Marged admitted to herself that they came together weekly not really to practice but to enjoy the singing and the company. After the hour was up, they would talk and gossip as avidly as they did after morning service on Sunday.
She was still angry. Perhaps angrier with him than she might have been because she was angry with herself. She had not been able to stop thinking of him since his visit. She had even dreamed of him. And so all her thoughts of him had to be focused on her hatred of him and her deep resentment that he had come back to Tegfan. Why had he not done the decent thing and stayed away?
He was, of course, the main topic of conversation as soon as she had indicated that the practice was at an end. Almost all of them had seen him. Most of them had encountered him in one way or another. Several of them had had personal calls from him.
Everyone was agreed that he looked very grand, that he behaved like a gentleman born, that his speech was more English than the English spoke, that his manner was stiff and stern. A few ventured to suggest that he had been courteous during his visits and interested in seeing the farms. Perhaps there would be changes now that he had come in person and seen for himself. Most were suspicious and angered by his aloof manner and his neglecting to ask them about any problems or complaints they might have.
“He offered me sympathy on the death of Eurwyn,” Marged said finally, unable to keep out of the conversation any longer. “And then he complimented me on the way I have run the farm alone. Almost as if he was telling me that Eurwyn was of no account, that I am better off without a criminal as a husband.” She was so furious that her voice was shaking as well as her hands.
“Ah,” Ifor Davies said, “that was not well done of him at all, fach.”
“And you may depend upon it, mind, that when he visited us on the farms he had his eyes about him to see who could be squeezed for more rent next year,” Gwen Dirion said. “I am not sure we should trust him for all his fine manners.”
“And he is, after all, only Geraint Penderyn,” Eli Harris commented.
“I do not see why we should stand meekly by and allow the Earl of Wyvern to step into our farmyards and inside our homes whenever the mood takes him,” Marged said, still angry. “I do not see why we should give him the right. Perhaps it is time we gave him a taste of his own medicine.”
“Marged,” Aled said, “perhaps we should wait and see. He does, after all, have the right to see what is his own.”
She turned on him, her eyes flashing. “And you, Aled Rhoslyn,” she said. “You are supposed to be our leader. You are supposed to be working with the committee to help us make an organized and effective protest against our owners. We have heard nothing yet about what exactly we are supposed to do.”
“This is not the time or the place, Marged,” he said.
“Then what is the time and where is the place?” she asked. “Tell us that, Aled. And what are we going to do? Pull down tollgates, as is happening elsewhere? It worked three years ago. It is the gates that are the final straw for most of us. And soon it will be time to haul the lime to fertilize our fields. How are we going to afford the tolls?”
“Oh, Marged.” Ceris had got to her feet as if she was about to leave, but she sat down abruptly again. “Don’t talk of violence, girl. Oh, please don’t.” She did not look at Aled.
“The committee is working on it,” Aled said. “It is not easy. And we should not be talking about it openly here, either. We are having difficulty finding someone to lead such a movement. We need someone to take the part of Rebecca.”
“How about you, Aled?” The challenge came from Morfydd Richards, the wife of a farmer three miles off in the hills.
But Aled shook his head, clearly uncomfortable. “I would follow such a movement if it was orderly and the decision of the committee,” he said. “I could not lead it, Morfydd. I do not have the gift of authority. Rebecca would have to command a large number of men and