Yes, he thought now. He had been outcast then because the people who cared had put limits on their caring, cutting off those they believed had transgressed their stern moral code. And he was outcast now—perhaps more justifiably so. But even so, he had tried and was trying to show friendship and the willingness to reach out in sympathy and they were giving him no chance.
But before he had the opportunity to take his leave, Mrs. Howell spoke up.
“Marged, fach,” she said, “sit down at your harp, girl. It is time for the singing. A few folk songs on your own, is it? And then we will have a gymanfa ganu, a singing together. We will sing to be heard across the hills. We will sing to be heard by Eurwyn’s gran, who cannot travel any more than I can these days, and by his mam, who stayed at home to keep her company. Come, fach.”
Marged smiled and kissed her cheek before seating herself and drawing the harp toward her. She completely ignored him, Geraint noticed, though he was standing close.
“I would rather have the gymanfa ganu right away, Mrs. Howell,” she said. “But for you I will sing folk songs.”
She spoke in Welsh, the first that had been spoken since Geraint’s arrival. Aled was the only one—and Idris—with whom he had spoken Welsh since his return to Tegfan. Perhaps everyone thought that he had forgotten the language he had heard and spoken every day for his first twelve years. Marged’s choice of language now was perhaps a deliberate snub.
He knew that her singing voice was still lovely. He had heard it in chapel on Sunday. But there was something about harp music and something about the Welsh folk songs she chose that made it sound hauntingly lovely tonight. He listened enraptured and felt again that tightening in his chest and aching in his throat. Had he really believed until very recently that he could live happily in England for the rest of his life? Had he really believed that he could ignore his Welsh heritage?
Had he really believed that Marged was just a bittersweet memory of his past?
He stayed for the gymanfa ganu even though he kept telling himself that he should leave so that everyone else could relax and enjoy the singing and the feast that was to follow it. He kept telling himself that he would stay and listen to just one more hymn—he would not sing himself, though he remembered the tunes and even most of the words. But the harmony all about him was just too soothing to his rough and battered nerves. And after a while everyone seemed to forget his presence and relax anyway.
Aled slipped outside during the singing. He stood quietly outside the door for a while, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. She might have gone home, but he did not think she would do that without a word to her mother and father. And then he saw the lightness of her dress down by the gate leading into the pasture. She was standing with her arms along it, her back to him.
“Ceris,” he said softly as he came up behind her. He did not want to startle her.
She set her forehead down between her hands and said nothing.
“You will be cold,” he said. He noticed for the first time that she had not brought her cloak with her. He shrugged out of his coat and set it about her shoulders. She whirled around then, perhaps to shrug free of his coat. But he did not drop his arms. He kept them about her and tightened them, bringing her close against him. She did not struggle. She rested her forehead against his chest and sighed.
He turned his head to rest his cheek against the top of her head. It had been so long.
“There is one thing I regret more than anything else in my life,” he said. “I should not have been so concerned about paying off my father’s debts and getting the business back on its feet before marrying you. I should have listened to you when you pleaded with me to marry you, poverty and all. You would have been my wife now. We would have had some little ones together.”
She did not say anything for a long while. He held her to him, listening to the singing from inside the house, feeling that happiness was this, this fleeting moment. And unhappiness