The Winter Witch (8 page)

Now I notice the corgis curled at his feet. Bracken opens one eye, recognizes me, surely more by scent than sight in the dimly lit room, gives a halfhearted wag of his tail and goes back to his slumbers.

Hush, little one! Do not wake your master.

Cai is sleeping deeply. I am close enough to reach out and touch him. He looks younger, somehow. In repose his features lose something of the sternness that I see. Or at least, I see it when he looks at me. Am I so perpetually bothersome? His collarless shirt is of good quality, and that is a fine woolen waistcoat. I can see the fob and chain of a gold watch. He likes to look … respectable, I think. Even when at home, tending his livestock. Not the image some of the drovers have, with their long coats and rough ways. I admit, though, he has always presented himself well. On the occasions when I saw him at Crickhowell market he was well turned out, despite being on the move with the herds. Mam and I sold cheese there when we could, buying cheap milk from Spencer Blaencwm’s dairy where we worked. Mam would pick wild garlic and together we would churn it into creamy rounds to sell. Business was always good when the drovers came through. That is where Cai first saw me. He could have been under no illusions as to what I was. A dairy maid with a sometime cheese stall at the smallest market in the shire. He would come to inspect our wares on the evening of his arrival, and in the morning before the drove went on its way. Then he would visit on his return journey, when he was unencumbered by his many charges. A year and a half of passing through and pausing. Snatched moments in which to convince himself he had found a suitable bride. And to convince Mam my future lay with him. I will say, he purchased a large amount of cheese! Perhaps it was that which led him to believe I might be capable of cooking. I recall he did his best to look prosperous, sensible, dependable.

And now look at him. Longer eyelashes than a man should be blessed with. Skin tanned from the outdoor life, but not yet weathered. His hair is streaked gold by the summer sun. There are several years between our ages, yet as he sleeps I see the boy in him. Unsure of himself. Vulnerable. Oh! He is stirring. I have no wish to be found standing here, watching him. He mumbles something, his eyes still closed. Both dogs lift their heads from their paws. I hasten from the kitchen and back to my own room.

*   *   *

Cai comes blearily to his senses. His arm swings over the side of the chair, numb from sleeping awkwardly. Bracken licks his hand. He struggles to sit up. There is a fearful crick in his neck. Before he can properly open his eyes he becomes aware of a presence. A shadow falling on him, cast by a figure standing close. Morgana? He had been dreaming of her, he remembers now. In his dream she appeared like a wraith. She had leaned forward and touched his face, silently watching him, smiling at him. His own voice seems to have temporarily left him as he tries to form her name.

“Mr. Jenkins!” Mrs. Jones is not best pleased to find he has spent the night in the kitchen. Again. “
Duw,
what are we to do with you?”

“Ah, Mrs. Jones…” Not Morgana, then. Just a dream. Reality stands stoutly in front of him in the resolutely substantial form of his housekeeper.

“There you are again with your not bothering to get to your bed. Robbed yourself of a proper night’s sleep for no good reason.” She puts her hands on her hips and tutts loudly, shaking her head. “And what is Mrs. Jenkins to make of such behavior? Have you stopped to consider how it do appear to her?”

Cai opens his mouth to speak but hesitates. He was about to remind her that they did not, as yet, share a room, so that Morgana was most likely unaware of where he had spent the night. But, somehow, he has no wish to enter a discussion centering on his marital sleeping arrangements. It is too sensitive a subject, and one for which he has not yet found a satisfactory course of action. He gets to his feet, nudging corgis out of the way with his boot.

“Did Maldwyn drop you off on his way to work?”

“As he does most mornings.” Mrs. Jones shoots him a look that says she will not be so easily put off course.

“He’s a hard-working lad, Mrs. Jones. You’ve reared him well.” He busies himself rattling the scuttle as if checking for coals.

“No doubt you’ll have sons of your own to manage one day. Soon, perhaps, if you do treat that pretty new wife of yours properly.”

Cai will not entertain thinking about what, precisely, Mrs. Jones might mean by properly. “She is exactly that, Mrs. Jones—new. And as such she should be allowed time to settle in before … before…”

Mrs. Jones waits, eyebrows raised.

Cai snatches up the buckets. “I’ll fetch the coal,” he says.

“The coal can wait.” She steps to one side so that he would have to retreat and walk back around the table to leave the room. “I may not be a woman of the world, Mr. Jenkins, but I do know this much. Not too many sons were ever conceived while the master of the house slept in a kitchen chair and his wife kept a lonely bed upstairs.”

“Mrs. Jones, for pity’s sake. We’ve been married five minutes…”

“Five minutes, five years, what’s the difference?”

“As I say, Morgana needs a little time.”

“You may be right about that.” She nods slowly. “Or it may be that
you
are the one who needs time.”

“Me?”

The housekeeper’s face softens, her arms falling by her sides, her hands plucking at her apron. “You lost one wife to childbirth,
bachgen,
it would take an uncommon steadfast soul not to fear for the next. At least to begin with.”

Cai is taken aback. It is not a consideration that has entered his head, but now that he hears it spoken aloud, plainly as only Mrs. Jones can, he wonders if there might not be some tiny grain of truth in it. The joy of discovering that Catrin was with child and the happy anticipation of being a father had so swiftly turned to the ghastliness of Catrin’s unsuccessful labor, and the loss of both wife and babe. Does he, somewhere deep and hidden, harbor the fear that a similar fate could befall Morgana? It is possible. But, of course, as long as they sleep in separate rooms, as long as he leaves her to “settle in,” as long as they are not properly man and wife …

With mounting desperation he casts about for a subject which might divert Mrs. Jones from their present topic.

“We had a visitor yesterday morning.” He is fairly certain this will pique her interest.

“Oh?” She pauses as she moves toward the pantry.

“Yes, very early it was. We were barely up.” He allows this information to sink in for a moment, hoping the “we” will placate her, give her reason to hope all is well. Then he continues, “Yes, we were quite taken by surprise, having only just finished our bacon and eggs.” He sees no harm in letting her assume, as he knows she will, that it was Morgana who prepared the breakfast.

“
Duw,
who would be calling at such an hour?”

“Mrs. Bowen, out riding to take advantage of the pretty morning. Indeed, she has offered to take Morgana out one day soon. Says she has a horse that she believes will suit her very well.”

To this Mrs. Jones offers no reply. Her uncharacteristic wordlessness has Cai wondering if Morgana’s silence is in some way catching.

“Don’t you think that civil of her?” he asks.

“Oh indeed,” Mrs. Jones agrees flatly. “Most civil,” she says, but her face says otherwise.

Cai frowns. He knows the two women dislike each other, but surely Mrs. Jones cannot detect anything but kindness in such an offer. He feels his patience beginning to fray around the edges. Another thought comes to him, a matter in which he would in fact be glad of some assistance. “I am taking Morgana to chapel tomorrow.”

“To Soar-y-Mynydd? Oh, yes! An excellent plan, Mr. Jenkins.”

“I’m glad you approve,” he says, not bothering to hide the barb. “It occurred to me that, having lived a quiet life, without much in the way of society, so to speak, she might not have anything suitable to wear, see? So, I thought it sensible to let her take a look at Catrin’s dresses, see if she might find something. Do you think she’d like that?” He turns to look again at Mrs. Jones and is surprised to find her eyes brimming with tears. For a minute he thinks he has been horribly insensitive, judged the thing wrong, and will offend everyone with the idea. But no, they are tears of affection, and relief, he believes.

“Oh,
bachgen
! I do think she will like it very well.”

“Good, then. There it is. Would you help her? Take her to the end room where the clothes are stored. She might welcome your assistance.”

“No, no. It must come from you. I could not possibly…”

“But, another woman, in such matters…?”

Mrs. Jones is still shaking her head. “It would not be right. It is for you to do,” she insists.

At that moment the dogs jump up, wagging, and trot to greet Morgana as she enters on silent feet. Cai has never known anyone so capable of appearing without the slightest sound, so that even the corgis with their huge ears seem surprised.

“Good morning to you, Mrs. Jenkins. Well,
Duw,
time is marching on without us and here I am not even put the kettle on yet.” The housekeeper sets about her tasks, but not before she has nodded her encouragement to Cai.

He clears his throat.

“Ah, Morgana, I was just saying to Mrs. Jones. Well, it’s chapel tomorrow, see? People hereabouts like to dress up smart. Nothing showy, mind, that wouldn’t do at all. No. Well, it occurred to me there’s a whole trunk of dresses upstairs. Catrin’s, they were. And they’re not doing anyone any good locked away up there, are they?”

Mrs. Jones stares at him openmouthed, holding the empty kettle aloft, halted in her actions by the hopelessness of her employer’s efforts.

Cai is painfully aware he is making a poor job of things.

“Please, come with me,” he says at last, hastening from the room, a puzzled Morgana following. They climb the stairs and he leads her to the far end of the landing. The door to the room is not locked, but the lack of air inside suggests it is not often disturbed. He goes over to a heavy oak trunk at the foot of the bed and lifts the creaking lid. For a moment he remains transfixed by the sight of Catrin’s dress with forget-me-nots. He had particularly liked her in that one. He gathers himself and starts pulling garments from the box and laying them on the bed.

“They are in good condition, mind. Mrs. Jones has looked after them since … Oh, this is very nice, don’t you think?” He holds up a silk gown the color of crushed raspberries, turning to see Morgana’s reaction. Her face is not difficult to read, for delight is written all over it. She reaches out tentatively. “Go on,” he tells her, “take it.”

She does so, a sigh of pleasure escaping her as her fingers touch the shimmering silk. Was that a sound, he wonders. Did she really utter a noise, however small? He observes her closely now, fascinated. He wonders he is not disturbed to see Catrin’s things so pulled about, so scrutinized, so hungrily pored over, but he is not. He finds it … thrilling, he decides. So much so that after a while he becomes uncomfortable watching her. He stands, stepping away from the bed.

“I’ll leave you to it then, shall I? Yes. Take your time. You are a little smaller than Catrin was, but I’m sure Mrs. Jones can be pressed into service with a needle if needs be.”

She is still holding the silk dress as if she never wants to let it go. She turns to face him, eyes bright, a smile of pure joy rearranging her features.

“You’ll try them on, then?” he asks.

She nods, vigorously this time. Happily. And Cai is happy, too. It strikes him, as he goes out of the room, how happiness descends at the most unexpected of times, arriving in the most unlikely of places.

*   *   *

Mrs. Jones does indeed prove to be fairly expert with the needle, even more so than my mam. She approves of my choice of dress for chapel and helps me take it in a little at the waist and turn up the hem. She kneels at my feet, checking the altered fall of the skirts.

“Oh, that is much better. It could do with tucks in the sleeves, mind,” she tells me, “but I think it will serve for tomorrow. I’ll take a look at the others you’ve picked out when we’ve more time.” She smiles up at me. “You do look a picture,
merched,
” she says, and I am grateful she has stopped calling me Mrs. Jenkins. “You’ll look very fine at chapel and give all those sharp-tongued gossips something to splutter about, see?”

We finish our needlework and, a little reluctantly, I slip back into my old clothes. I admit to being surprised at how much I love my new garments. For a moment, when first Cai suggested they become mine, I was unsure. Would Catrin approve? To have her clothes worn by the woman who has taken her place? But, when Cai began pulling the dresses from their storage place, when he held them up for me to examine, when I touched them and felt the cool cotton, warm wool, and soft silk, oh! What wonderful things they are. And I detected not the slightest coolness, not the merest hint of taint accompanying them. Whatever might be the cause of the resident chill in this house, the unwelcoming presence in Cai’s room, it does not, it seems, extend in any way to the clothes once owned by the first Mrs. Jenkins.

Mrs. Jones pads down the stairs, puffing slightly with the effort even of the descent as her legs trouble her so. I follow. On the kitchen table Cai has left a rabbit shot this morning. I stroke its fur. It is so soft my fingers barely register it at all.

“I’m going to make a pie for supper,” says Mrs. Jones, tying a fresh apron on top of her pinafore. “Very partial to a bit of rabbit pie, is Mr. Jenkins. Do you enjoy it?”

I shrug slowly, my gesture explaining this is something I have never been offered before. Mrs. Jones’s face shows first surprise, then pity.

“Well,
Duw, Duw,
” she mutters. “Would you like me to show you how I make it, or are you squeamish, perhaps?” she asks, seeing my hand on the animal.

By way of answer I snatch up a cooking pot in one hand and take the rabbit by the ears in my other, dangling it over the pan. Laughter from the doorway makes us both start.