The Winter Witch (4 page)

He glances across at her. This morning she has chosen to sit opposite rather than beside him, the better to balance the trap, he suspects. He likes that he is able to look at her more easily, but misses the closeness of having her next to him. He found it surprisingly difficult, the night before, to stay so long talking with Dafydd, knowing that Morgana was upstairs. But he had deemed it sensible to leave her alone. He would not force his attentions on her. He did not want their coming together to be an act of duty or of right. He would be patient. When he had, at last, crept into the small bedroom, the sight of her sleeping had stirred in him not passion but sympathy. She looked so vulnerable. He had allowed himself to watch her for a moment longer before settling onto the lumpy armchair beneath a wool blanket. There was, after all, no rush. They had their whole lives together.

“There!” He is unable to hide his own delight at seeing the farm again. “That is Ffynnon Las.” He points as he speaks, at a collection of stone buildings still some distance away. He watches Morgana’s reaction. He is already beginning to be able to read the minute changes in her expression. She does not gasp nor gawp but her eyebrows lift a fraction, her eyes refocusing, her lips parting the tiniest bit. The pony, sensing home, quickens its pace, and soon they are turning up the driveway to the farm. Now Morgana becomes quite animated. She turns in her seat, twisting this way and that the better to take in the sloping meadows, the oak copse, the stream-fed pond with its feathery willow, the rise of the hill behind the house, the sheltered yard of barns, and, at last, the house itself.

Ffynnon Las stands as it has done for more than a century, its broad back to the mountain to which it clings, its wide frontage, two stories high, with tall windows positioned to face southeast, to greet the morning sun and shelter from the northerly winds of winter. It is not a pretty house, but a handsome one. Its proportions are not grand but are generous, and not designed for function alone. The blue-grey stone of which the building is constructed is softened by a climbing honeysuckle which scrambles unchecked above the front door, fringing the ground-floor windows with narrow leaves and blooms of palest yellow. Even the dark slate roof shimmers cheerfully beneath the summer sun. The entrance is approached through a little iron gate and along a flagstone path, either side of which are small patches of unkempt lawn, and beds of roses and shrubs apparently happy in their state of near neglect.

Cai stops the fidgeting pony outside the front gate.

“Well?” he cannot resist asking. “What do you think of the place?”

He can see by her expression that she is surprised. What had she imagined, he wonders. Some lowly longhouse, perhaps? Nothing more than a croft for her to share with the beasts? He finds he is quietly pleased by her surprise.

Morgana turns to him and he fancies she is about to smile broadly when the moment is interrupted by a raucous barking from within the house. The front door is flung wide and Cai’s two corgis come scampering out, the size of their voices much greater than the little dogs themselves. They run around the trap, circling it in a woofing blur of fox-red and chalk-white fur, their short legs and bushy tails moving ceaselessly. Now Morgana looks truly amazed.

Cai laughs. “That’ll do, Bracken! Meg, stop your noise! Not the sort of dogs you are used to, I suppose?”

She shakes her head, hopping down from the cart to allow the excited creatures to greet her properly.

“You won’t find so many collies up here,” he explains. “Corgis are heelers, better with the cattle, see?”

Cai enjoys watching her obvious delight in his dogs and it is a minute or so before he becomes aware he, too, is being watched. He turns to see Mrs. Jones standing in the doorway.

“Cai Jenkins,” she shakes her head at him, “just how long are you planning to let your bride be bothered by those wretched creatures before you show her into her new home?
Duw, bach,
what are we to do with you?”

Heulwen Eluned Pryce-Jones, who has always insisted on being plain Mrs. Jones to all and everyone, is a woman as round as she is tall, and as good-natured as it is possible for a person to be. Her width bears testament to her love of good food, just as the lines on her face and dimples in her cheeks speak of her consistent cheerfulness. As always, she is wrapped in a spotless apron, her mop cap neat and crisply starched, a ready smile lighting up eyes that belie the threescore winters they have seen. Not for the first time Cai questions whether or not he would have survived the dark days following Catrin’s death if it had not been for Mrs. Jones’s determination to see to it that he did.

Without thinking, he reaches out a hand to Morgana. “Come and meet Mrs. Jones,” he tells her.

She stops petting the dogs and stands up. She hesitates only briefly before taking his hand and allowing herself to be led down the path to the house. Cai is startled by the feel of her weightless hand in his and finds that, when the moment comes to do so, he is reluctant to let it go.

“Mrs. Jones, may I present to you my wife, Morgana Jenkins. Morgana, this is my aunt and my housekeeper, Mrs. Jones.”

“Ooh, there’s pretty you are! Pardon my manners,” Mrs. Jones bobs a curtsey with some difficulty, her stout legs unhelpfully stiff. Morgana hastens forward to help her up, shaking her head, clearly embarrassed to be shown such deference. The two women look at one another closely. At last Mrs. Jones claps her hands together in glee. “Well,
Duw, Duw,
” she says quietly, “’tis about time happiness came to Ffynnon Las.” She beams at Cai, who looks at his feet.

“I’ll fetch the luggage,” he says.

“Never mind luggage!” Mrs. Jones is scandalized. “Isn’t there something else you should be doing?” When he looks blankly back at her she continues, “Well, carry your new bride over the threshold, Mr. Jenkins!”

Cai opens his mouth to protest. He looks at Morgana and notices her take the smallest step backward. Would she really want him to do that? To take her in his arms and carry her into the house? Like a proper bride. His hesitation stretches the moment into awkwardness, so that now he could not make such a flamboyant gesture, even though he would like to. Instead he mutters something about the journey having been long and tiring and hurries back to unload the trap.

*   *   *

For a second I think he will do it; will step forward, sweep me off my feet, and transport me across the threshold as tradition dictates. But he does not. What am I to make of his reluctance to hold me? Can it be that he does not see me as a wife in all senses? Am I merely a necessity, then? A requirement of his status as head drover? Is that to be my purpose in life and no more? I might not want his attentions forced upon me, but that does not mean I wish to exist in some manner of limbo, neither maid nor mistress. What can his intentions for me be?

I confess to being astonished by Ffynnon Las. It is not the humble farmstead I had supposed it to be, but a house of some importance. And a housekeeper! It seems the lack of meat on his bones is not a result of the absence of a cook after all. And Mrs. Jones herself clearly relishes her food. Why does he remain so slight, so insubstantial, despite this good woman’s care? Seeing that I am not to be carried into my new home and that my husband is occupied with the luggage, it is she who takes it upon herself to bid me enter.

“Come in, and welcome. The Lord knows it is we women who must act while men dither.”

She leads me into a wide hall which has a sweeping staircase of polished wood rising from it. To all sides there are doors, so that I do not know how I will ever know my way. What use can one man have for so many rooms? I am taken into what Mrs. Jones insists is the parlor. The tall shutters are open so that sunlight floods the room. There is an ample fireplace, neatly laid, and a sumptuous couch, and a ticking grandfather clock, but the most striking piece of furniture is an enormous oak dresser which displays more china than I have ever seen in my life. The patterns and colors on each plate and cup are quite exquisite, so that I step closer, lost in the swirls and twists of briar roses, ivies, trailing blossoms, and coiling vines.

Cai comes to stand behind me.

“You like Catrin’s china, then? She was so proud of it. ’Twas her mother’s, see?” He pauses to gaze around the room as if seeing it properly for the first time. “I don’t come in here much. I’m not given to entertaining.”

An awkwardness joins us in the room and he hurries out, Mrs. Jones on his heel, both determinedly telling me of the various comforts the house has to offer. I am led from room to room until I am dizzy with gazing about me and begin to feel stifled by the stale air, longing for the outdoors. And there is something else, something which tugs at the hem of my attention. I sense it as I stand in the doorway of the master bedroom. There is a coldness in the air, and a strange heaviness to it, which seems to have no obvious cause. I have little time to consider this curiosity further, however, as my guides usher me on. At last we arrive in the kitchen. It is clear, whatever might have been the case in the past, that this is now where life is lived at Ffynnon Las. The fire in the well-equipped range is lit and throws out a welcoming warmth. There is a long scrubbed table, an assortment of chairs, a high-backed settle, hooks for meat and pots, and a smaller dresser sporting only plain pottery and some pewter. In the window there is a cushioned seat, worn and furry with dog hairs. Indeed, the minute they gain admittance, both corgis take up their positions, noses pressed against the glass, eyes brightly scanning the approach for intruders.

“Well, now,” says Cai, “I must check on the stock. I’ll leave you to…” he hesitates, as unsure as I am as to precisely what it is I am to do. “… Mrs. Jones could show you where things are…” he trails off, knowing very well that I have just seen where everything is. She attempts to rescue him.

“Perhaps Mrs. Jenkins might like to rest awhile?” she offers. “After her journey.”

He looks at me and I know that he knows I am not tired. I have done nothing for two days, why would I rest? The discomfort in his eyes and the way he fidgets where he stands give him away. But still he says, “Of course. You’ll want to put away your things. Rest … Mrs. Jones can help you prepare something for our meal.” He gives up now, turning for the door. The open door. I clench my fists. The door slams shut.

“Oh!” cries Mrs. Jones. “What a draught do run through this house.”

Cai looks back at me. He sees something in my face that makes him think, makes him consider. I hold his gaze. My mother’s entreaties come into my head.
Do not be willful, Morgana. You must do as your husband wishes.
Must I? Must I stay in this pointlessly big house pretending I care to cook while he walks the hills? I tilt my head a little to one side, asking. Understanding lifts his features.

“Or would you prefer to accompany me, perhaps?”

I give the smallest of nods, and the door swings slowly open. Cai and Mrs. Jones stand catching flies as I stride past them, the corgis running at my feet.

We leave the house and cross the small meadow beside the house. The sun is so bright it causes the horizon to shimmer. I follow Cai and we scale the steep slope, leaning into the incline. The day is warm, but not unpleasantly so, and a soft breeze cools my skin as we ascend. The dogs scuttle ahead, noses down, big ears pricked, their tails flagging behind them. At first Cai fills our steps with chatter, but the farther we get from the house, and the nearer to the summit, the quieter he becomes. I do not think this is because he needs his breath for walking, for he has an easy gait practiced at climbing the mountains, and lean muscles I now see working beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. This is no real effort for him. Rather I think he is affected by his environment, at once calmed and stimulated by the freshness of the air and the limitlessness of our horizons. As am I.

We pass through another gateway, some distance above the house now, and the quality of the grass under our feet alters. No longer are there the lush green blades of the lower pasture. There are no flowering clovers here, but tough, wiry growth, tangled at the roots, clinging tightly to the thin layer of earth that covers the rocky hillside. The soil itself is peaty, with a spring in it that will turn to bog in places in the rains of autumn. I can smell the bitterness of the peat, almost taste it. As we at last crest the hill, skylarks whirr and flit beside us, alerting each other to our presence. Some way off to the north I hear the plaintive cry of the lapwing, its reedy upward notes seeming to ceaselessly question life and its own tenuous place in it. We negotiate a patch of sharp-edged rocks and Cai offers me his hand. Does he consider me so feeble, so fragile, as to require assistance to step over a small pile of stones? I remind myself he does not know me. It is not entirely unreasonable he should imagine me to be so … female. I let him take my hand. Just for a moment. Mam would be pleased.

Cai stops and raises his arm.

“Now, you can make out our boundary from here. Those Scots pines to the west, see? Then as far north as the beginning of Cwm Canon—you can see the color of the land changes where the bog starts. To the south, well, the meadows below the house you saw as we came up from Lampeter…”

He falls silent as he must surely realize I am not listening. I do not need words to direct me to see what surrounds me. What vistas! What landscape! Different from home, from the rocky escarpments and dramatic sweeps of the Black Mountains. Here are rolling uplands, with grazing to the very tops. We are well above the tree line, but I can see wooded valleys yonder, and here and there a tenacious rowan bush or twisted blackthorn punctuates the moorland. The ground spreads away, pale green with whiskery bents of tawny gold, patches of purple heather, clusters of gorse still flowering yellow, and whimberries low and broad-leafed, promising berries later in the year. The breeze is stiffer here, disturbing the tufty heads of the cotton grass which grows amid the damper patches of soil, where tiny streams and ancient springs will give a reliable supply of water, even in a summer drought. The only dwellings visible are far away, dolls’ houses set upon the lower reaches of the hills or huddled together at the leeward foot of the mountains. A sudden, sharp cry above our heads makes us all, dogs included, look up. A flash of copper glinting in the sun, a fast-moving streak of color, at first too swift to be properly discerned, quickly reveals itself to be a sizable bird of prey.