Chapter Ten #2
“Noble of you,” said Fletcher. He sounded a little sarcastic.
“Hugh understands me,” Owen said, gesturing across the table at his friend.
Hugh smiled. “I do, although my wife is actually here in London.”
The implication being that it was easier to stay faithful when one’s wife was in proximity.
Owen shrugged it off. “My point is,” Owen said, “I did not expect to feel so beholden to my marriage when I agreed to it, but now I do, and I believe what Lark is worried about is that if Beresford—or if Lark himself—should get hooked into a marriage, they might feel similarly beholden, in which case they will no longer be with each other. Am I near the target?” He looked at Lark.
“Bullseye,” said Lark. “Should Anthony marry a young woman, I would need to respect that relationship. There will be pressure on Anthony to ensure his title is passed to a direct descendant. I would be the thing preventing that from happening.”
That puzzled Owen a little. “Forgive me if this is too intimate a question, but is Beresford the sort of man who is not attracted to women at all?”
Lark grimaced. “I fear he is. I have not been burdened with quite the same affliction, but…” He stared at the ceiling.
“No, that is wrong, it is not an affliction. It is just how some men are. How we were created by God. I believe that. I believe that some men, and presumably some women, are attracted to only their own sex, or they are attracted to many kinds of people, or they are attracted only to the opposite sex. Anthony has this friend who never gave other men a single thought until he became a widower, and now he lives in Shropshire with another man, and they’re raising his children together.
It sounds very quaint, but they lie that his lover is his butler so that no one expects, because they’d be hanged otherwise, so there is that.
” Lark leaned his head back on the chair and placed a hand over his eyes. He groaned.
“I’m sorry,” Hugh said softly.
“I know. I apologize for sermonizing. I have just found myself struggling lately with this particular lot in life. I have fallen in love with someone I have no future with, and part of me thinks I should end the affair so that he can go off and get married and carry on with his life. But another part of me cannot bear to stay away from him, and it is a terrible place to be.” He sat up and looked at Owen.
“I am glad you and Lady Caernarfon have made something together, that from the sounds of it, you get on well. I am happy for you. I hope that one of these days we will all get to spend more time with her and get to know her better. I do not mean to visit my own misery on this group, but Fletcher asked, and…”
“I do miss her,” Owen said. “I had not expected to. And then she sent me this letter.” He pulled it from his pocket. When Lark held out his hand, Owen handed it over.
Lark took a moment to look over the letter. “Oh, this is dreary.”
“What is it?” asked Hugh.
“It’s basically just an inventory. So many pounds for glass for windows at…your castle.” Lark glared at Owen for a brief moment. “Should we all have such burdens as a castle. But then it goes on to list things Lady Caernarfon bought. Curtains. A settee. Some…clay?”
“She likes to make pottery.”
“All right. And she can pay for all of that because, according to this letter, Owen is making quite a bit of money from a sheep farm?”
“I’ve been selling wool to a textile mill. But you see what I mean, right?”
“Does she even like you?” Lark asked, handing back the letter.
“I thought so.”
“Maybe she just feels awkward conveying emotion in a letter,” said Hugh. “You could write her a letter telling her what you just said to us. That you miss her.”
“I suppose.”
“It might at least get you a less dry letter. I’ve gotten more exciting letters from my solicitor,” said Lark.
Owen slipped the letter back into his pocket. “So what you’re saying is, I should send the sort of letter I’d like to receive.”
“Yes,” said Hugh.
“And please, for the love of God, do not talk to her about roads,” said Fletcher.
*
It took nearly every one of Owen’s footmen to carry the crate of Grace’s pottery equipment into the cottage. She got their help setting up her pottery wheel and carrying her recently purchased clay into a dark cupboard where she could wrap it up and keep it cool so it wouldn’t dry out.
She stood in front of the house as the men finished, when another woman came by.
“Hel?, sut mae?” said the woman.
“Pardon?”
“Hello. Are you English?”
“I’m afraid I am. I hope you do not mind my presence here.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all.” The woman had a thicker accent than Owen and Morfudd, whose accents were a bit watered down by spending time in England.
It was more like that of the Williams family, who were locals.
“Were you the one who purchased this cottage? I’d heard the previous owners were selling it.
Well, it was just Old Man Owens and his daughter and son-in-law, who decided to move to Liverpool. What can you do?”
“My husband purchased the cottage. He is from this region.”
“Oh, indeed? Well, if you teach your children a few Welsh phrases, you should have no quarrel with me. But I thought I knew everyone in this town. Who is your husband?”
Grace hesitated. This woman—she was perhaps a decade older than Grace—seemed friendly, and Grace did not want to intimidate her. “The Earl of Caernarfon.”
“Oh, my lady, I did not know!”
“Please do not worry about that. I do not need special treatment. I was hoping to blend in here a bit.”
The woman winked. “Well, Lady Caernarfon, my name is Catrin Davies. I live just down the street. I was out for my afternoon constitutional when I spotted your men carrying those great crates inside and I became curious. New furniture I presume.”
“Yes, but also a potter’s wheel.”
“Oh, aye, do you make pottery?”
“I do. I intend to use this house as a pottery studio, not as my primary residence.”
“Oh, how nice. And certainly you have that big estate up the road.”
A wagon pulled up then. When the driver hopped off his perch, he said, “Lady Caernarfon?”
“’Tis me. Is this the brick?”
“Yes. Where should I put it?”
Grace told a footman to help the brick man carry the bricks to the back garden.
“I intend to build a kiln,” Grace said to Mrs. Davies, who was staring at her strangely.
“Oh, I wondered. It looks like only enough brick for a fireplace.”
“It will be a bit like an outdoor oven made of brick, where I might bake the clay after I finish molding it.”
“I would love to learn how to make pots,” said Mrs. Davies said a bit wistfully. “I had an artistic inclination as a girl, but then I married my husband and had children. But now that my children are a bit older, I’m interested in pursuing that again.”
“Once I have everything set up, I will invite you over for a lesson. I haven’t had many students, but I believe I could teach you how to do it.”
“Yes? I would adore that.” Mrs. Davies smiled. “You must be newly married. I hadn’t even heard the earl had found a wife.”
“Yes, the wedding was about six weeks ago.”
“I’ve just mentioned, I am married as well. Local boy, of course, not nearly someone so fancy as the earl. But the earl’s family… They’ve been a part of this town for generations. My husband is his cousin, technically, if you follow a few circuitous branches on the family tree.”
“Is he? So we are distantly related by marriage, then.”
“Family, yes.” Mrs. Davies smiled. “Mostly I keep house and help my husband with our sheep. But my husband is also a blacksmith and I have always envied a bit that he has time to pursue a craft. I can barely sew, not able to do much more than mend my children’s clothing.
But I like to paint, and pots might be fun. ”
“I make all sorts of things, but we can start with something practical. I’ll teach you to use the wheel to make bowls or plates.”
“I would like that. Just send word to number twenty-seven on this road. Maybe a half mile that way.” Mrs. Davies pointed. “I must say, it was lovely to meet you, my lady.”
“The feeling is mutual. My husband has gone back to London for business, and I should very much like to have friends here while he is absent.”
“Then let me give you your first language lesson. Here in North Wales, sut mae is a standard greeting. It basically means How goes it? So when you meet a Welshman on the street, that is what you say. Some of my neighbors are a bit precious about the language, so it helps to know a few phrases.”
“Thank you for the tip. You’ve been extremely kind.”
“Oh, no bother at all. If you show me how to make a dish, I’ll consider it a good deal.”
Grace smiled. “Agreed.”