Authors: Paula Brackston
Cai’s eyes crinkle as he chuckles, his tanned skin making his pale blue irises even brighter. “I should undress him first,” says he. “You might find that fur hard to swallow!” He goes out, still laughing. Mrs. Jones tutts and shakes her head, taking the rabbit from me, and the first of my cookery lessons begins.
I watch her as she deftly guts the rabbit. Mam never succeeded in keeping me long enough indoors to bother with cooking. She knew I would rather be outside, tramping the hills, or talking to the wild mountain ponies. But my life is different now, and I must apply myself to the challenges that face me. Having gutted the rabbit, Mrs. Jones takes up a cleaver and with one precise chop removes the head, as matter of fact as can be. Next she cuts neatly above each paw and then, with one swift movement, removes its skin with no more difficulty than if she were pulling off a fur coat. The wretched creature’s naked body is unpleasantly fleshy and resembles too closely a corpse for me to imagine eating it. I am relieved that Mrs. Jones quickly begins to joint it, so that it is soon rendered simply meat, rather than a dead animal. She presses the blade into a leg joint, expertly finding the gap between knuckle and socket, so that the limb comes away cleanly, the bones remaining intact and without splinters. She pauses after removing the second leg.
“You try,” says she. She passes me the knife.
My first attempts are too timid, so that the blade slips and the point pierces the wooden board beneath the carcass.
“No need to be afear’d of him,” she laughs. “He was harmless enough living—he won’t put up a fight now. Go on.”
I try again, this time with more success. She nods her approval, scooping up the rabbit portions and dropping them into the cast-iron pot, which she places on the stove. She hands me an onion to chop and notices my look of consternation as I fail to hold the thing steady for cutting. It skids from my fingers, the papery skin somehow rejecting the blade.
Tutting she takes it from me.
“
Duw,
you have found the quickest way to lose a fingertip I know of. You must take a firm hold, one cut to halve it, then flat side down on the board. See? Now you can finish the job.”
I do as she bids me, feeling her eyes upon me.
“Well, there you are. Not so hard is it?” She continues to regard me as I chop so that I have the sense she is weighing me up. Pondering. At length she seems to come to some manner of decision about me.
“They do say those as do not speak spend more time listening. Seems to me they might hear things as others do not.”
I continue with my task. I am starting to feel uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny. “This is the right place for you,
cariad,
” she goes on. “You do fit in here like a dowel in a drilled beam. Oh, I don’t doubt you do still feel yourself a stranger. A little time is all that’s needed. Time and care.” She gives a loud chuckle. “And,
Duw,
Mr. Jenkins certainly do care for you,
merched
!”
I feel myself blush horribly, my face burning.
“’Tis nothing to be ashamed of. I thank heavens for it. Was a time I thought I’d never see the pain go from that poor man’s eyes. But you’ve worked some magic there, Mrs. Jenkins. Indeed you have.”
The next morning I rise early, still unable to sleep beyond dawn. I hurry downstairs and spend half an hour bathing my feet in the dew before I force myself back to my room to prepare for chapel. Mrs. Jones gently suggested that now I am a married woman I ought to think about wearing my hair up. Despite her coaching and instructions, I struggle with the pins. Wisps and curls defy my best efforts, escaping from beneath my bonnet at unattractive angles. Exasperated by my own clumsiness, I close my eyes and set my hands in my lap. My mind is far more deft, and slowly I feel wayward locks and strands coiling around my head, tucking themselves neatly in place, smooth and secure. I open my eyes to check the results in the looking glass, expecting to see my mother’s likeness. Oddly, it is Dada I recognize in my reflection now. I stand up, straightening the upturned brim of my straw hat, running my hands over the crisp cotton, admiring the tiny forget-me-nots of the fabric. At school, I remember Mr. Rees-Jones telling us pride was a sin. Am I sinful, then? To be pleased with how I look? For the first time in my life to wish to present myself as … as what? Pretty? Desirable? Is it my intention to impress the congregation at chapel, or to make myself more appealing for Cai? In truth, I do not know the answer to this.
Downstairs I find him in the hallway, waiting for me. He looks smart, though his own hair could use a little attention, falling onto his collar from beneath his Sunday best hat. He frowns when he sees me and for a moment I think we have all made a terrible mistake, and that he finds the sight of another wearing one of his wife’s dresses disturbing. But no, slowly he smiles and holds out his arm for me.
“Chapel then, is it, Mrs. Jenkins?” he asks, and I nod.
The white pony stallion, whose name I now know to be Prince, gleams so brilliantly I suspect Cai may have given him a bath. The little horse trots neatly onward, the lush countryside speeding past us as we travel along the twisting lane, farther up the high valley to the chapel. Overhead a kite wheels and plunges to evade two bothersome crows. The sky is utterly cloudless and of a blue so sharp it makes me squint. The journey takes a good thirty minutes and Cai fills much of that time telling me about where we are going and who is likely to be there.
“There should be a fair turnout in such fine weather. Soar-y-Mynydd sits a ways up the mountain, and it’s not a trip for the fainthearted in winter, see? ’Twas only built a few years ago and already it is known countrywide, especially now we’ve Reverend Cadwaladr preaching for us. People will travel distances just to hear him. There won’t be enough room for everyone, mind. Some will have to stand outside and listen.” He throws a glance my way. “One or two will be wanting to get a look at the new mistress of Ffynnon Las,” he says. “You’ve nothing to worry about. Most are kind enough, and those that aren’t, well … what do we care for their opinions?” He gives me a reassuring smile, but I am not reassured. The fact comes to me that however becoming my dress might be, and however married to Cai Jenkins, I am still a curiosity. Word will no doubt have traveled on swift, spiteful feet from farm to farm, inn to inn, kitchen to kitchen. Cai Jenkins has gone and got himself a mute wife. Dumb and dim Morgana, that’s what they’ll be thinking. People are the same the world over.
Prince snorts, his pace losing its easy rhythm as we crest a steep hill. We turn a double bend and the whitewashed chapel comes into view. It is freshly painted, with two young pine trees in the graveyard and as yet no headstones. Beside it flows a narrow stream, so that the front door is accessed by a flat stone footbridge. It is prettily set against the backdrop of the uplands, its tall windows drawing in the sunlight. Already there is a sizable gathering of worshipers alighting from horses or carriages or arriving on foot. I feel a tightness twist my innards. To my surprise, Cai reaches over and, very briefly, places his hand over mine.
“Courage now, my wild one,” he says, and suddenly I feel stronger. Stronger because of him. This realization astounds me, but before I have time to think of it further we are arrived and a boy runs forward to tie up the pony for us.
I jump down from the trap and take Cai’s arm. Together we face the crowd. I see Mrs. Cadwaladr and her daughters, dressed with surprising restraint and lack of ribbons. They acknowledge us, as do others who step forward to be introduced and shake my hand. I hear a babble of names, like a brook in autumn, all rolling into the same sea of forgetfulness, and I am thankful I will not be called upon to recall any of them. As evidenced by their lack of questioning, word has indeed reached everybody of my silence, and not one person comments upon it. Cai clearly sees this as a mark of respect and acceptance of some sort, and I notice him begin to relax, his arm beneath my hand losing some of its earlier tension.
A loud voice can be heard greeting parishioners and Cai bends to whisper in my ear. “Look, there. That is our minister, Reverend Cadwaladr,” says he.
I see a stout man with a red face, dressed in the customarily severe garb of a preacher, with long black jacket and breeches and a stiff white collar apparently composed mostly of starch. He is barely taller than his equally rotund wife, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in the volume of his voice. I am several strides distant from him, but every word he utters is clearly audible to me, as it must be to everyone. Does he think God will not hear him unless he shouts? He scans the company for new faces and I fall under his powerful scrutiny.
“Ah-ha!” he bellows, causing an elderly lady standing close to him to teeter backward, “Cai Jenkins and his new bride. Welcome! Welcome, child. Here, let me look at you.” He reaches out his arms toward me and the crowd parts as the Red Sea before Moses. “Ah, the innocence and purity of youth. You have come to a good place, child. All are welcome at Soar-y-Mynydd, and none more so than the mistress of Ffynnon Las.” He places his hand upon my head in some manner of blessing. If he is expecting me to swoon or shake I do neither. No member of the clergy, however fervent or well-intentioned, has had the ability to move me in the slightest. This one, though, this man of God, has something different about him. Something strange. Something sinister. My instinct is to wriggle from beneath his touch and move quickly away, but I am aware there are eyes upon me, and that Cai is hoping for, at least, my cooperation. I muster what I hope is a humble and slightly grateful smile. I am mightily relieved when he lets me go.
“Excellent! Excellent!” cries Reverend Cadwaladr. For the briefest moment he is silent, though even wordless he is loud, somehow. He seems even to
look
at me loudly. It is during these few seconds, when his gaze penetrates me, that I am aware of a sense of unease wriggling its way under my skin. I shake off the sensation. He is yet another blustering preacher. I have met his like before, and none of them have approved of me. Whatever he might say, however hearty his welcome, I warrant he will prove to be no different from the rest of his calling in this.
We are shooed inside the chapel like so many sheep, bleating and jostling for position. Cai guides me to what must be his own section of a pew, to the far side, but in the front row. I recognize this as a measure of his standing in the community. The interior is unusual in that its low boxed pews run the length, rather than the width, of the space, and there is no central aisle. The rostrum is placed between the tall windows, and on it is a sturdy lectern. Behind where the preacher will stand is a broad wooden plaque with an inscription praising God and marking the erection of the building. The whole effect is one of simplicity and utility. The only pointer to any manner of connection with things heavenly is the height of the ceiling, which, whilst it is not required to accommodate an organ, will presumably lift and magnify the voices of the congregation when they are raised in song.
As I take my place a sudden chill grips me, as if the air in the room has lost all warmth. I can fathom no cause for this, and must attribute it to my nervousness at being confined with so many people. And, perhaps, my customary dislike of being preached at.
I spy Isolda Bowen entering the chapel. She is greeted by all with fawning delight. How easily people’s heads are turned—fine tailoring, money, and position. For a moment the congregation has shifted its allegiance from God to altogether more earthbound wants and wishes. Cai, who has already removed his hat, signals to her with a bow. She treats him to a smile and me to a wave of a white-gloved hand. Her dress is sophisticated yet plain, and even I am able to judge it expensive. Clearly she does not have her housekeeper sew her clothes for her. Such finery can only have come from London. She sits at the other end of the front-most pew. The reverend comes in and makes a point of pausing to talk with Isolda, clearly as much charmed by her as everyone else. Indeed, by the end of their short conversation the man appears quite lit up, almost agitated. What words can they have exchanged? When all are seated the preacher climbs to his position, for once able to look down on even the tallest among us. The door is left open, so that those forced to remain standing outside might listen to his ministry.
“Brothers and sisters! Brothers and sisters!” he begins, his words bouncing off the white stone walls, forcing their way into every ear and every mind. I have heard tell of ministers such as this. Exhorters, they are called, who stir up a rousing fervor for their faith wherever they go. “You came here today to praise Our Lord, to worship Him, to show yourselves good and steadfast Christians, worthy of His love. So, then, I ask, who among you has given thanks this morning?” The congregation answer with a nervous silence. “Tell me, my devout brothers and sisters, which one of you has lifted up his or her voice, heart, and eyes to the heavens this morning and given thanks to the Lord?”
Still no answer comes, save for a fidgeting of cotton and wool on polished pew.
“What? Can this be true? Are you telling me that not one of you pious people,
not one,
has thought to thank Our Father this day for all that he has given us? You mean to say to me, that you have risen from your warm, safe beds, dressed yourselves in clean clothes and dry boots, made your way here beneath a peerless sky through fields of thriving crops and fattening livestock, greeted your good, equally pious friends and neighbors, and
not one
of you has thought to thank the Lord for all these wonderful blessings? For all the bounty he has bestowed upon us?”
Here the reverend feigns disbelief close to make him faint. He staggers, clutching the lectern for support in the face of such ingratitude.
“Shame! Shame on you, I say! That you can take so easily all the abundance with which you are blessed and not one single, solitary, humble word of thanks!” Reverend Cadwaladr’s eyes start to bulge alarmingly. “Join me, brothers and sisters, join me, I beseech you, in giving thanks. Now, there is not a moment to lose!” He lifts his arms and turns his face up to the ceiling. “We thank you, Lord! We thank you for all the wondrous gifts of plenty you see fit to bless us with. We give thanks!”