this is a proper meal, bach! You wait until you taste those pies. Mouthwatering, they are.’
Tamsyn reserved judgement, but later, after Hywel Benedict had had the barman provide them with a selection of food from which they could take their choice, she had to admit he was right. The meat pies were thick and juicy, and washed down with the mixture of beer and lemonade which her companion had ordered for her they were satisfyingly delicious. There were hard-boiled eggs, too, and a crisp salad that the barman’s wife provided, and lots of pickled onions that Tamsyn firmly avoided.
Hywel Benedict ate heartily, talking most of the time to the barman about the state of the weather and the crops and the possibilities of a drought. He swallowed the huge glasses of beer without turning a hair, and Tamsyn, used to seeing her mother’s acquaintances tackling small glasses of bourbon or gin, was staggered at his capacity.
Once he caught her eyes on him and held her gaze for a long moment, causing the hot colour to run up her cheeks, and she was reminded once again of that moment in the airport lounge when she had encountered him scrutinising her. She bent her head in embarrassment, conscious of a prickling along her nerves and a quickening beat in her heart. It was crazy, but when he looked at her like that, something tangible semed to leap between them, and she knew that she could never be indifferent to this man, despite the disparity of their ages. She tried to think of Gerry, of his fair-skinned face and gentle brown eyes, and failed abysmally. All she could see were deep-set eyes and darkly engraved features bearing all the unconquered arrogance of his Celtic forebears.
At last, after she had refused a second slice of apple cake, he suggested they should go, and she willingly agreed. She was allowing this man too much space in her thoughts at a time when she should have been thinking of her forthcoming encounter with her father or speculating on what kind of a honeymoon her mother was having.
It was growing dark and a glance at her watch which she had changed to British time when they landed told her that it was nearing ten o’clock. She climbed into the car and when he got in beside her and reached for his pipe, she said:
‘How much longer will it be before we reach Trefallath?’
Hywel Benedict lit his pipe before answering, and then exhaling smoke, he answered: ‘Oh, perhaps another hour and a half—something like that. Why? Getting nervous?’
Tamsyn did not deign to answer that and with a shrug of the heavy shoulders he leaned forward and started the car.
Darkness brought its own uneasiness to a landscape which was fast becoming wilder and less closely populated. The lights of villages were fewer and farther between and Tamsyn gripped her seat tightly, her nerves playing tricks with her. It was all very well contemplating this visit from the calm and civilised environs of her mother’s world, and quite another encountering the stark facts of reality. Here she was, miles from anything or anyone she knew or cared about, in the company of a man who had identified himself only by means of a photograph and had since made no attempt to tell her anything about her father or even about himself.
‘Relax.’
The calm word startled her into awareness and she stole a look at his shadowy profile. ‘Do you know my father very well?’ she asked.
Hywel Benedict inclined his head slowly. ‘You might say that. We’ve known each other since we were children together, so I suppose I know him as well as any man could.’
Tamsyn nodded. ‘So you’ll know—Joanna, too.’
‘Joanna is my cousin.’
‘Oh!’ Tamsyn swallowed this information with difficulty. ‘I see.’
‘What do you see, I wonder,’ he commented wryly. ‘Very little beyond that small nose, I shouldn’t be surprised.’
Tamsyn unbuttoned and then buttoned the jacket of her suit. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘No? I would have thought a bright little mind like yours would have fastened on to the fact that if Joanna is my cousin she must have known your father a long time, too.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Yes, that. It may interest you to know that Joanna was going to marry Lance long before he met Laura Stewart.’
Tamsyn gasped, ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘I don’t suppose you did. It’s not the sort of thing your mother would have told you, is it? I mean—well, it puts her in a different position, doesn’t it?’
‘My mother is no femme fatale, if that’s what you’re implying,’ stated Tamsyn hotly.
‘No. She was never a handsome woman, I’ll give you that,’ he remarked annoyingly. ‘But she had charm, when she chose to exert it, and I think Lance was flattered.’
‘How do you know what she was like?’ demanded Tamsyn.
‘Because I knew her, too. We were all in London at the same time. I even went to their wedding.’
Tamsyn was stunned. ‘I see,’ she said, rather uncertainly.
‘I didn’t approve of Lance marrying your mother,’ he continued complacently. ‘She wanted Lance to be something he could never be—an intellectual. He didn’t belong in London. He pined for the valley. For the simple, uncomplicated life. And eventually he gave up the struggle and went back there.’
‘And I suppose you encouraged him,’ accused Tamsyn scornfully.
Hywel shook his head slowly. ‘Oh, no, bach. It was nothing to do with me. I was in South Africa at the time, and I knew nothing about it until I came home and found Joanna and Lance together again.’
Tamsyn compressed her lips. ‘And I suppose you approved of that.’
‘Naturally. Joanna has made your father happy. Would you rather he had been miserable all his life?’
‘How dare you imply that my mother would have been responsible for his own lack of confidence?’ Tamsyn was furious.
‘Call it familiarity, Tamsyn Stanford. And don’t get so angry. You didn’t expect to hear good things of your mother in Trefallath, did you?’
‘It seems to me that my mother was justified in refusing to allow me to visit with my father before now.’
‘Why?’ Hywel shook his head. ‘There are always two sides to every question, aren’t there? Perhaps if the two had been more evenly balanced, it wouldn’t have come as such a shock to hear the other side now.’
‘You don’t imagine I believe everything you’ve said, do you?’ exclaimed Tamsyn disdainfully.
Hywel made an indifferent gesture. ‘No matter. You’ll learn, bach.’
It was nearly half past eleven when they began the descent into the valley. Tamsyn, who had not expected to feel tired yet, was beginning to sense a certain weariness in her limbs, and her head dropped several times. But she would not allow herself to fall asleep and risk waking to find herself with her head on his shoulder. Somehow she needed to avoid physical contact with Hywel Benedict.
Trefallath was, as Hywel had told her, merely a cluster of cottages, a public house, a school and a chapel. They ran through the dimly lit main street and then turned on to the rough moorland again, following a narrow road which badly needed re-surfacing. At last the station wagon slowed and turned between stone gateposts, and came to a shuddering halt before a low, stone-built house with lights shining from the lower windows.
‘Welcome to Glyn Crochan, Tamsyn Stanford,’ he remarked, almost kindly, and then slid out of the car.
As Tamsyn got out, light suddenly spilled on to her, and she realised the door of the building had opened and a man had emerged followed closely by the small figure of a woman.
The man greeted Hywel warmly, and then came round the car to Tamsyn with swift determined strides. ‘Tamsyn!’ he exclaimed,