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Lady Selwyn’s satisfied smile slips from her lips. Then, quite unexpectedly, she trills with laughter.

‘La! Oh, Sir Henry, you tease. Still, I shall not be offended.’

‘Indeed you shall not,’ her husband says, taking her hand.

He raises it to his lips. Linette sucks in her breath. Henry’s gaze sharpens too on their clasped fingers, the gold rings that shine there. The pointed look shared between them is interrupted when the bell chimes again, a discordant jangle. When Cadoc opens the door once more it is to find Lord Pennant and his wife, Lady Anne, on the other side.

Pleasantries are exchanged. The butler distributes small glasses of wine from a gilt tray, and Henry is pulled from her side, leaving Linette to suffer the indignities of the older women. They attempt many times to draw her in with carefully aimed barbs and back-handed insults – how clever you are to read so much, how patient you must be to converse with farmers – but Linette simply cannot bring herself to pretend not to understand them. Instead she keeps her head low, acts meekly as Julian would wish her to, all the while striving to keep the boredom from her face. Both ladies know perfectly well that Linette does not share their interests or a knowledge of their social circle – indeed, they have ceased trying to include Linette in their discussions and moved on to news out of London: the scandal of an earl’s inappropriate relationship with his niece, the imprisonment of a Haymarket theatre manager for not paying his debts, the death of a much-respected viscount at the hands of a Borough ‘butcher’ in December last year … Linette watches them with a look that feigns a politeness she does not feel.

Neither woman can be much older than Gwen Tresilian, but each wears her age differently. Lady Pennant is a short, squat woman in a too-tight plum-coloured dress who has allowed her penchant for sweetmeats to get the better of her; her teeth are bad, her skin is dry, the small scars left by a cluster of spots on her cheeks ill-disguised by the powder she wears. Lady Selwyn’s skin is powderless; her face is smooth and pale, her age only apparent from the fine lines about her eyes and mouth and neck. But her paleness is accentuated by the black wig she wears, the rouge she has painted on her lips. She was, Linette remembers, attractive once in a darkly seductive way, but now her figure – which was at one time willowy – is gaunt.

The doorbell rings again, and Cadoc admits the last of the party: Mr Lambeth, Dr Beddoe, and at their heels Miss Carew and the Reverend Mr Owain Dee. A look of relief crosses Henry’s face and Linette envies him in that moment, that he should have found friendship outside of Plas Helyg where she could not. Merlin, excitable with so many new people in his midst, trots over to Lady Pennant, tail wagging wildly, snuffles loudly at her skirts. That lady swings them almost violently out of the way, wrinkles her powdered nose in distaste.

‘Can’t this ghastly animal be removed? I have no wish to smell like dog at the dinner table.’

Linette settles on Lady Pennant a scowl, curbs the desire to say it would make not one jot of difference, but Julian clicks his fingers, a short sharp snap that echoes loudly in the vestibule.

‘Take it, Powell,’ her cousin says.

‘Yes, sir.’

Cadoc leans down, grasps the lurcher by the scruff of his neck. Merlin looks soulfully at Linette, brown eyes large. Then the butler leads him away, and all the while the dog looks back at her and Henry until the door to the servants’ quarters shuts behind him.

‘Well, then,’ Julian says, a broad smile upon his pale face. ‘Now we’re all here, shall we go through?’

CHAPTER THIRTY

It has been some time since Linette has seen the dining room look like this. Candles have been placed in every sconce on the wall so it seems as though the fading damask wallpaper glows from within, and the finest of Plas Helyg’s porcelain has been laid out in all its splendour, the silverware shining brightly in the light of the setting sun that streams orange through the window. The table has been expanded to accommodate the extra guests, piled with so many dishes that the crisp white tablecloth can barely be seen underneath. As Linette enters on Julian’s arm she must commend Mrs Phillips’ efforts. Carrot soup, leek pie, sparagrass, and a medley of vegetables are arranged at the head of the table, whilst at the other end sit plates of oyster loaves, stewed haddock and potted lobster. In the middle are dishes of roast mutton, mumbled hare, and dotted between them all a selection of jams and jellies, pickles and preserves. The crowning dish, however, is one of Plas Helyg’s hens – it has been placed on a bed of its silken black feathers, roasted skin glistening crisp and golden in the candlelight.

‘Oh, Julian,’ Lady Pennant says, eyes bulging greedily, the curls of her full-bodied wig bobbing. It is an unusual colour of grizzle, with what appears to be an odd shade of cherry-red powdered on top. Behind her, Cadoc clears his throat.

‘Do you wish me to serve the soup, my lord?’

‘Yes,’ Julian replies – short, clipped. ‘Before it grows cold.’

‘Very good,’ comes the reply, and the butler proceeds to ladle the soup into their waiting bowls.

There are eleven seated at the table. At the head sits Julian, on his left Linette; next to her Mr Dee, followed by Lady Selwyn, Lord Pennant and Mr Lambeth. On Julian’s right (sitting far too close for propriety) is Lady Pennant. Then comes Henry, with Miss Carew, Sir John and Dr Beddoe taking the remaining seats.

Linette looks at the older doctor as he flicks his napkin across his lap. Would he really have killed Wynn Evans for money, as Henry intimated? He scarce looks as though he needs it. His wig is still crisply white with no signs of yellowing, and his gilt-buttoned coat expensively tailored. What need does he have for the living here at Penhelyg? Indeed, considering he did not attend to the miners when Linette requested his presence, Dr Beddoe could scarce wish for it.

‘A toast,’ her cousin says, raising his glass of wine. His guests follow suit, and Linette takes the opportunity then to mark their hands.

Each and every one of them – except for Reverend Dee and Miss Carew – wears a gold signet ring.

‘I am most pleased to welcome our new doctor to Penhelyg,’ says Julian now, his tenor grave and resonant. ‘Your presence here has been long-desired, and I am sure you’ll bring us all very good fortune indeed. To Henry.’

‘To Henry,’ the guests echo.

Henry dips his head awkwardly in appreciation. The others drink. Linette frowns into her glass. Something about the wording of the toast rankles, but why she cannot put her finger on.

Cadoc finishes serving the soup, leaves the room. The party dip their spoons.

‘Penhelyg must be,’ Sir John says, leaning over his bowl to address Henry further down the table, ‘a great change from what you are used to in London.’

Politely Henry turns his head. ‘Yes, a very great change.’

‘I understand you taught?’