Degree of Solitude Page 5

  The Baroness waved to Nevern.

  “Excuse me,” Nevern murmured. “I must mollify my wife, for I arrived late to my own party.” He moved around the groups of people to where she stood.

  It left Catrin alone with Merrick. Merrick leaned against the piano as Jones had been doing. He made it look elegant, though. “How do you find Ysgolheigion, Miss Davies?” His gaze was steady.

  She wondered how much he knew about Ysgolheigion and Daniel, despite his vagueness about ‘the Williams son’.”

  “I can’t say I’ve learned much at all,” she replied. “I only arrived this afternoon.”

  “Surely, that is long enough for a clever woman such as yourself to draw some conclusions?” Merrick said.

  She considered him. He was not leering or complimenting her. He was not finding a small excuse to touch her or draw closer to her. His posture was relaxed, nearly inclined.

  “Would you draw a conclusion after a single examination, Sir Merrick?” she asked.

  His smile broadened. “Sometimes, a single glance is all that is needed to understand the truth. For instance, I have noticed you do not drink your champagne, even though you appear to sip it. It means you wish to keep a clear head. After a lengthy journey today, you have dressed carefully and attended a dinner party full of strangers. You have a purpose here tonight, Miss Davies, and it is not one of relaxation and entertainment.”

  Catrin kept her face still, not betraying her surprise. “Was the reason for your expulsion from society something to do with your preferred choice of company, Sir Merrick?”

  He laughed loudly. Catrin sensed the other guests glancing their way. Merrick recovered, still smiling. “A clever woman, as I said. I deserved that, I suppose. Ah…but if I was ten years younger, and more inclined toward someone of your beauty, then…” He sighed.

  Catrin pretended to sip her champagne and his smile broadened.

  She found herself laughing. “I suspect you were once a rogue of unique talents, Sir Merrick.”

  He winked. “I still am a rogue. There is a freedom which comes with losing one’s reputation.”

  “Is there?” she asked seriously. “Did you not lose your profession at the same time?”

  “That is a different matter,” he replied, his smile fading, too. “Fools and idiots, if they present a proper appearance and say the right words, are unassailable.”

  Catrin frowned. “You said the wrong words,” she guessed.

  “I said them frequently and loudly. It does not pay to upset the status quo. I made the wrong people uncomfortable.” He hesitated. “I relied upon empirical evidence to shape the way I worked. The established medical professionals prefer ‘good sense’ to dictate their methods.”

  “I see why you are persona non grata now, Sir Merrick. Logic and reason are rarely welcomed.”

  “Especially when presented by a beautiful woman,” he replied.

  “Very much so.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “May I escort you to the dinner table, Miss Davies?” Merrick asked, as the butler shook the little bell.

  Catrin was more than happy to take his arm.

  The meal was a lamb roast with fresh mint sauce and glazed carrots. The gravy was thick and rich, aromatic with rosemary and chives.

  Unlike formal dinner parties in London, seats had not been assigned. No place cards ranged down the table. Consequently, Catrin found herself seated beside Merrick, to which she had no objections. Dr. Jones and a young man with pale red hair, a round face and fine brows, sat opposite her. The young man had been introduced to her as Simon, with no other information forthcoming. He wore a day suit and pulled constantly at his tie. He was not used to a shirt collar, she surmised.

  Mrs. Kernigan was to her left. As the footman poured gravy for each diner, Mrs. Kernigan said nervously, “Is it true Mr. Williams walks upon the mountains every night, Miss Davies?”

  “Mountains?” Catrin asked, startled.

  “We call the Preselis mountains, while the rest of the world calls them hills,” Nevern said, as he sliced the lamb.

  “They’re tall enough. You can see Y Wyddfa from the top of Carninglis,” Simon said, his voice high and his tone defensive.

  “Y Wyddfa?” Catrin asked.

  “What you call Snowden,” Dr. Jones supplied.

  “Really? Snowden is far in the north, isn’t it? You can still see it from here?”

  “On a clear day, I suspect,” Merrick said, his tone lazy. “I don’t intend to find out for myself. It is only a mile or so to the top of Carninglis, but it is uphill all the way.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “If Williams does walk about the mountains at night—” Mr. Kernigan said

  “Which he does,” Nevern interjected. “I think it helps,” he added.

  Kernigan nodded. “That explains much about him.”

  “It would?” Catrin asked, her tone cool.

  “They say if one spends the night upon Carninglis, one goes mad,” Merrick said. His tone was dry, telling Catrin exactly what he thought of that notion.

  “If living in Ysgolheigion hasn’t sent him mad already,” Danica Morgan added.

  Catrin looked down the table to the end where Danica sat on her husband’s left. “It seems to be a perfectly normal house.”

  Kernigan shook his head. “It’s made of blue stone.”

  “It looked gray to me,” Catrin replied.

  Everyone laughed again.

  “Bluestone,” Merrick said. “Preseli bluestone is mined from the hills, as is the slate. Historians have raised the notion that the bluestone inner ring of Stonehenge comes from the Preseli hills. They’ve still to prove it of course—”

  “That would explain why Williams is mad,” Danica Morgan finished, with a small note of triumph in her voice.

  “It would?” Catrin kept her tone polite.

  “No one survives a night among Stonehenge either, apparently,” Merrick murmured.

  “Oh…” Catrin smothered the first stirrings of her anger, driven by their nonsensical ideas. “I assure you, Mr. Williams is not in the least bit insane. He is a celebrated journalist and a thoughtful man…and a hero, too. He was injured saving others.”

  The little murmurs of side conversation halted. Everyone looked at her. Nevern’s carving knife hovered over the lamb, not moving.

  Catrin could feel her cheeks heating. She had let herself become impatient. Now she had said the wrong thing and too forcefully at that.

  “Algeria, was it not?” Merrick asked, lifting his voice a little. “Taking on the Berbers and their Moroccan prince leader?”

  Mrs. Kernigan gasped. “Really?”

  “The Berbers had surrounded my cousins, who were trapped on the roof of the French Foreign Legion’s headquarters in Oran,” Catrin said. “Daniel was injured saving them.”

  There had been more family members there than just Daniel, although Catrin didn’t mind failing to acknowledge their efforts if it made Daniel look a little more heroic in these people’s eyes.

  “I had no idea…” Simon murmured and picked up his knife and fork.

  “I understand the French Foreign Regiment have returned to calling themselves the Legion once more,” Nevern said, his tone light.

  The conversation moved away from Daniel and his sanity and Catrin remained silent and listened and tried to finish her meal.

  When Danica Morgan rose to her feet and the ladies around the table with her, Catrin followed them toward the dining-room door. She stopped beside Nevern, who stood politely waiting for them to leave.

  “May I have a word with you in private, Baron?” she murmured.

  His eyes narrowed. He nodded. “The library,” he suggested, waving her toward the door.

  Chapter Five

  Even in summer, the late night air upon the Preseli hills was cool. It would bathe Daniel’s face and ease the skin around the scar. The deep chill of winter helped even more.

  The longer he wa
lked, the more the pain eased. If he walked long enough, he might sleep when he returned to Ysgolheigion. It worked often enough to make walking every night worth the effort.

  He well knew what the locals thought of his nightly walks upon the hills. They would be more horrified if he walked among them during the day, though. They would shrink back in horror, their eyes upon his face. The more impressionable would cross themselves.

  For that reason, among others, he avoided daylight. It was easier, that way.

  He moved over the low foot of Carninglis, crossed Fford Cilgwyn and strode into the trees on the other side. A mile through trees, then he would be upon the quarry site. It took well over an hour to circle the quarry itself. Then, perhaps, he would climb to the top of Carninglis, before heading home.

  There was no sound but his breathing and his boots on the rocks, and the whisper of his coat brushing against his legs. His breath fogged the air in front of him, hiding the stars which wheeled across the sky in brilliant display. There was no moon yet—it was still early. The moon would rise soon and he could watch the glimmering, silver yellow disk lift, then fall.

  Her beautiful face. The eyes which missed nothing…

  The quarry, then Carninglis…and perhaps around the castle ruins, he thought. Perhaps it would be enough to root Catrin from his thoughts.

  You sent her from you, running in horror. You did that.

  The accusation repeated itself. It had become a litany, running through his mind in time with his steps.

  Why, oh why was she here? He’d thought he’d severed any connection between them, using a brutality which had appalled even him. Why today, of all days? Why had she not arrived when he was at least calm enough to face the world?

  He had known as soon as he woke late this morning that the throbbing in his face bones would increase over the day. It would grow until he could no longer stand it, until light and sound themselves were raw pain and he wanted to gouge out his eyes and claw the skin from his face to make it stop.

  He had foregone breakfast and reached for the port, instead. It was the least objectionable of the common liquors and he could get drunker quicker with a bottle of port. By the second bottle, he knew that today, the port would ease nothing.

  Then Catrin had stepped into the room.

  Daniel’s breath escaped in a heavy cloud as he felt again the impact of her appearance. She had been a pale ghost in the dark room, yet he didn’t need light to know it was her. His whole body leapt at her presence.

  Then the horror had hit him. She was there. She was witness to his misery.

  She had thrown open the curtain and exposed him. Even remembering the moment made his heart ache and his fear leap, so his breath came faster than mere walking should demand. The silvery tines of fear slid through his blood, making him groan as he walked.

  In that single moment of blinding light, he’d known she would be repelled, just as everyone else shrank from him or turned away or stared openly at the ruin of his face. He’d reacted violently, driving her from the room with his anger, before she had time to react and before he witnessed her reaction.

  He couldn’t bear to see the distaste building in her eyes. For once, the expression in them had been warm and lovely…and just for him.

  He couldn’t remember why he had offered to write to her from Canada. Oh, he remembered the occasion well enough, although he still didn’t know what had motivated him to compensate for her bitterness at being denied a full education. Catrin’s mother was more than capable of teaching her everything she could possibly want to know.

  More book learning, his mind whispered. Catrin had been correct in surmising that the wisdom he sought—acquired through experience and living a full life—was also denied her, as she was a woman.

  It didn’t matter why he had offered, because letter writing had swiftly become something more to him than a salve for Catrin’s injured sensibilities and a glimpse of a forbidden life.

  He looked forward to her neatly-written, lengthy letters. He could never anticipate what might be in them, for she had an active mind and was interested in many things a proper lady should not even be aware of.

  While climbing the great mountains to the west of Canada, he had read her description of the family gather that year. He had tasted the turtle soup, and the fruit cake and rum sauce. He had heard the voices of the twins arguing about marriageable men. He had seen everyone’s faces and smelled the salt air, while sitting at the fire in the high mountain plain where his group were camped.

  Her letters contained more than simple descriptions of home. Even though he treasured those small domestic moments she shared, he came to enjoy even more the long conversation which developed between them.

  Politics, economics, history, mathematics. Society’s endemic hypocrisy. Philosophy. The latest book she had read, including the more startling passages from it—for Annalies did not deny Catrin access to any reading.

  Catrin would express her outrage at injustice and inequality and Daniel would add more facts and observations to bolster her opinion. The suppression of minorities, which he saw everywhere he went. Slavery. Disenfranchisement of more than just women. Abuses of power and more.

  He was in Singapore in 1869, nearly a year away from England, when he realized the letters he wrote to her helped focus his own thoughts. Writing the letters gave his articles and essays clarity—to the point where his editor barely adjusted his words when they ran in the newspaper. It was in Singapore that Daniel bought twenty yards of blue silk and sent it home.

  He reached India in May that year and Egypt in September. In November he sat upon the top of the Great Pyramid of Khufu at Giza and saw the sand dunes stretching endlessly to the west. It was then he realized he wanted to go home, to where the horizon was not nearly as far away. He had been gone nearly two years. It was time.

  He had rushed home on the first available steamer, with not even a letter to his editor to notify him, and had arrived back in England the day before Christmas. The train ride to Marblethorpe, which he knew from Catrin’s letters was where everyone would gather this year, had taken the last of his patience, even though after weeks of traveling, it was a mere three-hour journey.

  At last he was there.

  As everyone exclaimed and hugged him and the women cried, Daniel sought Catrin out with his gaze. She stood by the newel post, a small smile on her face which he felt he understood. She didn’t need to say hello or hug him, for she had never been away from him.

  Marblethorpe was a huge manor, yet it was impossible to find a room without someone in it, or a moment when he could find Catrin alone. Late on Christmas Day, Daniel brought her coat and gloves and scarf to her, where she was reading on the window seat. He put his fingers to his lips and drew her through the house, which still reverberated with merriment and chatter, to the front door.

  He helped her put on her things, then opened the door, bringing in a gust of frosty, fresh air.

  They hurried out, moving around the front of the house, stepping through calf-high snow. The hem of her pretty blue dress was coated with it and so were the legs of his trousers.

  Catrin laughed. It was a gay sound. “I suppose this feels like a tropical island after living in the mountains of Canada.”

  “This is the north pole, after Egypt,” he replied. “I’ve been so long in the heat, I can barely remember the cold of Canada.” He stepped onto the circular viewing stand and brushed the snow from one of the curved stone viewing benches and they sat.

  For a moment, he breathed in the frigid air, enjoying it. The silence had been complete in that moment, too. Then he reached into his coat and withdrew the letter and held it toward her. “Merry Christmas, Catrin.”

  She took the letter. Her black eyes were puzzled. “You gave me a gift already.”

  He had given her a slim book hand-written in Chinese which he had bought in Singapore. Everyone had turned the pages, curiously tracing the vertical lines of characters from the back to the f
ront, marveling.

  “This is a second gift. Something just for you and me to share,” Daniel said.

  “Another letter? I should think of them as gifts, now?” she asked. Her cheeks dimpled, as she teased. She broke the seal and opened it, and just barely caught the sliver of silk as it fluttered down to her lap.

  Catrin turned it over and over and held it up to the moonlight. “Oh…it is silk, isn’t it? Silk from Singapore? You brought me silk, Daniel?”

  He was pleased. “Twenty yards of it—too much to wrap in one big parcel and bring with me. It will be delivered here next week from the shipping company who received it.”

  “I like the color,” she said. Then she took off her gloves and smoothed the fabric with her fingertips. “Oh, it is so…it is quite different from India silk! It is lovely, Daniel.”

  “You will see the color has a sheen to it, when you can look at it in daylight. I saw the bolt in a market and it reminded me of you.”

  Catrin laughed and smoothed her hand over the blue of her gown. “I am so predictable? Oh dear.”

  “The most predictable thing about you were your letters,” Daniel said. “Every week…you have made the last two years tolerable, Catrin. Silk was the least I could do.”

  Catrin’s eyes glowed. “Your letters have made my two years tolerable, in turn.”

  “Has it really been so bad?” he asked gently. “I remember what you said in your letters, but it cannot have been so awful all the time.”

  Catrin put the silk down and put her gloves back on. She tucked the scrap of silk into her glove and put her hands together. “Not every moment was awful. Not at all. Only, I would reach a point of equilibrium—acceptance, even. Then some bigoted, misogynistic fool would open his mouth and I would be back to despairing, all over again.” She sighed. “I sometimes regret having learned so much about the world, Daniel. Now I cannot talk to most people—and most especially men—without finding their conversations boring and them fools. I had no idea how few subjects society considers polite conversation. The weather, the season, and music. Anything else is considered gossip, or unfit for a lady’s ears.”