’d bring a little wine for the dinner.” He handed the bottle to Peter, who suddenly looked older. “It should be chilled, do you see?” Peter took it off to the kitchen at once.

“Dinner smells simply marvelous!” exclaimed Mrs. Rhys. “Jen, you’ve been doing more than knitting lately, I shouldn’t wonder! There’s ever so much more to good cooking than you think when you don’t do it yourself, I always say. You must see that your family gives you credit enough!”

“Oh, they’re not bad,” said Jen. It was impossible to feel nervous with Mrs. Rhys, so solid and comfortable in a shapeless heather-colored knit suit, her peppery hair a bit wild, her eyes very kind.

“Not bad?” exclaimed Becky indignantly. “We do all the nasty parts like cleaning up, after all!”

“Exactly right,” approved Mrs. Rhys. “Cooks should never have to wash up as well.”

“I don’t know about that,” said David, handing around glasses of sherry. Even Becky was given a little to celebrate. “We don’t want the cooks to get above themselves.”

“Don’t let him bully you,” said Mrs. Rhys to Jen with a twinkle in her eyes. “Did I ever tell you about my first dinner party? The one I gave in Cardiff just after Gwyn and I were married? And wasn’t
that
a disaster!” She burst into laughter, and Dr. Rhys looked at her and smiled. She launched into a
very funny description of the meal, which they all thoroughly appreciated, Jen especially. The memory of her chicken was no longer painful.

Almost too soon, it was time to put dinner on the table. Mrs. Rhys offered to help, and she and Jen and Becky went off to the kitchen, talking gaily about burned pudding and gummy rice.

In the lounge, David and Dr. Rhys settled into a discussion of work, while Peter sat on the hearthrug, arms wrapped around knees, watching the pulsing coals. He half listened, half dreamed.

“How is your paper progressing then, David?”

“It’s coming slowly. Trouble is, every time I begin to research an idea, I turn up more loose ends. I’ll have to draw the line pretty soon and finish what I’ve got.”

Dr. Rhys nodded sympathetically. “Just so. One idea leads on to another and more besides, and there is never enough time! I cannot understand people who do not find enough to do with themselves or the ones who do the same research over and over. They never get under the skin of a matter, do you know?”

“Yes, I do. But I’ve unearthed at least another two or three years’ work, just doing my little project on Welsh language. And it’s exciting, too, even though Peter doesn’t share my enthusiasm.”

“What?” asked Peter, catching his name.

“Your battle against learning Welsh,” said David mildly.

“Oh, that.” He considered a moment. “It’s not so bad, I guess.”

David merely raised his eyebrows without comment.

“It is good that the language is coming back,” said Dr. Rhys. “If it were lost, so much would be lost with it. We cannot afford that. But speaking of things lost, David, I hear from my colleagues that there are still wolves in Wales! That is news indeed.”

“I thought you’d be interested in that. Pity the wolf had to be killed, really, but she was a sheep-killer so there wasn’t a choice. I rather like thinking there might still be wolves in the Welsh hills, it seems right.”

“David,” said Dr. Rhys, with a quiet, dry chuckle. “You are beginning to sound like a Welshman.”

“Thank you,” replied David. “I consider that quite a compliment.”

Peter, his cheek resting on his arm, was now listening fully to the two men.

“Your wolf hunt has upset the scientists, you know,” Dr. Rhys continued. “The people from the Nature Conservancy have been making inquiries at the Biology Department. They appear quite fussed.”

“Have they found out more?”

“No, and I doubt they shall. They would have been much happier if your men hadn’t killed the beast and brought it back. They cannot dismiss it as an illusion now that it’s been put before them.”

“You don’t think much of scientists, do you?” remarked David with a smile.

“Oh, they do have their uses, but they are much too serious and do not accept their limitations.”

“They won’t find more wolves though, will they?” asked Peter. “I mean, it isn’t likely, is it?”

“I think it’s unlikely myself, but then you can argue that it is unlikely to find only
one
wolf.”

“The sheep-killing seems to have stopped,” David said. “There’s been no trace of another wolf as far as I know. Very peculiar, the whole business.”

“Hardly the first time a peculiar thing has happened in Wales, David, and I doubt it will be the last. But then you Americans are not comfortable with magic, are you?”

“Magic?” David sounded skeptical. “That wolf was genuine enough, Gwyn.”

“But how did it get here?” asked Peter.

“Ah,” said Dr. Rhys. “That is a good question, Peter. Perhaps there is room for belief.”

“Now, look—” began David.

“Peter,” said Becky, coming through the door with a great steaming bowl of peas and carrots, “you didn’t put any hot pads on the table. Hurry, before I drop this!”

Mrs. Rhys brought the potatoes and gravy, and Jen came last with the roast leg of lamb lying in state, crackling brown and gleaming with juices on a bed of fresh parsley, provided the day before by Mrs. Evans.

“It looks wonderful,” said David warmly, and Jen glowed, seeing his pride in her. “Gwyn, will you open the wine while I carve? Did anyone think of glasses?”

“I hope you know what a pleasure this is, eating someone else’s dinner for a change! And not a better one to be had in Cardiganshire, if looks and smells are to be trusted,” pronounced Mrs. Rhys.

When they had all sat down to full plates, Dr. Rhys lifted his glass of wine gravely. “I shall propose a toast if I may. To Jennifer.”

Jen blushed hot and couldn’t look at anyone.

“Then one to all of us,” said Becky, “or can’t you do that?”

“Of course, you can,” David said. “To all of us!”

“There, it is delicious, what did I say? I shall eat until I can’t move,” declared Mrs. Rhys, piling her fork.

Jen was kept gratifyingly busy refilling plates for people; everyone had a good appetite. No one but she knew how much fretting and planning had gone into this dinner, which was perhaps just as well. But she caught David’s eye for a moment and he smiled; he knew. The dinner meant as much to him as it did to her, and it was a success for them both.

“What were you talking about before dinner?” Becky wanted to know.

“The wolf hunt,” said David, “and whether or not it was magic.”

“Magic? Do you think it was?” Becky looked from her father to Dr. Rhys.

“I’m a skeptic,” said David. “I need convincing. I admit the business was very odd, but I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

“But what is your definition of magic, David?” inquired Dr. Rhys.

“There are different kinds, aren’t there?” asked Peter.

“Oh, indeed.”

“Not just card tricks and magic wands and sawing people in two,” said Becky.

“All right,” said David, “what do
you
mean?”

“I am afraid that is what we have done to the word, do you see,” said Dr. Rhys a little sadly. “We have taken the real magic away from it. To me, it is something very old and not in the least scientific, a feeling, perhaps, most of all. I am not sure I can give you a satisfactory definition. But it is there behind all my work—the ancient beliefs of the country.”

“But people still believe in magic,” said Becky. “Almost everyone we know here—Mr. Evans and Rhian, my teacher, Hugh-the-Bus and Mr. Williams-the-Shop. Even Gwilym, though he won’t come out and say so.”

“They’re superstitious,” Jen corrected. “They don’t necessarily believe in magic.”

“But they do,” objected Becky.

“Why not?” said Mrs. Rhys. “If your magic is there, you’re safe because you believe. And if it’s not, well, no harm done, is there?”

“That’s what Rhian says.”

“But one becomes extremely vulnerable when one admits a belief in magic, especially one in my position,” said Dr. Rhys. “It makes people uneasy when I speak of it, perhaps because such an admission touches beliefs in them they would rather ignore.”

“You mean they believe, but they would rather not,” said David with a frown.

“Exactly. Some fight very hard against their own natures. Those who are sure of themselves, whether they believe in magic or do not believe, are the fortunate ones. Your Mr. Evans is comfortable with himself, it sounds. My friend John Owen at the Cardiff Museum is equally comfortable, and he is certain that magic is nonsense.”

“Which are you?” asked Peter.

“I must declare myself with Mr. Evans. He is closer to the country than I, and if it stirs, he would know. John Owen and I have had many discussions on this subject and we will not alter one another’s minds. Still, we keep trying. I spoke with him last week in fact, at the annual meeting of the Cambrian Archaeological Society. He told me how much he had enjoyed meeting you in Cardiff.”

“He
did?”
Becky sounded disbelieving.

And David said, a little too quickly, “The museum is a fascinating place.”

“Indeed it is,” agreed Dr. Rhys. “I have spent much time there. It is John’s life, you know. He is responsible for many of the best pieces in it.”

“So I understand,” said David.

“Come on, Becky, let’s get the dessert,” said Jen, and Becky went with her reluctantly. Peter stayed where he was.

“John has a finely developed instinct when it comes to archaeological finds of any importance. He is extremely clever at ferreting them out,” Dr. Rhys went on. “And once he is on the track, he will seldom be distracted. He can be a little difficult at times, I think.” He placed his wine glass exactly over a spot on the tablecloth. “John is interested in your children, David.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Something one of them said while you were at the
museum, I believe. He asked me in particular about Jennifer. He said she had asked some questions?”

“Mmm. Yes, I guess she did.”

“He said he never did have a chance to talk to her properly—someone was ill?”

“Tired. It was Becky.”

“She is over it now?” asked Mrs. Rhys. “I was just thinking how very well you all look—as though Wales agrees with you!”

“Yes, she’s fine. It was a long day, nothing serious.”

“Did he ask you—about Jen?” asked Peter urgently. The scene in Cardiff in the museum came back to him with gruesome clarity. He had just begun to think of Dr. Rhys as a real ally. He had forgotten Dr. Owen.

Dr. Rhys sighed and looked at Peter. “I am afraid I may have been careless. I mentioned to John that I knew you were interested in ancient Welsh history and you might indeed have discovered something in this area. I did not think before I spoke and I did not realize how interested he already was.”

“He knows,” said Peter in a low, hopeless voice.

“John and I are very old friends indeed, but I do not always agree with his methods of dealing with people. He has the best of intentions and the highest principles, you must understand.”

Mrs. Rhys snorted. “You and John Owen seldom agree about people, and that’s a blessing! That man has no notion of tact!”

“I think,” said David, regarding his son, “I don’t really know what’s going on, do I? It’s not the first time this year I’ve had that feeling.”

At that moment Jen and Becky returned with bowls of ice cream and chocolate sauce. “Would you like coffee, or . . .” Jen’s voice trailed away as she saw their faces.

“Does everyone know? Have you told?” asked Becky at once.

Peter shook his head.

“Told what?” asked David.

“No,” said Dr. Rhys.

“But it doesn’t matter,” said Peter miserably. “Dr. Owen knows.”

“Oh, Peter!” said Becky, distressed.

“Well, David,” said Mrs. Rhys calmly, “it seems as if you and I are the only ones who haven’t a clue what’s happening. But the ice cream is melting, and I would very much like a nice cup of coffee, Jen, love. So would Gwyn.”

Jen had been standing stricken, unable to take her eyes from Peter. At Mrs. Rhys’s words, she set down the bowls and slid into her chair. “The water’s on,” she said absently.

“But we don’t ever have to see Dr. Owen again, do we?” said Becky. “We don’t have to go back to Cardiff.”

“I am afraid he is coming here, however,” Dr. Rhys said apologetically. “He will be in Aberystwyth next month to deliver a paper at the University and to do some work at the National Library. He asked me to mention that he would like to see you again, especially Jennifer.”

“Why me?” asked Jen, alarmed.

“You asked all the questions,” Becky reminded her.

Peter said nothing; his hand had gone protectively to his chest in a familiar gesture.

“You need not tell him anything,” said Dr. Rhys gently. “It is entirely up to you, do you see, Peter. But he is a very single-minded man, and I wanted to give you a bit of warning.”

“Single-minded!” Mrs. Rhys exclaimed. “He runs on one track only, like the steam engine up the Rheidol! And I don’t suppose you will tell us what it is you’re talking about, Gwyn Rhys?”

“I have already said too much, and I have had no business saying anything at all.”

“All right,” said David. “I can’t pass any kind of judgment on this when I don’t know what’s going on, but I will say
we can’t refuse to see Dr. Owen if he wants to talk to us when he comes.”