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‘I see,’ she says softly. ‘Tell me, then – if you held such a prestigious position, why stoop to one here? Surely a village doctor cannot begin to compare to that of a city surgeon and all the opportunities it afforded?’

Lady Gwen makes a noise in the back of her throat. It is a strange noise, an odd strangled gurgle. Methodically, she begins to cut the liver into tiny pieces. ‘Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith …’

Henry frowns at the whispered words.

‘What is she saying?’

Linette sighs. ‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s not Welsh?’

She shakes her head. ‘Remember I said that sometimes she speaks words in a language I do not understand? Well, this is it.’

Her mother repeats the four words over and over as she continues to cut the liver, proceeds to do the same with the beans. Then, once she is done she falls silent and – so very delicately – pierces one of the morsels with her fork and takes a bite.

‘I’ve tried,’ Linette adds, ‘to find out their meaning but no dictionary I possess refers to them.’

Henry watches her chew with keen interest. Lady Gwen has been served the same size portion as himself and Linette but the pale blue dress she wears hangs from her small frame, her collarbone protrudes from the snow-white skin, and in the candlelight her cheeks look gaunt. He would be very surprised if she clears her plate. Still, she is eating, and the fact that she can feed herself without prompt or mess is an encouraging sign. His gaze shifts back to his own plate, and he cuts into the liver. The knife sinks in effortlessly. Henry tries not to make comparisons to the image that imprinted itself upon his mind moments before, raises the fork to his lips.

They eat in silence for some time, the only noises silver against porcelain, the whimper of Merlin begging for scraps. At length Lady Gwen raises thin fingers to her mouth, gingerly removes a piece of fleshy grit from her tongue. She places it on the side of her plate, looks down at it wide-eyed.

‘Why did you leave London?’

Linette’s voice is like a whip-crack in the quiet. Henry lowers his fork.

Hell’s teeth, she is persistent! He hoped that her mother had distracted Linette enough for her to forget their earlier subject.

‘I shall tell you,’ he hedges, ‘if you tell me why I am not welcome here.’

For a long moment Linette stares at him across the table, sun-browned skin pale in the candlelight. She opens her mouth, shuts it again.

Henry leans forward.

‘They dislike you because you are an Englishman,’ Linette says.

He blinks.

‘I don’t understand.’

Very slowly she places her cutlery down on her plate, takes a sip of wine, lingers over it before setting it down.

‘To understand it,’ Linette begins, ‘you must know our history. Many of the Welsh estates have dwindled dreadfully in recent years, to the detriment of those who relied on the landowners for their care. I’m sure you’ve noticed there’s little to entertain here – many of the gentry took to the cities. As a consequence they left their estates under the care of agents who leeched money from tenants and the land into the purses of their employers, who then squandered it. Some could curtail their spending, like our neighbours Lord Pennant and Sir John Selwyn, but many others were plunged into debt and passed their estates on to English gentry. My grandfather was one of these men. He preferred the delights of London and spent so freely there it put Plas Helyg on the edge of ruin.’

Her face darkens.

‘Fearing bankruptcy, Emyr Cadwalladr evicted tenants to sell land, and let the mansion fall into disrepair. All he cared about was his pleasure. He was a prolific gambler, lost the mines in a game of cards to Julian. It ruined him.’

Linette’s gaze shifts briefly to her mother still looking at the gristle on her plate.

‘Luckily he had a beautiful daughter to bargain with. My father – being the elder and richer of the two cousins – married Gwenllian Cadwalladr, became sole owner of Plas Helyg, and took on all its debts. Just as well since my grandfather died a few months later, but it was an arrangement that robbed Penhelyg of a Welsh landowner. It was English money that secured the estate.’

Henry shakes his head. ‘But surely that was a good thing? The estate was kept intact.’

Out the corner of his eye he sees Lady Gwen has begun to sway, but Linette seems not to notice. She taps a fingernail against the long stem of her glass, its tink tink tink a dull chime in the enclosed room, before letting her finger fall still.

‘According to Cadoc, my father made moves to treat his tenants more fairly, repair the damage my grandfather wrought. But then he died too, Julian took over and, well …’ She sighs. ‘He wasn’t interested in running a rural estate hundreds of miles from London society. Everything was managed in his absence by Mr Lambeth, another Englishman, hired by my cousin to replace the Welsh agent already in place. My grandfather had been reckless, ’tis true, but Mr Lambeth charged impossibly high rent, neglected the villagers’ homes and ignored their needs when the floods came. As for the mines, they’re a profitable enterprise to be sure, but dangerous. Julian’s obsession with gold …’ Linette shakes her head. ‘He had the workers dig deeper and deeper into the valley, pushed the mines too hard. There have been three collapses in recent years, tragic deaths. All this has made them resent English intrusion. Though I’m half-English myself, they recognise my Welsh heritage and have benefited firsthand from my efforts to make their lives easier since I inherited. But you? You are yet another Englishman.’

At the top of the table, her mother’s breath hitches.