fire was an elderly woman, whom he could not remember seeing before. She was nodding her head, presumably in acknowledgment of his appearance. In front of the fire, the Mrs. Evans he remembered—Madoc Evans’s wife—was bobbing a curtsy and directing her flustered gaze at his feet.
He inclined his head to them both and bade them a good morning.
“His lordship is doing us the honor of taking a cup of tea with us, Mam, Gran,” Marged said, still speaking in English. “Do take a seat, my lord.” She motioned him toward a bare wooden settle close to the fire and turned toward the dresser to lift down cups and saucers.
Geraint sat.
Chapter 4
SHE was furious with herself. She had been proud of the way she had been able to mingle contempt and courtesy and of the impersonality of her manner. She had been delighted to sense that he understood but did not know quite what to do about it.
And then he had startled her by taking her hands in his and turning them palm up and looking down at the calluses. Her first reaction had been horror and shame. Until she married Eurwyn she had always taken pains to dress and behave as much like a lady as she knew how. She had read as widely as she was able and had learned several accomplishments. She had thought that perhaps she would try to persuade the old earl or his steward to open a school so that she could teach the children from the farms and village. But she had been flattered by Eurwyn’s attentions and offer of marriage and had accepted. He was a man she had admired. Most of the calluses had come after his death, though she had worked hard even before that.
She wore her calluses with pride. And yet her first reaction to the knowledge that he was looking down at them was shame and embarrassment. Shame that she had to work hard for a living. Embarrassment that she did not look like a lady.
Her second reaction had been one of acute physical awareness. An awareness of the warmth and strength of his hands against the back of hers. An awareness of his closeness. He really was taller than he had been ten years before. And broader. And he smelled—expensive. She had looked up into his face and he had raised his own eyes almost at the same moment. He had always had the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
When he had spoken, she had managed somehow to think of a fittingly cutting reply. But in reality she had been mesmerized by his eyes and then acutely aware of the fact that their gaze had dropped to her mouth. For a moment she had felt as if her heart would beat its way right through her bosom and be exposed to view. She had thought he was going to kiss her. But she had done nothing to try to prevent its happening.
And then he had released her hands. But not before he must have felt her tremble. She knew he must have felt it. His grip had tightened.
She was furious with herself. Furious that she had felt shame. Furious that she had felt and responded to the pull of his masculinity.
He was the reason there was no pig but Nellie on the farm. He was the reason there were only five cows left and their calves. And only a few chickens. And fewer sheep than there had ever been before. And no new clothes for almost two years now. He was the reason she could not hire a man to do the heavy work on the farm. She did not know if she would even be able to afford someone at harvesting time. He was the reason Eurwyn was not here to do the heavy work himself.
And yet she was one of the fortunate ones. Somehow they were still here at the farm and still functioning, she and Mam and Gran. Some people were not still on their farms. The Parrys, for example, driven out finally by the newest raise in the rents, living up on the moors, hoping somehow to pick up enough casual work that they could avoid the dreaded and final move to the workhouse. And there were plenty more living on the brink, in debt, unable to absorb even one more small raise in the rent or one more poor harvest or fall in market prices.
Geraint Penderyn was responsible for it all. And yet