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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

She walks for hours.

Through the muddy fields, down across the salt marshes, past the Morgans’ cottage, thence onto the beach. The tide is out, and Linette sits on the sand to remove her boots and woollen socks, presses her toes into the golden grains. A breeze has banked the shore and so she removes her hat too, lets the wind whip through her hair. Tying her bootlaces together Linette hangs them over her shoulder, begins to fill her hat with shells brought forth from the waves: rough winkles, button-like cowries, razor clams, tiny limpets, Chinamen’s hats.

She likes the feel of them between her fingers, the hard specks of wet sand beneath her fingernails. To Linette it is a way to distance her mind from anything that serves to distress her, but no matter how many shells she collects, troubled thoughts niggle at the dark corners of her mind.

Henry has confused her – she thought they were able to tell each other anything. But he has somehow found another glass vial and confided with Rowena Carew, and when she asked him about it, he lied.

He lied.

The sun shifts behind a cloud. Her hat grows heavy.

Has she been mistaken in Henry? True, they have only known each other a week (could he truly have only arrived seven days ago?), but in that time Linette has begun to consider him a friend. Yet, in truth, what does she actually know of him? A man from London with no family, disgraced from his profession for misdiagnosing a patient. A man with connections to Bow Street who has – and Linette is sure this is what they speak of together now – been instructed by her cousin to ascertain if she is mad like her mother. Is his claim that Dr Evans was poisoned a ploy? For why would anyone murder a man so well loved? Henry suspects Dr Beddoe because of the nature of the vial, and claims he has a signet ring bearing the same symbol as Julian’s, but Linette has never actually seen the doctor’s ring, has she? She simply took Henry’s word for it. But then, Mr Dee (so Henry says) confirmed a connection between the two men, and as a man of the cloth he would not lie.

So distracted is she, Linette almost misses the jellyfish beached on the sand. Its milky-quartz body lies bottom up, tendrils ribboning in the surf. She stops, looks further down the beach.

It is full of them. Large and small, like a blanket of gelatinous pebbles.

Linette bites her lip. Tomas has told her how jellyfish can be dangerous, their tentacles infused with poison. Would they still be a danger, dead? She is glad Merlin is not with her – he would not have hesitated to snaffle at their decaying bodies, and what would Linette do if he was hurt?

Time, then, to head back to Plas Helyg.

It takes her an hour to reach the track back to the salt marshes, but before she leaves the sanctuary of the beach Linette locates a rock pool. Ever so gently she tips her hat, lets the shells fall into its shallow depths, watches the tiny bristle-tails dash and dart as the shells settle at the bottom. Once she would have kept them – as a child she had collected shells in their hundreds – but when Enaid deemed her room too cluttered they were relegated to Geraint’s glasshouse where they were crushed into shards, his own little remedy for the slugs and snails.

Boot-clad once more, Linette ambles up toward the path leading to the village square. She has seen no one on her travels, nor should she; what with it being the day of rest, the villagers will be in the tavern enjoying their well-earned respite. Linette finds herself approaching it, pushing the wooden door open.

It is more a barn than a tavern – low-eaved, straw-littered floor. The smell of yeast fills the air and then, the gradual lull of silence as the villagers look up from their drinks.

Linette comes here but rarely, and only then to order ale for Plas Helyg or the miners. It is not her place, Enaid once said, a fact she herself cannot deny, but today she feels rebellious and so she skirts about the small round tables to the bar at the far end, orders a glass of cwrw. Arthur Lloyd, the grey-haired tavern-keeper, places it before her with eyebrows raised.

‘I’d be careful if I were you, milady. ’Tis awful strong.’

She is conscious of the villagers’ eyes upon her. There is Bronwen Lewis, holding her baby close to her chest; there too are the Griffiths, Catrin leaning heavily on her gout-ridden leg. The Parrys sit by the weakly lit hearth, their youngest playing with a wooden doll on the straw floor. Cai Jones sits in a far corner, cleaning his nails with his teeth, flanked by his parents. And there in the other corner sits Rhiannon Einion, dark gaze hard and unforgiving.

Linette takes a hesitant sip. Strong it is, but the ale has an agreeable smoky undertone and – suddenly conscious of a deep-seated thirst – Linette drinks fast.

The silence in the tavern is deafening. There is a feeling of restrained impetus, a knowing that something will break, and when Linette places the empty glass back on the counter, like storm clouds, it comes.

‘You’ve not brought that Englishman with you, then.’

The voice comes from behind. Taking a deep breath, Linette turns.

It is Gareth Griffiths who spoke, one of her merchant tenants. He stands with his wiry arms folded across his chest, and beneath his heavy black brows his eyes are iron.

‘As you see.’

‘Find that surprising,’ he replies, ignoring the archness of her answer, ‘since it seems lately he’s attached to your hip.’

Linette stares. She has always shared a familiarity with her tenants not typical for a woman in her social position, but never – not once – has any of them spoken to her in so direct a manner.

‘That’s unfair,’ she says, looking from Gareth to the others who now, too, are rising from their seats.

‘Kept right close to you the other day in the square, just like that dog of yours.’

Linette feels a laugh bubble up in her throat. The ale is strong – already hazy spots are beginning to form behind her eyes.

‘Dog is right,’ Rhiannon hisses from her corner. ‘A low-life English dog!’