The Winter Witch Page 4

  “A red kite,” Cai tells me. “There are plenty of them up here.”

  I am accustomed to sparrow hawks and buzzards but have never before seen a bird so striking in composition and color. I watch it until it has passed out of view.

  “Shall we go on?” Cai asks me. “The herd will be near the dew ponds, shouldn’t wonder.”

  I look at him and see my own excitement reflected back in his reaction to my face. I know I cannot hide how moved I am by this wondrous place. He smiles, pleased. And I smile back. He is surprised, I can tell.

  “Aye,” he agrees. “They are surely something special, these hills. Some people think the place bleak. Unwelcoming. Some call it ‘the green desert,’ ’tis so empty. For myself, well, I think no man could wish for better.”

  On this we are most definitely agreed. He seems reluctant to break the moment, but at last bids me follow him and continue our walk. A farther half mile brings us to another slope. Here we are traversing the side of a smaller, steeper hill, and the path is barely wide enough for a cart. At one point it turns quite sharply. As Cai walks he dislodges a stone which shoots off the track and bounces down the incline, all the way to the stony riverbed below. I had not realized how high we have climbed, and watching the rock disappear such a distance makes me feel giddy. It is not a cliff, as such, for the surface is covered in tenacious grass, but the angle would make it too steep to ride or even walk down, and to trip would mean descending the two hundred feet or so to the bottom without hope of stopping.

  “Got to be careful here, mind,” says Cai. “A cousin of mine lost his life being casual with that drop.”

  At last we arrive at the dew ponds, and the herd comes into view. I am unable to hide my surprise. These are not the large, dairy cattle I have been used to. They are much smaller, entirely black, their coats, even at this time of year, quite shaggy and rough, their horns short and sharp. They catch our scent on the breeze and raise their heads, shifting and turning to face us. As we draw closer one or two of them back away or hide themselves behind their bolder cousins. The whole group seem restless, to me, clearly agitated by the proximity of the two of us, and of the dogs, who set up a yapping which does nothing to quell the nerves of the beasts.

  “Hush now, Meg! Bracken!” Cai adds a shrill whistle which quietens the little hounds and brings them to his side. The cattle wait, watching.

  “They can be skittish,” he tells me. “Never take their cooperation for granted, not a Welsh Black. They are hardy, mind. There’s none other would do so well up here, in all weathers, on such sparse grazing.” His expression softens, and I see more than pride written there. Affection, could it be? “The dogs will gather them easy enough, mind. You’ll see.”

  I look from the comical, stumpy corgis to the powerful wary beasts and wonder that such a thing might be true. I step slowly forward toward the nearest young heifer. She snorts, lowering her broad head.

  Be at ease, my crow black friend.

  She hesitates, and then edges forward to sniff my upturned palm. I look back at Cai who smiles, surprise showing on his face. I find myself thinking that he is attractive when he smiles.

  We leave the cattle and walk along the high ridge to where his other herd will be grazing. He did not make much of the fact that he is a breeder of Welsh Mountain ponies, but I am eager to see them, particularly if they are all as feisty and wild-looking as the little stallion who pulled our trap all the way from Cwmdu. But our journey is interrupted by the rattle of wheels down in the valley. The sound is incongruous up here, seeming to come from another life altogether. Cai shades his eyes against the sun and squints at the ribbon of road below. I, too, search and find a smart carriage and pair pulling into the driveway to Ffynnon Las. Cai’s shoulders slump, only fractionally, but enough to be noticed. He catches me watching him.

  “Mrs. Cadwaladr, with the Misses Cadwaladr no doubt. We must go down.”

  I hang back. I have no desire to leave the mountain, and certainly no wish to greet a carriage full of strangers. He pauses, aware of my reluctance. Even so he says, quite firmly, “We must go down.”

  * * *

  By the time Cai and Morgana reach the house Mrs. Cadwaladr and her two daughters are already installed in the parlor awaiting the tea Mrs. Jones has bustled off to make.

  “Ah, Mr. Jenkins. Forgive our calling unannounced. It is our natural impatience! We could not wait a moment longer to set eyes upon your new bride. And here she is! Oh! So very young. Child, step forward. Let us look at you. Well, well, Mr. Jenkins, what have you found for yourself here?”

  Mrs. Cadwaladr, as is her habit, sports a bonnet overly decorated with ribbon, a dress overly fancy for the hour and occasion, and a quantity of rouge ill-advised for someone of a naturally ruddy coloring. Her choice of puce fabric, with her daughters dressed in paler imitations of her own outfit, is not a happy one. Cai is put in mind of a row of summer puddings. He attempts to make introductions, but is quickly drowned out by his visitor’s loud exclamations.

  “These are my girls, Bronwen and Siân. Young ladies of evident elegance and appeal, I am sure you will agree. Neither married as yet—’tis a mystery to us all. Say only that they are careful in their selection of a husband. Now, girl, tell me your name. Speak up, I cannot abide mumbling.”

  When Morgana gives no answer Cai hurries to explain.

  “My wife … Morgana … does not speak, Mrs. Cadwaladr.”

  “Does not?” The woman is astonished. “Has she no tongue, perhaps? No capability of producing sound? Some childhood illness, maybe?” Her daughters crowd forward now, their curiosity provoked by the unexpected presence of an oddity.

  “She has a voice,” he tells her. “That is, she is able to speak but has not done so for many years.”

  This information is greeted by a stunned silence, as if everyone has now, for a brief moment, been robbed of the power of speech. Cai glances anxiously at Morgana and is pleased to see her raising her chin. The movement is fractional, but suggests courage, he feels.

  “Well, Mr. Jenkins, I find this hard to comprehend. A man such as yourself, with all the qualities and attributes of a gentleman, and many an eligible young lady in the vicinity”—here Bronwen and Siân have the good grace to blush—“that you should encumber yourself with a person so … lacking.”

  Cai bristles.

  “I do not regard myself as encumbered, Mrs. Cadwaladr. Nor do I consider Morgana in any way lacking. She has the ability to communicate, in her own manner, when it is required.”

  “Required?” Mrs. Cadwaladr is so unsettled she pulls a fan from her bodice and begins flapping it in a way that is both agitated and agitating. “And when, pray, might it not be required of a wife, of the mistress of such a house, of a person, indeed, who intends taking any part in society, when might it not be required that she communicate? Forgive my bluntness, Mr. Jenkins, but I fear you have made a rare error of judgment, and one that I believe you will, in the passage of time, come to regret.”

  Cai is about to protest when they are joined by Mrs. Jones carrying a tray of tea. There is a deal of fuss as the refreshments are placed on the table and everyone finds somewhere to sit. The corgis cause some alarm by attempting to alight on Bronwen’s lap. Cai sends the dogs out with the housekeeper. He catches Morgana’s eye and nods at the teapot. Somewhat thrown, she nonetheless succeeds in filling cups and passing them around. Mrs. Cadwaladr does not take her eyes from the new Mrs. Jenkins for an instant.

  “Ah, what pretty china. It belonged to your first wife, I believe? Such a tragedy. Catrin was so lively, so charming. I always enjoyed her company. And her conversation.”

  Siân and her sister stifle giggles. A frown settles on Morgana’s face. Cai is not sure why, but now he feels nervous of her. She is, he decides, unpredictable. And whilst he himself does not care for his visitor or her vacuous offspring, she has a certain standing in the community, and, experience has taught him, such people can, if provoked, cause trouble. He clears his
throat, ignoring her comment, and assumes the most cheerful tone of voice he can muster.

  “Morgana, our guest is the wife of Reverend Emrys Cadwaladr. He is very well known hereabouts. His ministry is avidly followed. You will hear him preach come Sunday when we travel up to Soar-y-Mynydd chapel.”

  “Oh, you plan to take her out in company, Mr. Jenkins? Do you think that wise?” asks Mrs. Cadwaladr, her cup raised to her lips.

  Cai feels the heat of anger rising within him and struggles to be civil.

  “Naturally Morgana will attend chapel” is all he trusts himself to say.

  His visitor smiles much, much too sweetly. “Well, if you insist. I expect she will particularly enjoy the singing,” she says.

  Cai cannot be certain, but thinking about it later he will believe he heard Morgana’s teeth grinding just an instant before Mrs. Cadwaladr is taken by a fit of sneezing. A fit so vigorous, that she loses her grip on the teacup in her hand, causing it to upend and empty hot tea down her beribboned décolletage.

  3.

  Cai stirs, fitful, not asleep, and yet not properly awake. Instinctively he reaches out, his arm searching the other side of the bed. He finds only a cold, uninhabited space. Without opening his eyes he remembers, with a stab of pain still sharp after three long years. Catrin is dead. How long will his coming into consciousness each morning begin in this way, he wonders. His eyes spring open as a newer, brighter recollection comes to him. Morgana. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. Giving her her own room had seemed the right thing to do. The decent thing. The kind thing. Already he is questioning the wisdom of this decision. Last night, when he showed her to the room Mrs. Jones had taken such care to bedeck prettily, Morgana had seemed relieved, he thought. And why would she not? They live in modern times, after all. He would no more demand his rights as a husband from her than he would drag a woman in off the street. No, it is better this way. They will take time to get to know one another. She will have time to settle. Time to adjust to her new home and her new life. And, given that time, he hopes, affection will grow. But how long will such a process take? Might it have been simpler to bring her direct to the marriage bed and let proximity, the languor of sleep, and the closeness of the night assist their connection? She seems so very distant. So very shut off. Not just from him, he realizes, not particularly from him. Even so, he is concerned she will stay in her room along the hall forever if he does nothing to win her … her what? He is unsure of precisely what it is he expects of her. Love? Why should she love him? Hadn’t he told her and her mother that Catrin had been his one true love, and that he had no romantic illusions about his match with Morgana? Perhaps the girl thinks he does not find her attractive. Perhaps she will wait for some sign from him, some alteration in his behavior, that suggests he desires her.

  From outside, in the pond meadow, comes a yapping. The urgency of the bark suggests one of the corgis, Bracken, he thinks, is chasing a rabbit. But how does the dog come to be outside at such an early hour? Mrs. Jones went home after tea the previous day, her habit being to stay over only if the house would otherwise be empty. He has not heard the front door open or close, though it is heavy and customarily scrapes noisily against the flagstoned floor. Cai gets up, goes to the window, and opens the shutters.

  The sight that greets him moves him in so many ways that he is left in absolutely no doubt as to his own regard for his new wife. Morgana, still in her white, sleeveless nightgown, her feet bare, her hair loose and wild, runs in the meadow, the dogs dancing with her. She is illuminated by the shimmering dawn sunlight, so that at moments her garment is entirely transparent, and at others she appears in silhouette. She runs playfully, without regard for how she might look, for how her appearance might seem to others. She runs with the joy of a free spirit, a child of the hills, a person utterly comfortable with her surroundings and her place in them. Cai has never seen anyone so beautiful. In that instant he feels such a longing for her, such an acute, basic need for her, that he is quickly ashamed, feeling both embarrassed by his desire and guilty for it. Somehow, however unreasonably, his response makes him feel that he is betraying Catrin. He shakes thoughts of her away. If he is to make a success of his marriage to Morgana, he will have to let Catrin go. And he will have to do more than wait to woo this wild creature of the elements who dances barefoot beneath the sunrise.

  Hastily he washes, dresses, and goes downstairs. Mrs. Jones has left the larder well stocked. He puts a match to the expertly laid fire and swings the kettle arm over it to heat up. He fetches eggs and thick slices of bacon and sets about preparing breakfast. He cuts chunks of crusty bread and puts the board on the table. Years of living alone coupled with Mrs. Jones’s determination that he should not waste away from hunger have made a tolerable cook out of him. Soon the kettle is whistling and the aroma of frying bacon fills the room. Cai grabs the kettle handle without using the quilted mitt and burns his palm. Cursing and shaking his hand he dashes across the room to the pail of water by the dresser and plunges his hand into it. He is still muttering oaths when he looks up and sees Morgana standing in the doorway, watching him, her face giving away her amusement.

  “I was making us some breakfast,” he says unnecessarily. The dogs scurry in to greet him, jumping up, almost knocking him over as he crouches over the bucket. “Meg, that’ll do, now. Bracken, m’n, stop your nonsense.” The dogs take advantage of the fact that he is so much nearer the floor than usual and persist in trying to climb onto his lap and lick his face, so that he is eventually put off balance. “Daft creatures!” he scolds them but cannot hide the laughter in his voice. Morgana comes to stand over him and he sees that she is laughing, too. Silent mirth shakes her bare shoulders, and her face is glowing. To his surprise she offers him her hand. He takes it, clambering to his feet, shaking off the dogs. Morgana takes his injured hand now and turns it over, examining the burn.

  “’Tis nothing,” he tells her. “My own fault. The mark will only last long enough to remind me not to be so foolish again.” He does not wish to appear more stupid than he feels so he withdraws his hand, waving her toward the table. “Come, sit. The food is ready,” he says, moving back to the range to dish up the bacon and eggs.

  He takes his place opposite Morgana and pours her some tea. His strange new wife eats with undisguised relish. She devours every morsel on her plate, using her bread to mop up the last drop of golden yolk. Cai almost expects her to lick the platter, but she stops short of doing so. When she has finished she sits back in her chair and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Cai smiles, shaking his head. With her hair loose, unbrushed and tangled, her face flushed from running and from laughing, grease from the bacon smeared across her cheek, and her eyes bright from enjoyment of the meal, she looks as wild and uncivilized as it is possible to be. He has never seen a woman in such a condition.

  “Well, well, my wild one, what is everyone going to make of you?”

  She smiles broadly and gives a shrug that clearly says she gives not a tinker’s cuss for what anyone thinks of her.

  “I’m going to check on the ponies after breakfast. Would you like to come with me?”

  She nods vigorously, eagerly getting to her feet.

  “Whoa! Finish your tea first,” he laughs, then adds, “Might be a good idea to put some clothes on, too. Don’t want to frighten the horses, see?”

  Morgana looks down at her nightdress, as if she has been oblivious, all this time, to her state of undress. She blushes becomingly.

  The moment is interrupted by a knocking on the front door. Cai frowns, getting up.

  “Who would be calling at this hour?” he asks, and goes to find out the identity of their unwelcome visitor.

  * * *

  He claims he is not given to entertaining and yet he has a ceaseless stream of visitors. He returns with a tall woman dressed in an expensive riding habit, complete with veiled hat. The outfit is made of a sumptuous wine-red velvet, which has the most beautiful luster to it. She is all elegance and
grace and at once I feel uncomfortable. A moment before I was eating a delicious breakfast, in my new kitchen, cooked for me by my new husband, and I felt the first ticklings of happiness. Now I stand before this proud, womanly creature and feel like a girl caught somewhere she does not belong. Why did he bring her in here? Could he not have shown her into the parlor?

  “Morgana, this is my good friend, Mrs. Isolda Bowen, from Tregaron. Isolda, this is Morgana,” says he.

  Just Morgana, is it? Not my wife, or the new Mrs. Jenkins. Not for his good friend Mrs. so-on-and-so-on. I have been demoted for her sake, it seems. What is she to him, this woman who imposes herself upon us at breakfast time?

  “I am so very pleased to meet you, Morgana.” She steps toward me, holding out a gloved hand which I must shake. “Please call me Isolda,” says she. Now Cai is stumbling and mumbling about my not talking. Really, there are times he makes such a bad job of words himself I wonder he bothers. She still has hold of my hand and squeezes it tighter now, as if to convey some sort of sympathy or understanding, I suppose. I find her touch quite unpleasant, and am glad of the glove. There is something about her, something about this handsome, confident woman, that I do not like. There is a darkness inside her, despite her pleasing appearance.

  “We were all so pleased to hear Cai had taken a new wife,” says she, at last releasing my hand. I rub it against the skirt of my nightdress. Cai notices and frowns. “Your husband and I shared the affliction of grief at losing our first spouses,” she goes on. “Of course my own dear husband departed this life many years ago, but still I like to think I was able to understand and to comfort Cai in his time of loss and sorrow.”

  The two exchange small smiles. Conspiratorial smiles. I am confused. Why did he not choose to marry his good friend Mrs. Bowen? They are clearly close. It would be obvious to a bat in a sack that she adores him. Why, then, did he not take her to be the new mistress of Ffynnon Las?