Page 44 of The Shadow Key

‘It is an insult. Cai was essentially calling you an Englishman, but the word – and the intonation of it – is generally derogatory. Like a curse.’

‘I see.’ A pause. ‘No, actually, I do not see. Don’t you think it time you tell me the real reason why the people of Penhelyg should resent me so?’

He is looking at her with such a hard unflinching gaze that Linette knows she cannot avoid the subject again, and with a sigh she rubs her nose, lays her palm flat against the spines of her books as if she might find strength there.

‘There have been rumours—’

‘So the vicar advised when I saw him in the village. Ancient history, he said, troubling interactions.’

Linette purses her lips. ‘Will you let me speak or not?’

Henry falls silent. Linette tries again.

‘There have been rumours,’ she repeats quietly. ‘Tomas told me of them, many years ago.’ Linette takes a steadying breath. ‘I said last night that all my grandfather cared about was his pleasure. Well, his pleasure, apparently, went beyond gambling. Before the Tresilians took over the estate, he used to invite his English friends up to Plas Helyg. It was said …’ Linette stops, feels shame at even saying the words. ‘It was said there had been distasteful gatherings, that village girls were used in illicit ways for their own entertainment.’

‘Like whores.’

Linette flinches at the term. ‘If you must be so blunt. One of the girls died.’

‘Died?’

‘Her body was found down by the road, under the willows. Do you remember the dark-haired girl I spoke to in the square?’ Henry nods. ‘Her name is Rhiannon, Heledd Einion’s granddaughter. Of course, all this was long before I was born so I cannot vouch for the truth of it. Enaid tells me I must not listen to village gossip, and it does all seem incredibly unlikely – it’s perfectly possible Heledd simply slipped on the tree roots and broke her neck. But whatever the truth of it the people of Penhelyg believe wholeheartedly that my grandfather was responsible, and that if it were not for his English friends none of this would have happened. As a consequence they do not trust Englishmen, and so they do not trust you.’

Henry is watching her.

‘I see,’ he says, and this time, it seems, he does. Instead of looking angry as Linette thought he might, Henry instead looks contemplative.

‘You kindly offered your assistance earlier,’ he says, ‘to come with me when I visited your tenants.’ Linette waits. He clears his throat. ‘I still want to make a try of it on my own. I think that’s important. But you accused me of being quick to judge just now and it did not sit well with me. Perhaps you might agree to help in other ways.’

‘Oh?’

‘I need to learn your language. For my sake, as well as theirs. How can they learn to trust me if I do not speak their tongue? I have the dictionary, of course, but it’s clear I need more specialist knowledge, of the kind only a native speaker can provide. The pronunciation, the nuances, all of that.’ His dark eyes are bright, suddenly keen. ‘Will you teach me?’

Linette feels a rush of unexpected pleasure, of gratitude, and she says, more brightly than she is prone, ‘I would gladly teach you, if you really wish it. Shall we start tomorrow?’

But Henry has hesitated, is shaking his head.

‘I planned to visit Dr Beddoe tomorrow.’

He indicates his medical bag which he left by the study door, and Linette once again marks its scuffed hide, its lopsided handle.

‘I need more supplies, something suitable in which to carry them if I am to visit my patients on horseback.’ He hesitates again for the briefest moment before continuing. ‘I was hoping he might advise me.’

Linette marks his hesitation with guarded interest.

‘There’s a boatman who can take you across to Criccieth.’

‘A boatman?’

‘It’s the only way over the estuary. You must catch it from the port six miles from here. I’ll have Cadoc send word down to Mr Morgan who can take you. But why the rush? I can advise you just as well as he can on such a trifling matter.’

Something shadows his face. ‘There are some things only a doctor can answer.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

The same driver who conveyed Henry to the village met him outside Plas Helyg’s iron gates, but rather than greeting Henry with his previously evasive demeanour the older man spared upon him a broad smile.

‘I feared,’ said he in his slow and stilted English as he directed the pony down the woodland pass, ‘that we’d lose Tomas not three days ago. Mair said you came to see him again yesterday. That was kind. Unexpected.’ The older man sidled a glance at Henry then away again, flushing into his whiskers. ‘You’ve my sincerest gratitude.’

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