Page 11 of The Shadow Key

A pause. ‘He will do. He will do very well indeed.’

Linette’s heart sinks. What manner of man has Julian employed? A self-satisfied Englishman, just like him? The villagers, then, will resent Dr Talbot’s presence most keenly. They will resent her too for allowing it, resentment she could well do without. Has Linette not fought hard to gain their trust?

Merlin whines, impatient to be gone.

‘Goodnight, Cousin,’ Linette says, turning away.

He does not answer, nor does she expect him to. She opens the study door and then, feeling spiteful, deliberately leaves it wide behind her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Henry wakes to the infernal chattering of birds. With a groan he tosses in the bed, tries to ignore the steely fingers of a headache which has started to tap like an incessant woodpecker at the crest of his skull.

He feels, quite frankly, like death. No wonder, too, considering the past few days; last night was the first decent night’s rest he has had for some time. Indeed, his head scarce hit the pillow before he succumbed to sleep, but somehow he does not yet feel rested. His body aches, his mouth is dry as sand. He can taste the staleness of port on his tongue. With an effort Henry opens one crusting eye. The light reaching from the gap between the curtains is not so bright that the sun could have risen too high in the sky, and with difficulty he reaches across to the bedside table for his pocketwatch.

Just past eight.

Henry presses the lid shut, rubs his thumb over the engraved H and T. If he could sleep longer, he would, but Henry Talbot has never been one to shirk his duties – it is something he prides himself on most diligently – and with a sigh he rises from the bed, stumbles in his weariness over to the window. Clutching at the heavy silk-lined curtains he parts them, and for a long moment stands there, taking it in.

Though his landlady in London kept his rooms beautifully, the views from the windows there were decidedly less picturesque. The road outside was always muddy or flush with dust and there was not one single tree in sight. It is quieter here, too – no bustle of carriages, no hawkers shouting out their wares. Only that birdsong, the distant bleat of sheep. Something else too, Henry thinks, a noise he cannot place.

He exhales, his breath leaving a lung-shaped fug on the glass.

The difference truly is astounding. Here, Henry is greeted with a vast valley spotted with grazing sheep and, beyond those, sparsely settled mountains rising like ramparts that seem to touch the clouds. The mountains are all green and lush, except for a smaller one that almost encroaches on Plas Helyg which has no trees at all. Henry opens the lead-lined window, leans out to get a better view. Skeins of curling smoke rise from its stony banks, and he identifies now the sounds of men at work, of pickaxes on stone.

The mine, Henry realises.

Strange, that it should be so close to the house. He thinks of the gold-flecked stone in Julian’s cabinet downstairs. It was the first we found in the mines. Near thirty years ago now.

At that moment a gentle breeze whips past the window. On its pass, Henry detects a faint sulphuric smell. He is just about to close the window when there comes a sharp rap on the door, the creak of it opening. Henry turns to see the butler, Powell, enter the room carrying a jug of steaming water, a cloth over his arm.

‘Good morning, sir.’

Henry wipes the rheum from his eyes.

‘Good morning.’

The older man carries the jug to the washstand, sets it down, the cloth next to it.

‘Thank you,’ Henry says.

The butler does not respond. Instead he turns, begins a brisk walk to the door.

‘You speak English,’ Henry calls out as he reaches it. ‘You and the housekeeper. I had not expected that.’

Powell pauses, turns back around to face him. He is still as stony-faced as he was the night before, with a strong jaw that seems disinclined to smile.

‘His lordship desires it,’ the butler replies, clipped. A pause. For a moment Henry does not think he will say anything further, but then – as if realising more is needed – Powell continues. ‘It is his wish for all the servants to address him in English.’ Another pause, this one distinctly disapproving. ‘Hardly any of the gentry speak the language here, though they are of Welsh stock.’

Henry frowns. Julian admitted to his lack of knowledge in the native language last night, but why would the Welsh gentry not know the language of their country? He wants to ask, but something in the butler’s cold manner makes Henry suspect no more information will be forthcoming.

‘Where is your mistress this morning?’ he asks instead.

‘The Lady Gwen is still abed, sir,’ comes the reply. Powell says the word ‘sir’, it seems, with a modicum of resentment. ‘Miss Linette wakes early. She is already down at the gatehouse, assessing the damage.’

The gatehouse. In his exhaustion Henry had forgotten.

Destroyed, Linette Tresilian had said. The windows and doors ruined, the inside too, so she seemed to think. But how strange! Is such destruction of property commonplace around these parts? It would appear not, if her reaction was anything to go by; Henry remembers clearly the look of shock on her flushed face as she stood on the threshold of the study, dressed in those ill-fitting garments. He thinks of the way she spoke to both himself and her cousin – so hard and impolite – and the way she looked at him, her gaze altogether too direct and superior, anchored with dislike. He frowns, the memory of Julian Tresilian’s words forming in the chamber of his mind:

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