The Winter Witch (22 page)

“Then you’ll take him? Marvelous!” Isolda declares, flinging the reins at him and clapping her hands in delight.

Angel whirls about and whinnies, seeming to sense he has been passed from his mistress’s care.

“Hush now,
bach
.” Cai soothes the anxious animal. He turns to Morgana, about to encourage her to come forward and inspect the wonderful horse, but her expression stops the words in his mouth. It is as if the closeness between them that had felt so enduring only moments ago has been broken somehow by Isolda’s brief presence. Morgana folds her arms across her chest, swings around, and marches back into the house. He sighs and turns back to Isolda, but before he can form an apology or excuse for his wife’s behavior she puts her hand gently on his arm.

“Do not concern yourself, I am not offended. Morgana is your wife, she is young, she has not yet learned to mask her feelings. I am pleased, in fact, to have the opportunity to speak with you alone.”

Cai knows what is coming. He finds himself looking at the horse, minutely adjusting its bridle, in an attempt to cover his own awkwardness.

“I had planned to call on you,” he confesses.

“Ah, then you have reached a decision about my offer of a loan?”

“I have.”

Isolda waits, eyebrows raised. Cai clears his throat, the words catching as he speaks, as if deep down he is fighting against what he knows he must do.

“I would be most grateful…” he begins, “that is, it would be of great assistance to me…” At last he faces her. “If your offer still stands, I would like to accept.” Seeing how pleased she is he hurries to explain himself, so that she be in no doubt about how he has come to allow himself to accept her help. “I approached Evans the Bank,” he rushes on, “I put my case to him. He knows I’m good for the money, but still he would not take the risk, he said. What risk, I wanted to know. How was my proposition anything other than sound business? Any man, any farmer, can suffer a loss, a misfortune. That does not, surely, render all his future enterprises risks.”

“It doesn’t matter. Mr. Evans was shortsighted. I know you will make a fine
porthmon
. I have every confidence in you, Cai. I have always believed in you.”

“It will mean the difference between success and ruin, nothing less. But your money will be safely returned to you, with fair interest, I promise you that.”

“I do not doubt it.”

Cai nods and feels the tension go out of his shoulders. Perhaps he need not have worried. Perhaps, after all, Isolda is merely being both neighborly and business-minded and nothing more is expected of him than to honor the debt.

10.

Cai holds the reins of Prince’s harness lightly, letting the little pony steer the trap himself as they make brisk progress along the lane toward Tregaron. Despite their haste, he knows they will arrive late. Morgana sits beside him, her cape covering Catrin’s best evening gown, her hair, tamed for once by Mrs. Jones and a deal of effort, covered by the deep velvet hood which falls low over her brow, so that when Cai glances across at her he cannot see her eyes, cannot read her expression. Neither of them is looking forward with pleasure to the evening ahead. The prospect of dining at Isolda’s house in the company of the Cadwaladrs brought on a burst of temper from Morgana when he insisted they both attend. It was only when he took her hand in his, kissed it gently, and asked her softly to go with him that she sweetened and agreed to do so. In truth, he would far rather be spending the evening in front of his own fire, but he knows he is bound to attend. Already he feels the obligation of accepting the loan from Isolda beginning to chafe. How many polite dinners will he be required to endure, he wonders. How many times must he answer when she calls? He promises himself the minute the drove is complete and the money is in his possession he will pay her what is due. Pay her and be out of her debt.

When they arrive at Isolda’s house a stable boy springs forward and takes hold of the pony. Cai helps Morgana down, his hands on her slender waist. Her hood falls back as she jumps from the seat of the trap and for a moment he is captivated by the sight of her. Her hair is pinned high on her head, her complexion a little flushed from the speed of their journey. The dark red silk suits her well and, thanks again to Mrs. Jones’s expertise, shows off her trim, girlish figure to best effect. He wants to pull her close. To kiss her. To reassure her. But here, away from the sanctuary of Ffynnon Las, exposed to other eyes, he feels inhibited. How will she fare spending a formal evening in such company? He is conscious of his own nervousness about how she might behave. He has been so at ease with her at home; they have grown close, especially now that the previously unspoken matter of her curious talents is no longer a barrier between them. Now they are honest and open with each other. At least, that is how he wishes to be. He has not yet found the moment to tell her about the money he has accepted from Isolda. When he announced he was going to Carmarthen to purchase more cattle to take on the drove she and Mrs. Jones assumed the bank had agreed a loan. He knew this, and he allowed them to believe it, so that now an untruth exists between them, and he is sorry for it. He must put it right. He knows Morgana dislikes Isolda, and is certain she will disapprove of him taking her money, but business is business. He has done what he believes is best. He will look for the right time to tell her the truth, and will be relieved when he no longer has to swallow down the lie.

Isolda greets them in the hallway.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins,” she purrs, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you both here.” She offers her hand to Cai, but for once her attention is taken by Morgana. Cai experiences a rush of pride at her reaction to his wife. “Why, Morgana,” she says, “what a transformation. That gown is perfect for you. I always thought the color a little overpowering for Catrin.” She smiles broadly as she leads them to the dining room. “Come, we were on the point of going to table when you arrived.”

“I am sorry not to be punctual,” Cai says, hoping he won’t have to provide an excuse. He does not wish to recall the cajoling necessary to compel Morgana from the house.

“There is nothing to apologize for.” Isolda moves closer to him and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial level. “We should happily have waited, but Mrs. Cadwaladr declared herself faint and it was suggested she might be in need of something to eat, unlikely as that may seem.”

Cai is uncomfortable to be sharing a joke at the expense of his neighbor, and would rather not have Isolda loop her arm through his. But she is their hostess, this is her house, and he is determined the evening will go without mishap. He pauses to take Morgana’s hand and give her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

The long dining table has been impressively set with the finest silver, china, and cut glass. Four elegant candelabras hold tall, tapering candles down the center, between abundant arrangements of roses and orange blossom. Dozens of additional candles and sprays of delicate ferns decorate the room. New curtains of shimmering Chinese silk, the cost of which would be beyond the purse of anyone else Cai knows, gleam at the darkening windows. A fire glows in the expansive hearth. The whole effect is opulent and extravagant. Amidst it all sits Mrs. Cadwaladr, whose best efforts at sophistication have not come off well. Reverend Cadwaladr rises to his feet. His face is even ruddier than usual, a fact Cai attributes to the glossy claret in his glass.

“Our Ffynnon Las friends have arrived.” Isolda signals to the servants to fetch the first course.

Cai notices immediately that Morgana stiffens at the sight of Reverend Cadwaladr. He takes her hand and leads her to her chair as greetings are exchanged. He is surprised to find that the reverend, for his part, barely acknowledges Morgana’s presence. He supposes the preacher might share his own nervousness at his wife’s unpredictable nature. After all, on each occasion the reverend has encountered her at chapel there has been some manner of scene or upset. As Morgana takes her seat Cai has the wearying feeling that the evening will be a long one.

As if to compensate for his reserve toward Morgana, Reverend Cadwaladr’s manner toward Cai is effusive. “Mr. Jenkins, a pleasure indeed to have the opportunity to dine with you before the drove,” he says. “Mrs. Cadwaladr and I wish you the very best in your endeavor, naturally. As do all in Tregaron. A great deal rests with you, young man. Your first drove as
porthmon,
and the hopes and livelihoods of many hereabouts in your hands.…’Tis a burdensome responsibility, is it not?”

“I try not to see it as such,” Cai tells him. “I prefer to put my attention to the practical matter of the drove itself. I must not allow myself to be distracted from the task at hand.”

“Ah!” Mrs. Cadwaladr leaves off plucking grapes from the silver platter beside her to express her concern, “but I hear that your wife is to accompany you on the drove. Will that not, in itself, be a distraction, Mr. Jenkins?”

“I value Morgana’s support. And she is a capable horsewoman. I know of no other who could manage the ponies as well.”

Mrs. Cadwaladr shakes her head. “But is it seemly? Your own wife, the mistress of Ffynnon Las … I mean to say … working as a drover…” She leaves the thought unfinished, her expression clearly showing how distasteful she finds the idea.

Cai glances at Morgana and can see that she is already tiring of being discussed as if she were not present. She frowns at him darkly.

Isolda is quick to support Cai. “I’m sure Mr. Jenkins has given the matter considerable thought,” she says. “It is not for us to tell him how to organize his drove. Nor his marriage.”

There is something mocking in the way she says this, but there is nothing in her words at which to take offense. Nonetheless, Cai senses a needling, a lurking criticism which only increases his discomfort. He has little time to dwell on her tone, however, as the reverend has chosen another subject to voice his opinion on, with his customary volume and lack of tact.

“I hear you have acquired some fine new cattle to replace the ones lost. I am told they look very well indeed and stand to make you a fair profit. How fortunate you are, Mr. Jenkins, to have found such a kind benefactor in Mrs. Bowen.”

Cai can feel Morgana’s gaze burning into him. How could Isolda have spoken to Cadwaladr of what he understood to be a private arrangement? He is too shocked to be angry.

“Oh,” Isolda laughs lightly, “I would hardly call myself a benefactor, Reverend. My loan to Mr. Jenkins was merely a neighborly gesture, and sound business sense. I have every confidence I will receive a good return on my investment.”

Cai forces himself to respond, though he can feel himself coloring beneath Morgana’s scrutiny. This is not how he would have had his arrangement with Isolda revealed, but it is too late now.

“I am, of course, extremely grateful for Mrs. Bowen’s generosity,” he says as levelly as he is able. “I will indeed see to it that her faith in me proves justified.”

Their conversation is temporarily interrupted by the arrival of a fine game soup. The servants attend the diners with smooth efficiency. Mrs. Cadwaladr slurps noisily and declares the soup the finest she has ever put to her lips. Isolda tells them the pheasants and partridge were a gift from Mr. Evans the banker, who keeps a well-stocked shoot. Cai listens to the harmless dinner table chatter, but his eyes are on Morgana. She dips her spoon into the bowl in front of her, but does not raise it to her mouth. Instead she closes her eyes, putting her hand to her brow. Cai is horrified to see her turning pale as he watches. Has she been taken ill again? Is there to be a humiliating repeat of what occurred the very first occasion he took her out in society, when they attended chapel for the first time? Will he only ever be able to be off his guard with her when they are at home? Is he never to take her from the farm without this attendant disquiet?

Isolda has also noticed Morgana’s pallor.

“Why, Mrs. Jenkins, are you feeling unwell? Here, sip some water.”

“What is the matter with her?” asks Mrs. Cadwaladr, not allowing her concern to for one second keep her from her soup.

“Morgana?” Cai leans across the table, but cannot reach her through the array of silver and flowers. “Morgana?”

She opens her eyes, panic showing in them. She drops her spoon and snatches up her napkin, pressing it to her mouth, swaying slightly in her chair. Cai springs to his feet and hurries round the table.

“My wife is feeling faint. Is there somewhere she could lie down for a short while, perhaps?”

Isolda gets up, snapping her fingers at her servants. “Of course. Poor thing. It is a little warm in here. I ought not to have had the fire lit. I will have Anwen take her to the chaise in the morning room.”

“I will go with her,” Cai says, but even as he does so, Morgana all but pushes him away.

“There is no need.” Isolda puts an arm around Morgana as she hastens from the room, passing her into the care of her maid who has arrived at the door. “Anwen will take excellent care of your wife. I am certain she would not want you to disturb your meal. Stay with us. A woman needs time to compose herself in these circumstances and does not require a man fussing about her while she does so. Is that not the case, Mrs. Jenkins?”

Before Cai can protest further Morgana is led from the room, the door shut behind her, and he is ushered back to his seat. He takes a long gulp of wine, and as he does so he catches sight of a somehow significant look passing between Isolda and the reverend. Puzzled, he tries to rekindle his appetite, reasoning that the sooner the meal is eaten, the sooner the tortuous evening will be at an end.

Mrs. Cadwaladr finishes her soup before anyone else and falls to regaling Isolda with account of her daughters, a subject upon which, it seems, she could enthuse all night. Cai feels a hand on his sleeve and turns to see Reverend Cadwaladr regarding him earnestly. For once, he speaks quietly, so that their conversation does not disturb that of the women present.

“Mr. Jenkins, I feel compelled to raise a delicate matter with you.”