Longing (8 page)

Siân felt suddenly as if she were looking at the man through a long tunnel. This was it, then. He had recognized her after all this morning and had found out who she was and where she lived. She concentrated on not showing the sick dread she felt. She would not show fear before one of his servants. Or before him either.

“Me?” she said with studied calm, speaking too in English. “The Marquess of Craille wishes to see me? What about?”

“Don't be daft, woman,” he said, betraying his Welsh origins for a moment even though he kept to the other language. “Would he tell me? Wash your hands and face and get yourself up there if you know what is good for you.”

Siân's lips tightened. And anger rescued her from perhaps cringing after all. She had bathed and washed her hair and changed into clean clothes not two hours ago. Her grandmother had hauled water from the pump and heated it so that she could clean herself after work.
And yet this man—a mere servant when all was said and done—thought to treat her like a worm beneath his well-polished boot?

“It is very late,” she said. “I have just come home from work.”

The groom turned away in disdain. “I would be there in half an hour if I were you, missus,” he said. “Or it may go badly with you.”

Yes, badly. It would go badly whenever she went. She wondered if the Marquess of Craille would punish her merely for being there as a spy at the meeting, or if he hoped to coerce her into giving some of the men's names. Perhaps after all he found himself unable to identify any of them, including Owen. She felt a glimmering of hope. But he had summoned her to the castle. Absurdly she had a mental image of dungeons and racks. The castle had been built less than a hundred years before. It was not a real castle at all. Besides . . . She closed the door and turned to stare at her grandmother.

“Duw!”
was all her grandmother said from her place at the table. She held one hand over her heart.

“He must have found out who I was,” Siân said. But she must not worry her grandmother before she had to. Or anger her. Gran would be very annoyed if she knew that Siân had gone up the mountain at midnight. “I almost ran him down this morning, Gran, when he came down the mine with Mr. Barnes. He must be going to dismiss me. But he would not lower himself to do that in person, would he? Whatever can he want?”

“Don't go,” Gwynneth said, her eyes round with fear. “Stay here,
fach
. We will send Grandad when he comes home.”

“No,” Siân said. “It is me he has summoned, Gran. I had better go and see what he wants. Probably something we will laugh about afterward.” She tried to smile.

“Don't go,” her grandmother repeated. “My Marged—” She spread her hands over her face. Marged had been Siân's mother.

“Oh, Gran,” Siân said, realizing suddenly what her grandmother's fears were. She hurried across the room to put her arms about her. “No. He has not even seen me except this morning when I must have looked anything but inviting.”
And once up on the
mountain, when he kissed me.
“That is ridiculous. Besides, you cannot think that I would . . .”

“Mr. Barnes,” Gwynneth said without removing her hands. “It is the sort of thing he would do, Siân. I have heard about wicked English gentlemen and their her—har—”

“Harems?” said Siân.

“It would be just like Mr. Barnes to have you brought up to the castle first,” her grandmother said. “There is wicked he is,
fach
. And all because you would not marry him. Don't go. Wait for Grandad to come home, is it? Or run along and see if the Reverend Llewellyn is at home.”

Siân kissed her grandmother's cheek. “No, I shall go,” she said. “He cannot very well kidnap me, after all, can he?”

“Then I will come with you.” Gwynneth got determinedly to her feet, undoing the strings of her apron as she did so.

“No, Gran,” Siân said. “I shall go alone. It is silly to expect the man to be some sort of ogre just because he is an English marquess and lives in a castle. Besides, Grandad and Uncle Emrys will be angry if you are not here to give them their dinner when they come home.”

“And serve them right too,” her grandmother said, bristling, but she sat down again. “I shall send Grandad up there if you are not home at a decent time, Siân.”

Siân, almost sick with fear, considered her appearance. Should she pin up her hair and put on her Sunday dress? She thought of all the dresses bought for her by Sir John Fowler and left behind in her mother's cottage. But she was not going to dress up for the Marquess of Craille. Not just to be dismissed from her job and interrogated about the men at the meeting. She took her shawl from the back of the door and wrapped it about her shoulders. She lifted the weight of her hair outside it as she left the house and closed the door, leaving a worried-looking grandmother behind her. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and strode purposefully along the street.

She had never been close to Glanrhyd Castle. Despite her
resolutions she felt her knees tremble and her heart beat with uncomfortable thumps as she walked between the wrought iron gateposts and through the massive gates, which stood open, and past the two square stone houses just inside them. One of them belonged to Josiah Barnes, she knew. It might have been her home.

A straight and wide stone driveway sloped upward to beautifully laid out formal gardens, with the house beyond, all turreted towers and arched windows and aristocratic magnificence. She headed toward the main doors beneath a high stone archway and at the top of a steep flight of steps. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was doing quite the wrong thing, that she should be seeking out the servants' entrance. But she did not know where it was. She lifted the heavy wrought iron knocker and let it fall back against the door. She resisted the absurd and cowardly urge to turn and run.

She was in for it, she thought, as the door opened. But she felt curiously calm as she stepped inside the large hall. There was no going back now. And she would show no nervousness before the Marquess of Craille.

She would not.

*   *   *

It
seemed rather late in the evening to be having a caller, Alex thought, looking up in surprise from his book when his butler opened the door to inform him that Mrs. Siân Jones was in the salon downstairs. It was almost dark outside. He had not expected her to come until morning. Did she know why she had been summoned and was she that eager? He closed his book and went down. It would have been better if she had come in the morning. Verity could have met her and had some input into his decision. But then if he found her quite unsuitable, as he somehow expected he would, it would perhaps be better for his daughter not to meet her at all. Verity had been in bed for an hour or more.

She was wearing a faded cotton dress and a shawl that had seen better days. Her very dark hair was in heavy, shining ripples down her back. She looked no different from the way she had looked up on
the mountain that first evening—and the next. For one moment he wondered why she had come, and he stared at her, thinking that she was even more beautiful than she had appeared in the moonlight. And then he remembered what his butler had called her. Ah, not his maiden of Cwmbran at all. The large puddler must be Mr. Jones. But, no. Miss Haines had called her a widow.

“Mrs. Jones?” he said, stepping into the salon and hearing a servant close the door behind him.

“Yes,” she said.

She stood straight and tall, her feet slightly apart, her chin up. She looked directly at him with eyes of a clear dark gray. And beautifully lashed. She gave him no title and offered no curtsy. She really was quite startlingly beautiful. He wondered if it was the stolen kiss that was making her look defiant. Had it been that good?

“Will you have a seat?” He gestured to a chair beside her.

“Why?” she asked. “What do you want of me?”

She was frightened, he realized suddenly, and doing an admirable job of masking it with pride and disdain. She was expecting him to renew the questions he had asked her on the mountain? She did not know why she had been summoned, then?

“I wish to discuss the possibility of employing you,” he said, and wondered even as he spoke if he really wished to do so. Have a woman who sneaked alone up the mountain to an all-male clandestine meeting in the middle of the night teaching his daughter? And a woman who stood on the hills, embracing her lover for all to see? Would she be a suitable teacher and companion for Verity? But by God, she was lovely. He remembered how after kissing her very briefly, he had had to fight desire all the way home across the mountain.

“You already employ me,” she said.

“Do I?” He wondered in what capacity.

“I almost collided with you this morning,” she said.

He tried to picture any near accident he had had while on horseback that morning and could remember nothing. “I went down the coal mine this morning,” he said.

“Yes.” She looked at him calmly. She still had not seated herself.

The eyes. Good Lord. The woman had been dirty and sweating. She had looked more like a beast of burden than a human. Certainly she had not looked like a shapely, feminine, beautiful human. Her hair had been hidden beneath a filthy cloth. But the eyes. Was it possible? He stared at her.

“That was you?” he asked.

She said nothing.

“It must be backbreaking work,” he said lamely.

“Yes.”

There was hostility emanating from her though her face was expressionless. Why? Had he forced her into that job? Did she not feel that he paid her enough? Had she heard about next week's cut in wages? Despite the assurances of both Barnes and Fowler, he could not feel easy in his mind about that. Or was it just the memory of that stolen kiss? Should he apologize for it? But he was not sorry. In fact, it would give him the greatest pleasure to repeat it—not a thought to be pursued at this precise moment.

“You have been recommended to me as a possible governess for my daughter,” he said. “Won't you have a seat?”

She stared back at him. “A governess?” she said.

“I am told you were educated at a private girls' school in England?” He looked inquiringly at her.

“Yes,” she said. “For four years.”

He wondered suddenly how a girl from this Welsh valley, who had ended up hauling one of those carts in a coal mine, had come to be at a school in England. She was clearly Welsh. She was speaking flawless English, but she was doing so with a lilting accent that clearly came naturally to her. And her name was Welsh—both names. She offered no explanation.

“I would imagine, then,” he said, “that you are qualified to instruct a six-year-old child.”

She said nothing. She was clearly not going to sit down. He did not offer her a seat again.

“I want something more than just that, though,” he said. “I want someone to teach her Welsh.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Welsh?” she said.

“This little part of Wales will be mine for the rest of my life,” he said. “It is possible that I will live here for much of my time. My daughter will live here with me. If I do not remarry and produce sons, it will all be hers one day. It seems logical that she learn the language of the people who work for me.”

She smiled. It was not a very pleasant expression. “It is a barbaric tongue,” she said.

“Let me guess,” he said, clasping his hands at his back. “You were told that at school.”

She inclined her head.

“Nevertheless,” he said, “I would have my daughter learn this barbaric tongue. And something of the history and customs and culture of Wales. This is a very beautiful valley.”

“It
was
beautiful,” she said quietly.

He raised his eyebrows at the impertinence. He was responsible for spoiling its beauty? That was what her tone had implied.

“My daughter also needs someone willing to play with her,” he said, “and take her for walks. And runs. She is fascinated by the hills. Hills for children are irresistible. They must be climbed.”

“They have that effect on many people, regardless of age,” she said. “Hills are meant to be seen over.”

He half smiled and had that yearning feeling again very fleetingly. It was gone even before he could begin to grasp at it. Hills were meant to be seen over. He must remember that.

“Can you oblige me?” he asked. “Can you give my daughter what I need for her?”

She was silent for a long moment. “No,” she said at last.

“Why not?” He frowned. He had expected to be the one making the decisions. It seemed as though Mrs. Siân Jones was turning the tables on him.

“I have work already,” she said.

“And you enjoy it?” His frown deepened.

“Other women do it,” she said. “I am no different from other women.”

He suspected that she was. In beauty if in nothing else. He felt unaccustomedly dazzled by it. He was used to having his favors courted by all the most beautiful ladies of fashion. But then this woman was not a lady. Not in social status or in dress, anyway. But she had a dignity that he found appealing.

“You would live here,” he said. “You would have a room of your own close to my daughter's and a clothing allowance.” He glanced at the clean shabby dress she wore. It did nothing to detract from her loveliness. “I would pay you . . .” He named a sum.

Her eyes widened.

“You are interested?” he asked.

Color flooded her cheeks. “No,” she said.

“How much do I pay you to work in my mine?” he asked.

He was staggered when she told him, though he had already seen some of the books in which the wages of his men were recorded. How could anyone live on such a pitiful—pittance?

“Is that before or after the cutback?” he asked her.

She smiled again—the same way she had smiled before. “Before,” she said.