father and Ninian Williams made conversation with him. And then Ceris. She was offering him a plate of food and smiling shyly at him and talking with him. And he was bending his head to hers, to hear what she was saying above the din of the room, his hard blue eyes almost gentle on hers. Marged felt a pang of something unpleasant and recognized it for what it was.
She was appalled. Jealousy?
She went to the table and spent some time choosing the foods she would sample, concentrating on the choice as if it was a matter of some importance. And she winked at Idris Parry, whom she spied beneath the table. She had noticed him there earlier. He had sneaked into the house, though he had had no need to do so since his parents had been invited. They had been too ashamed to come, though. Ashamed of their poverty and shabbiness.
She felt a special partiality for Idris. She was fond of the little girls too and they were far more affectionate when she went up onto the moors with food for the family. Idris was a wild little imp, who roamed free and was rarely at home. But her heart ached with tenderness for him.
She reached out to take a scone, but her hand remained suspended over the platter. How strange that she had never noticed the similarity before. It was so strong that it was almost like looking back over time. They even looked alike. Idris was almost like a reincarnation of Geraint as he had been. That was why she was so fond of him?
The thought saddened her immensely.
And then the Owen brothers arrived, one on each side of her, and proceeded to examine every item on her plate and discuss between themselves, over the top of her head just as if she was not even there, exactly how many pounds each item would add to her weight.
“Roly-poly she will be by next Sunday,” Dewi said. “She will be able to roll down the hill to chapel and save the energy of walking.”
“But a nice soft armful she will make for some lucky man, mind,” Dylan said.
“Well, it will not be you, Dylan Owen,” she said sharply. “And you had better be standing to one side of the path when I come rolling by, Dewi, or I will flatten you.” She picked up the largest scone on the platter and deposited it ostentatiously on top of the other food on her plate.
“Fuming she is,” Dewi said. “Look out for Marged when she is mad, Dyl. It would be safer to wave a red flag to our dada’s bull.”
“We had better keep her happy, then,” his brother said, picking up a jam tart and adding it to her pile. “Enjoy yourself, Marged, and do not burst at the seams.”
Marged found herself giggling. She kept up the banter with them for half an hour while they ate, and other young people joined them. She deliberately kept her back to Geraint and hoped that perhaps before she turned he would have taken his leave without her even noticing. Though she would have known, she thought. She could feel him behind her almost as if he had a hand against her back, though he was still standing close to the fire, some distance from the table.
Finally people began to leave, especially those with young children, though several of the youngsters protested loudly. She would slip away with them, Marged thought. If the Earl of Wyvern was going to stay to the end, then she would leave. Once numbers had dwindled, those remaining would gather in one group about the fire. She had no wish to be drawn into a group that included him.
Unfortunately, she had to approach the fireplace in order to take her leave of Mrs. Howell and Morfydd, who was standing behind her mother’s chair.
“It has been lovely,” Marged said, bending over the elderly lady to kiss her cheek again. She straightened up. “Thank you, Morfydd. I will leave my harp here, if you don’t mind, and ask Mr. Williams to bring it home tomorrow or when it is convenient to him.”
Both Morfydd and her mother were effusive in their thanks for the music and in their assurances that the harp could stay as long as Marged wished. The children would be kept away from it and no harm would come to it.
“I will carry it up to Ty-Gwyn now,” a voice said from behind Marged. She closed