it is worth after so long, I am sorry for what happened. Deeply sorry. I selfishly grabbed for comfort where I thought—without any good reason—it was being offered. But I did care. You were still my wonderful friend—that was how I described you to my mother the day you befriended me and plied me with blackberries. Do you remember?”
She swallowed but still heard a gurgle in her throat. She fought tears. “Yes,” she said.
He stopped walking and turned to her. “And I am sorry for this too,” he said, lifting her hand in his own, though he did not release it. “I have kidnapped you and forced you to listen to an outpouring of self-pity. I am not given to such outpourings, Marged. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You will wish me to the devil—where I belong.” He smiled rather wanly.
Yes, she must wish it. She bit her lower lip. He was not Geraint. Not any longer. He was the Earl of Wyvern. Why did you ignore my pleas for Eurwyn? she wanted to ask him. Why did you forget then about our wonderful friendship? But she did not want to hear his answer. Not now. She was feeling too confused and upset.
“Come,” he said, and he brought her hand through his arm and finally released his hold on it. “I will walk you home.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she had walked far enough with him already. Too far. She could see herself home. But she could not say that either. Hatred, she was discovering, was too powerful an emotion. Too like love. Sometimes the two were indistinguishable. Perhaps if she had not loved him, she would never have hated him. She would merely have disliked and despised him.
Her heart ached with hatred and with the memory of love. It was only after they had walked for a few minutes in silence, back toward the path that would lead downward to Ty-Gwyn, that she felt resentment. She was twenty-six years old. She was no longer a girl to feel such confusion of emotions. She loved Rebecca now—or the man behind Rebecca’s mask. There was even the chance, however remote, that she carried his child inside her. When one loved one man, one ought not to be able to feel any tenderness at all for any other. Especially when that other man was not even worthy of one’s liking or respect.
And yet there had always been Geraint. And still was, it seemed. Always, all the time she had been married to Eurwyn, all the time she had loved him, there had been Geraint. And now that there was Rebecca—though there was no present or future tense in that relationship, only the past—even though it was a passionate relationship for her and an all-consuming one—even now there was Geraint.
“There will be the seeding to do soon,” he said at last. He sounded like the Earl of Wyvern again, remote, haughty, rather cold. “And lime to haul for fertilizing. Do you need help, Marged? Can I send a man or two from the home farm?”
She felt a welcome surging of anger—and of smug satisfaction. But mostly anger. She had had help. She had had a man of her own. But that man was gone, thanks to the Earl of Wyvern.
“No, thank you,” she said coolly. “I have all the help I need. I have hired Waldo Parry to work for me.”
“Have you?” he said. “I am glad, Marged. I was under the impression when I saw you picking stones off the field that you could not afford to hire anyone.”
How dared he!
“I have afforded my rent each year,” she said, “and my tithes. What other money I have and how I spend it are my concern, my lord.”
“Quite,” he said, and they walked on in silence for a while. But he was not finished with her. “Marged,” he said when they were a short distance from Ty-Gwyn, “I would hate to see you lose your help almost before you have him. If Waldo Parry—or any other man of your acquaintance—is a follower of Rebecca, it might be as well for you to warn them that I am hot on their trail. It is a mere matter of time before the whole foolish trouble is at an end.”
“And there will be no mercy on any of them,” she said. “I know that. But you cannot make me tremble with fear, Geraint Penderyn.