go away. And he was not going to hide away either. Help them he would, one way or another. Things were going to change on the Tegfan estate and on the estates around it if he had any say in the matter.
And so he went to Mrs. Howell’s birthday party. He had, after all, been included in the invitation, even if his inclusion had been unintentional. And even if he had not, surely it was the correct thing to do for a landlord to pay his respects to a woman on such a landmark occasion.
Marged was to be there, he thought as he approached the house. The thought had been there, hovering in the back of his mind, ever since he had decided to come. She would have nothing to do with him. It would be far better for his peace of mind to stay away from places where she was likely to be. But he knew that it was the sure knowledge she would be there that had influenced his decision to come.
He would see her again—in a place where perhaps she could not openly snub him. Though one never quite knew with Marged.
Even then, when he reached the farmhouse, he was not sure he would have had the courage to go inside. He paused outside the door, hearing the sound of voices. But then he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the fluttering of fabric. He turned his head to see that someone was standing at the far side of the farmyard, close to the chicken coop. A small woman. Ceris Williams, he believed, though he could not see quite clearly in the darkness. But she had seen him and curtsied to him. He inclined his head in return.
And so he had no alternative but to lift his hand and knock on the door. And when it opened and he saw the kitchen crammed with people, all of them with turned heads to see who the late arrival was and all of them falling silent with amazement and embarrassment, his course was set. He had to step inside, take off his hat, and acknowledge with nods all those whose eyes he met.
Chapter 9
HE had spoiled the party, he thought a few minutes later after Ianto Richards had rescued him by coming forward to welcome him. He made his way to the fireplace where Mrs. Howell was seated—a path opened before him as if by magic—and wished her a happy birthday and talked to her with the conversational skill learned long ago and practiced so often that it had become almost second nature to him. And then the Reverend Llwyd was at his side and engaging him in conversation.
The silence had dissolved into the buzz of conversation again. But it was a self-conscious conversation, Geraint thought. For such a large gathering and such an occasion, and in the presence of such a feast as he could see loaded onto the table, it did not appear to be a merry party. It had been before his arrival, he would wager, and would continue to be after he took his leave.
He must take his leave. He had done his duty. He had made his point. Now it was time to leave the occupants of the house to enjoy themselves. Aled, he noticed, had kept his distance and had kept his eyes averted. Some friend he was.
He remembered suddenly running home to the moors one day, excited with the news that there had been a wedding in the chapel and that everyone was going to the house of the bride’s father to feast. There had been two long tables of food set up outside the house. He had managed to snatch up a large bun that had fallen to the ground and Mr. Williams had spied him and tossed him a handful of small coins. He had shown his mother his treasures and had broken the bun carefully in half to share with her.
It was almost the only occasion when he had seen his mother cry. She had sat holding him, telling him about the parties she had attended as a girl, when she had been the daughter of the minister—the one who had preceded the Reverend Llwyd. They had been the most wonderful of occasions, she had told him, pain and wistfulness in her voice. Not only because of the food and the merriment, but because of the laughter and the company and the wonderful sense of belonging, of