The Winter Witch (15 page)

As we approach Soar-y-Mynydd the first person I see is Isolda alighting from her carriage. She is as elegantly dressed as ever and has dignified smiles for everyone she greets, but I find myself as always unsettled in her presence. I admit I do not understand my own dislike of her, beyond it being instinctive, and that she has the ability to make me feel awkward and unsuited to my position.

“Morgana?” Cai’s voice startles me from my thoughts. “Are you ready to go in?” he asks.

I nod and he helps me step down from the trap. As we make our progress through the worshipers people offer words of sympathy and support. We may live in isolation at the farm, but bad news travels even through the empty fields.

“The worst kind of luck,” says an elderly farmer, shaking his head slowly.

“Aye,” another agrees, tipping his cap back to scratch his forehead. “’Tis a real shame. A fine herd, you had, Ffynnon Las,” says he to Cai, but can offer no further comfort.

Cai allows them to tender their condolences and offers of help as if a close family member had died. I see now why it was important for him to come here today, and for me to be on his arm. We must show everyone that he is not finished. He will still lead the drove in two weeks’ time. He is still a man to be trusted in charge of cattle. It was extreme bad luck caused his loss. The sort of ill fortune that could befall any man, and not a measure of his ability or determination. His cattle might lie rotting at the foot of a ravine; theirs he would take, good as his word, to London to secure their incomes for the coming winter.

I sense his arm beneath mine tense, and he draws himself up to stand very straight. There is a man walking toward us I do not know, but it is evidently he who has caused such a reaction in Cai. The man looks down on his luck, ill-fed, and sports a grin displaying more gaps than teeth. Even at this early hour I can smell liquor on his breath.

“Well, well, Cai Jenkins,” there is slurred mockery in his tone, “seems you are not so perfect after all. But
Duw,
there’s a pity. Your whole herd lost, they do say, or the better part of it. Well, well.”

He sways on his feet just as the crowd parts to allow the reverend to emerge. At the sight of him my palms dampen with nervous sweat. I feel my whole body tighten, as if I am readying for flight. I fear my consternation is evident on my face, but Cai is too occupied with the drunk to notice my reaction to the minister.

“Come now, Llewellyn. Our Lord’s garden is no place for your spite,” says he with his customary force and command, but the man is intent on goading Cai further.

“Won’t be much of a drove to take east now. Hardly worth the bother, see? Might as well stay at home, m’n. Leave droving to those as knows how to keep a herd of cattle on a path, is it?”

Cai shows admirable restraint. I wouldn’t have blamed him for boxing his tormentor’s ears and sending him on his way howling, but he does not. Stepping forward as if the man does not exist he nods good morning to Reverend Cadwaladr, doffs his hat to Mrs. Cadwaladr, and leads me into the chapel. He has done the right thing. We are carried through the narrow door on a gentle current of approval from those watching and waiting to see what action he might take. He has risen above the impulse to thump one who would mock him, and he is the bigger man for it. And I am thankful we have not been engaged in discourse with the reverend. I cannot bring myself to look at him, knowing what he thinks of me. Knowing that it was he who so callously brought about Meg’s death.

The service passes without incident. Cai joins in the acts of worship attentively and I wonder if he is praying for guidance and for better fortune in the coming weeks. I feel horribly helpless, guilt still tasting sour in my mouth, loathing of my own failings which have so added to his difficulties making my mood as grey as the sky outside that blanks out the tall windows of the chapel. On top of which I must master my discomfort at being beneath Reverend Cadwaladr’s gaze. His sermon is harmless, and does not mention anything I might take to be aimed at me. How long, I wonder, will he allow me to act upon his demand that I leave? How long before he decides there is no course open to him other than to denounce me to the parish. No course, that is, save for one.

As we are leaving the crowded little building Isolda Bowen steps forward to speak to us. Or rather, to speak to Cai. She scarce acknowledges me, her attention focused squarely upon my husband.

“I was so sorry to hear of your misfortune,” says she to him, her face a picture of concern.

Cai mumbles some sort of acceptance of her condolences. He becomes restless in her presence, I notice. Ever the riddle, I cannot fathom his reaction to her. At least I am not expected to make polite conversation—what a mercy that is!

Isolda puts a hand on Cai’s arm and asks, “I wonder if you would both like to return to my house to dine. I know you do not have the help of the good Mrs. Jones on Sundays, but I have my cook and she will not be stopped in her quest to see me double my size.” She laughs lightly. “There is always more food than I can eat, and the waste is sinful. Please, say you will both come.”

Cai is hardly in the mood for socializing and hesitates.

Isolda appeals to his compassionate nature. “I pass so many hours in solitude,” says she in a small voice. “I would be profoundly grateful for your company.”

He might require time to consider the offer, I do not. To make my feelings plain I pull hard on his arm, stepping toward the waiting pony and trap, frowning at him. He can be in no doubt of my response to Mrs. Bowen’s invitation, nor can anyone observing our conversation. I see that I have managed to do precisely what I had so fervently wished to avoid—I have drawn attention to us, and am in danger of humiliating myself once more. Myself, and, by association, him.

“Really, Morgana, why must you behave this way? Mrs. Bowen has generously invited us to dine with her.” He leans down to me, lowering his voice. “It would be rude to refuse. She is being gracious. You are not to make a scene, do you hear me?”

There is a bossiness, a shortness, in the way he speaks to me that I do not care for. Why do I so often find myself in these impossible situations because of him? I am doing my best to be how he wants me to be, to do what he wants me to do. But I cannot spend time in the company of a woman who belittles me and clearly still has designs of some sort upon my husband. And I will not be chastised for refusing to do so. If he is too stupid to see her for what she is, let him dine with her. Alone. Pointedly, I let go of his arm. I dig my fingernails into my palms as I muster what little dignity the circumstances allow. I am keenly aware that Isolda is enjoying my discomfort, and that we are still being watched by members of the congregation. I will not be bullied. Too late I realize my anger, my hurt, is seeping out of me, as my passions are wont to do. The damp stillness of the day is abruptly bestirred by a swirling wind which snatches at bonnet ribbons, tugs kerchiefs from pockets, sends hats tumbling from heads, and raises skirts to undignified levels. At once, amid much squealing and gasping, all the women present have their petticoats and undergarments indecently on display as they flap at their unruly dresses, frantically trying to pin them down and spare their blushes. All the women present … except me. It does not pass unnoticed that I am the only one not so affected by this unexpected and disrespectful wind. I am aware of how undesirable this manner of notice is. I know how people are given to gathering little scraps of suspicion, hiding them away in a fearful part of their minds, until they have sufficient for a feast of accusation and blame. The reverend has made his feelings toward me plain enough. I must take care not to give credence to his claims.

“Oh!” cries Mrs. Cadwaladr as her daughters squawk and reel about her. “What wickedness is this? Oh! Husband, save us!” she shrills, in a manner which is, to my mind, excessively dramatic.

The menfolk, the reverend included, do their best to restore the dignity of their wives, mothers, and offspring, but are soon scampering after their own hats or ushering their women back inside the shelter of the chapel. Reverend Cadwaladr raises his voice, appealing for calm. Isolda, her own gown merely billowing attractively, retains her poise. Even as I try to return myself to the tranquil state necessary to restore order I feel Cai’s gaze upon me. Now he is properly angry. He might not, indeed, he
cannot
understand what is happening, but I sense that, even without realizing it, he connects the disturbance in some way, some way he could not possibly so much as voice to himself, connects it to me.

“Morgana!” he growls at me. “Take the trap and go home! I will dine with Mrs. Bowen and I will return … later. Go home now,” says he, pointing the way back toward Ffynnon Las as if I were a dog that required directing. I do not need telling twice. I march past Isolda, her smug expression lingering horribly in my mind as I pick up the reins and urge Prince homeward at a canter.

Not until we are well out of sight and sound of the chapel do I ask him to slow to a steadier trot. I do not know whether I am more angry than I am stung by Cai’s harsh words, or if I am simply disappointed in myself. Either way, here am I, returning home alone, in disgrace once more, whilst my husband, of his own volition, goes to spend time in the home of that woman. Why does she persist in her pursuit of him, even now he has chosen to marry someone else? She is a woman of independent means and standing in the community, however misplaced, what can she want with Cai? Why does it matter so much to her to be the mistress of Ffynnon Las?

The rain has set in again in earnest now, and my bonnet begins to sag about my ears. We are not half a mile from home when Prince shies, dancing sideways and then standing still as stone. I cannot see what has spooked him, and flick the reins gently, asking him to continue, but he will not. His eyes roll and he snorts at something in the hedge just ahead of us. Now I can hear a flapping sound and see that the undergrowth is disturbed by some erratic movements. I climb down from the trap and tie the reins to a sturdy hazel branch before creeping forward. The source of the minor commotion reveals itself to be a young barn owl, fallen into the ditch. I quickly put my hands over his golden wings to stop him thrashing about for fear that he might hurt himself. Examining his snow-white body and sharply taloned feet I can find no signs of injury.

What, my little feathered friend, are you doing out in the glare of daylight, poor thing? You are small. An inexpert flyer, perhaps.

He seems both puzzled and calmed to hear my thoughts placed in his head. His pearly plumage is soft as cotton grass beneath my fingers. The bird looks up at me with enormous eyes and blinks slowly. He seems confused, and I think that he may have bumped his head as he crashed to the ground. I fold him into my shawl and carry him back to the trap. I resolve to make him a nest in a quiet corner of the house. Somewhere he will not be disturbed, and where I can tend him until he is recovered enough to go free again. For the remainder of the journey I allow myself the pleasant diversion of imagining the snuggery I will construct for him in the parlor when I reach home.

*   *   *

After a delicious meal and some particularly fine wine, Cai at last begins to feel the tension of the morning, and indeed the trial of recent days, melt away. He leans back in his chair with a sigh, swirling bloodred claret in his crystal glass. The room, typical of Isolda’s home, is opulently yet tastefully furnished, with an impressive table dressed with the best quality silverware, tall candles flickering at its center, and a warming fire blazing in the hearth. There are no rustic pieces of furniture here. Each article or artifact has been selected for its quality and beauty first and foremost. There are imposing oil paintings on the walls, drapes of Chinese silk at the windows, a mirror of dazzling size and decoration above the marble mantle, and glorious Turkish rugs covering the floor. This is a town house built to impress and to house the very best of everything. Isolda smiles at him from the other side of the table.

“I am pleased to see you looking a little less perplexed, Cai. Your demeanor at chapel had me concerned for your well-being,” she says, licking red-wine stains from her lips.

Cai is struck, in this moment, by the differences between his hostess and his wife. He recalls the first breakfast he cooked for Morgana and her uninhibited enjoyment of it. It is difficult to imagine Isolda with bacon grease smeared across her cheek. She is so self-contained, so in control of herself. And so remarkably beautiful. The room is lowly lit with candlelight and the dancing illumination from the fire, but the effect is not in the least gloomy, rather it is comforting. It is easy to forget, at least for now, the greyness of the day outside and the worries of his own life.

“It has been a testing week,” he says, then shakes his head, not wanting to think of the woes and demands of the mundane, preferring instead to savor the pleasures that are on offer. “That was a splendid meal, Isolda,” he says.

“Such a shame Morgana did not feel inclined to join us.”

“I am sorry … for her behavior.” He struggles to find an excuse for her. “She is not yet … settled, in her new life. In her new home.” He knows this sounds feeble and takes a deep swig of his wine, avoiding Isolda’s gaze.

“She is very young,” she offers. “I’m sure, given time…” She lets the statement drift.

When he looks up from his glass he finds she is watching him and for an instant their gazes meet. Hers is unwavering, bold even. Not for the first time he feels a stirring of desire for this strikingly beautiful woman. There were occasions, since Catrin’s passing, when he questioned himself as to why he did not ask Isolda to be his wife. He is quietly certain she would have accepted him. Was it her considerable wealth that stopped him? Did he feel unequal to her, and worry that he would always, were they to be married, feel himself inferior? Or was it that, for all her elegance and charm, for all her beauty, there is something he finds curiously unlovable about her? He cannot imagine ever being intimate with her. Taking her to his bed, yes, he can imagine that. She is undeniably attractive and desirable. But closeness, real togetherness, such as he had found with Catrin? No. It is true, he enjoys her company and conversation, and that this enjoyment was for a time heightened by the element of sexual possibility that existed between them, but on the whole this is something that makes him feel bad about himself. He is not the sort of man to enjoy a physical relationship with a woman without love; it is simply not in his nature. He does not enjoy, in fact, being reminded of his baser needs and desires.