Page 40 of The Shadow Key

The lad that is left stares up at him for one long drawn-out moment. Though Gwydion stands high, the boy’s head comes easily to the cob’s withers and Henry senses he is trying to use this height to his advantage. But Henry will not under any circumstances be threatened by a bully such as he.

‘I said, go home.’

The boy smiles unpleasantly. One of his front teeth is cracked. ‘Sais,’ he hisses. Then, despite his limp, he flees like a rabbit into the willows after his friends.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Linette’s study is a small but airy room situated near the back of the house affording a view of the stables. The view is not necessarily a scenic one, but she loves it all the same; she enjoys watching Rhys groom the horses, enjoys being able to see Pryderi safe in his stall. To Linette, there is gratification in knowing that Plas Helyg functions smoothly, that the old cogs of the estate are well-oiled, a sure mark of all her hard work these past five years. Sometimes she will sit on the window seat and simply watch life carry along on its course, content in her own quiet company. But in this moment Linette sits at her desk, Plas Helyg’s ledgers spread open before her like a map.

It is no easy task, managing an estate. Such a heavy workload – the collection of rent, the organisation of repairs and improvements for both the village and the farms, the bookkeeping all this requires – is an exhausting enterprise.

Linette adds a tally to the bottom of a column. Bites her lip.

Overall, the estate is performing well enough. Crops are plentiful, the livestock is healthy and producing on time. She was concerned a few months before that they would not be so lucky, for this past winter was especially harsh; hoarfrost had frozen the fields solid and spring, it seemed, was slow to show her face. But then at last the weather turned, made up for its lethargy by becoming unseasonably warm, and so Plas Helyg’s lands had flourished and blossomed. The coffers will begin to fill once more.

Still, Linette is aware that the estate is not as prosperous as it could be, and it has made its mark on her books. She offers low rent (too low, according to Julian), and does not make her tenants responsible for the upkeep of their homes as other landowners do. But, as she insisted to Henry, Linette finds this generosity is well-rewarded; her tenants work harder, make no complaints. How many of her fellow gentry can say the same?

There are other ways to make money, Linette knows. She could open Plas Helyg to the public, lease the land and bring in more industry, as Lord Pennant has done this past year and Sir John Selwyn plans to do next. It would help, of that there is no doubt, but Linette cannot bring herself to do it. This land belongs to Penhelyg’s people. Their livelihood depends upon it entirely, and she will do everything in her power to ensure its beauty remains untouched by foreign and exploitative hands.

Even if it means less for herself.

The money she inherited on her majority was a princely sum, but she has spent nearly all of it on rejuvenating the land. Flooding down at the salt marshes is scarce now the appropriate barriers have been put in place, and at least – when the weather does prove itself tempest-strong – the cottages are now protected. In addition, each tenant – Linette made sure – had been allocated a small plot of land on which to grow their own produce, keep a goat, a cow as well if they wish it. The farmhands up in the valley, too, benefited from her generosity: drainage has been improved, new ridge and furrow techniques employed. She has given everything she can to Penhelyg, her own small way of making up for Emyr Cadwalladr’s misdeeds, her cousin’s neglect. It is why, now, Plas Helyg itself is not all it should be. If one were to look closely, the wainscoting is woodwormed and the tapestries moth-eaten, the roof leaks when it rains, the external stonework is loose. Indeed, every time Linette hears that damned gate creak in its worn hinges it sends a shudder down her spine.

Linette sighs, places the quill into its glass well. She regrets nothing. Not one thing would she do differently. Except, she thinks grudgingly, ask for help. Yet who can she ask? When it comes to running the estate the only people she can rely on are Enaid and Cadoc and the servants who deal with the more menial management of the household, the upkeep of Plas Helyg’s grounds. But beyond that, Linette has no support.

She thinks of Julian, feels the familiar reel of frustration churn within her gut. She made light of it to Henry but in truth, Julian had not been entirely willing to relinquish his hold on Plas Helyg’s purse. He had, after all, spent two decades in control of it; to step aside must have vexed him greatly. She remembers perfectly her twenty-first birthday when she received a letter from a Dolgellau attorney requesting she and Julian grant him an audience. Linette remembers them sitting side by side in front of a man who reminded her of a trussed ham, round cheeks pink and shining (a predilection for wine, she later found), as he explained in a manner most clear how, in accordance with her father’s will, all estate accounts would be transferred into Linette’s name. She remembers how Julian – quietly and somewhat in shock – provided the information required, but when they were left to discuss the matter between them, he asked her, very gently, if she was quite sure it was what she wanted.

It can be overturned, you know. It’s a lot of responsibility for one so young. For a woman.

He offered to run Plas Helyg on her behalf, to run it just as he always had, but it was that very offer which had prompted Linette to sign those papers without a second thought. No more would he neglect the people who had come to mean so much to her, no more would he treat her friends as if they were nothing more than commodities. She meant to treat them fairly. Linette had a purpose, at last.

Julian simply did not understand.

There was no denying the transition had been hard. The attorney – Mr Ellis – had been unfailingly kind. It was he who opened up a new account with the bank, he who arranged the dismissal of Mr Lambeth (to Julian’s disbelief), he who put in place everything she asked for with regards to Penhelyg’s well-being. It was Mr Ellis who instructed her on the more complex particulars of managing an estate until Linette could get by on her own. She had been grieved indeed to hear of his death some months later, his bloated body found on the banks of Dolgellau’s river, having drunk himself blind in the tavern and fallen into its harsh winter currents.

After this Linette begged Julian to send her the latest treatises on land management from London, for how else could she keep abreast of new developments? And while he procured the literature she required and arranged subscriptions to periodicals on agriculture and farming it was all done with a look of long-suffering scepticism, as if he could not quite believe a woman should take such a thing into her head. Thankfully those subscriptions have since enabled her to send for books on other topics such as religion and philosophy, science and industry, the more distasteful but enlightening subject of slavery, books she is sure Julian would prefer she did not read. Unbecoming, he said. Unladylike.

Linette has devoured them, every single one.

Somewhere outside, Merlin barks. It is followed by the squawk of a bird, the harsh admonishment of the gardener, and pinching the corners of her eyes Linette sits back heavily in her seat. The ledgers in front of her have become a blur, her black cursive trailing across the pages like ants. Perhaps, Linette thinks grudgingly, she is done for today. She looks at the small carriage clock on the mantel. A quarter to four.

She has been working solidly since Henry left that morning.

With a groan Linette gets up. She winces at the rise – her back is stiff from sitting so long – but she presses her hands into the base of her spine, bends into a stretch and moves over to the window, half-open in its casement.

It is a lovely day. Too lovely to waste it hunched over a desk: the sun is shining, the clouds cotton-like in the azure sky. Linette can smell how fresh the air is, its floral tones undercut by the smell of hay and manure from the stables. She looks across to them, at Pryderi drinking from a water trough, tail swishing against his hocks. One of the hens loiters around the stalls and, with another loud bark, Merlin bounds out of the hydrangea borders with an excitable bark, gives leggy pursuit. Linette shakes her head.

That dog must chase everything he sees.

She watches the poor hen scarper toward a small pen on the other side of the stables where the rest of the chickens are busy pecking the ground. Merlin lurches after it, narrowly missing Geraint and his wheelbarrow; wood chippings spill from its sides as the gardener pulls himself up short, and he swears at the dog who, again, ignores him completely.

It is never a good day when Geraint finds the remains of one of the hens in the gardens. Merlin is scolded something rotten by Enaid and Mrs Phillips (who is most put out by the waste of a potential dinner), but even though she knows he deserves it Linette cannot bring herself to be angry with him.

Just as one of the hens loses a black feather in its desperate bid to escape, there comes a soft knock on the door.

‘Yes?’ she calls tiredly.

With a creak the heavy door opens, and Henry peeks his head through.

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