Stormswept (3 page)

“I don’t like it,” Mr. Pennant grumbled.

Lettice patted his hand. “You needn’t fear that she’ll speak of it to anyone.”

“I know.” Mr. Pennant glanced over at Juliana, who was trying to look as innocent as possible. “I’m more concerned for her safety. You mustn’t let Vaughan know who she is.”

“Certainly not,” Lettice said.

The crowd’s gabbling increased as the shopkeeper stepped forward to the podium, and said in Welsh, “Today we are privileged to have with us Mr. Rhys Vaughan, son of our own Squire Vaughan.”

“Aye,” called someone from the crowd, “the
great
Squire Vaughan.” The sarcastic tone drew laughter from the crowd.

The shopkeeper went on, reciting Mr. Vaughan’s affiliation with the Gwyneddigion Society, a well-known London group supporting Welsh causes, but the crowd grew only more hostile.

Juliana couldn’t keep her eyes off Mr. Vaughan’s hardening features. The poor man! When he scanned the crowd, a dark scowl beetling his forehead, she waited until his eyes met hers again, then flashed him an encouraging smile. His eyes widened, then became unnervingly direct.

As she continued to smile at him, some of the sternness left his face. He kept his gaze trained on her even as he took his place behind the podium. There, he laid out his notes and drew a deep breath. “Good day. I’m very pleased to be here.”

As low, angry mutters punctuated the tense silence, his expression grew grim. He surveyed the room, pausing at her, and once more, she gave him a reassuring smile.

“I am a man without a country. As are all of you.” Rich and resonant as thunder in the mountains, his voice raised goose bumps on her skin. “And why is that?” He paused. “Not because England holds us captive to strange laws. And not even because the cloak of the English church sits poorly on our shoulders. Nay, we’re without a country because our language has been stolen.”

A fervent energy lit his face as he warmed to his subject, and he shook a sheaf of legal papers. “When you go to sell your cattle, what language is your bill of sale written in?”

While he waited for an answer, she held her breath. Then a man called out, “English.”

Mr. Vaughan smiled coldly. “Aye. And when you choose a book of verse from the lending library, what language is it written in, more often than not?”

“English! ” cried a few men in unison. They’d begun to sense his sincerity. Looks of concentration replaced their scowls.

His voice hardened. “And when you stand before the Court of Quarter Sessions to defend yourself for breaking their laws, what language do they use to condemn you?”

“English! ” several shouted.

He nodded, waiting for the noise to subside. “English. Neither our mother tongue nor the tongue of our forefathers, but a bastard language thrust upon us against our will.” He scanned the room. “You may wonder why I talk of language at a political meeting. You may think it doesn’t matter what the squires and judges speak, as long as good, honest Welsh is still used in the streets.”

He dropped his voice. “But how many Welsh in Carmarthen
no longer speak their native tongue?” Leaning forward, he said in confidential tones, “I myself was sent to England, first to Eton and then to Oxford, because my father believed the English were our saviors and would give us a say in their government as long as we followed
their
rules and spoke
their
language.”

He slammed his fist down on the podium. “By thunder, he was wrong! And he died because he believed in the English! ”

The ring of pain in his voice made Juliana wince. But she wouldn’t shrink from the words of this fierce-eyed Welshman. He spoke the truth, even if it was painful to hear.

“My father died,” Mr. Vaughan went on in a voice soft as a whisper, “because he’d lost his country . . . and his language.” Every man in the room hung on his words, emotion glistening in their eyes. “And when he wrote his dying words, do you know what language he wrote them in?”

“English,” came the murmur from the crowd, following the ebb and flow of his voice as if they were one with him.

“Aye. English.” He gripped the edges of the podium. “How long before the Welsh tongue is a quaint memory, like the fading memory of Welsh conquests? How long before we are nothing more than an English county, with an English heart and an English soul?”

Many in the crowd nodded.

His voice rose to a clarion ring. “I say that a man without his own voice is a slave! I say that when the English take away the red dragon’s fiery tongue, they take away his power! ” He paused, his expression dark and earnest. “Will you let that happen, my countrymen?”

“Nay! ” the crowd cried as one.

“Will you let them trample our identity into the dust?”

“Nay! ” They shook their fists.

He smiled, his audience in the palm of his hand. When his next words came, they were quiet and more powerful than any ranting. “Then we must follow the example of our companions in America.”

Several gasps pierced the air. Many in Wales sympathized with the colonists, but plenty also opposed their rebellion. Juliana had heard her father argue many times that the American revolt would only end in a loss of men and wealth for everyone. Talking about it in glowing terms was seditious.

Mr. Vaughan held up a pamphlet. “Some of you have heard of our countryman Richard Price, who writes on the American war. In his
Observations on the Nature of Civil Liberty
, he says the natural rights of men should prevail over English law.” He paused. “I agree with him. It’s time to found a Wales governed by all the people—not just a few squires.”

That was met by stunned silence.

“The American Declaration of Independence states, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’ Yet here in England, Welshmen are far less than equal to their English lords.”

“Aye! ” cried voices from the crowd.

“We, too, want equality! ” he shouted.

“Equality! ” they shouted in return.

Lettice rose. “And at what price? My grandfather fought the English, and he died for it. Thanks to him, my family
lost everything. Is that what you and your friends want? Do you wish your wives and sisters and children to starve for the cause of equality, while you and your brave friends fight a futile battle?”

When everyone gaped at her, Juliana waited for Mr. Vaughan to mock Lettice’s womanly concerns as Papa and Darcy would have done. But Mr. Vaughan settled his disquieting gaze on Lettice and smiled. “I believe, Miss Johnes, that though it may cost some lives, this isn’t a futile battle. I believe we can succeed.”

Lettice wasn’t appeased. “Every man thinks that, but many fail. Then we women are left holding the country together without our men! ”

Before Mr. Vaughan could answer, a voice piped up in back. “If ye need a man, Lettice, I’ll be glad to satisfy ye. Come by the shop anytime! ”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me! ” Lettice retorted.

“Never know until you try! ” called another raucous male voice. Mr. Pennant cast the man a vicious glance and half rose in his seat.

Mr. Vaughan pounded the podium. “Enough! ”

The crowd quieted.

“Miss Johnes asked a legitimate question. All I can say is, this cause will eventually bring better things for all of Wales, women and children included. And isn’t that worth the cost?” He held up the pamphlet. “Mr. Price thinks that it is. But don’t take my word for it. You must read his essay yourself.”

How smoothly Mr. Vaughan had led the conversation
out of dangerous waters. A pity he hadn’t further addressed Lettice’s statements. Why
weren’t
women’s wishes considered whenever men went to fight for their causes?

Mr. Vaughan drew several pamphlets from a box and waved them before the crowd. “Hitherto, Price’s essay has only been available in English, but I’ve translated it into Welsh. Here are printed copies, along with a work by Price’s friend Thomas Paine. I’ve brought pamphlets for all.”

The crowd nodded their approval. Political writings were rarely made available in Welsh, and certainly not writings on such controversial topics.

Mr. Vaughan was already handing out pamphlets. “Take as many as you like,” he urged. “Read them. Think about them. Then think about your country. It’s time the Welsh understand why the colonists are fighting English oppression. And why we should do so as well.”

People grabbed at them, pushing and shoving to get copies. “There’s more in the front,” Mr. Vaughan declared.

The disorderly crowd completely disintegrated as some people rushed forward to stuff their pockets with the pamphlets, while others gathered to whisper, cautious of approaching the seditious materials. Mr. Pennant neared the front as well.

“I wonder how Mr. Vaughan managed this,” Lettice whispered to Juliana. “No local printer with any sense would have risked printing it.”

“Perhaps the owner of this bookshop has a connection to one in London? It couldn’t be Mr. Pennant. He’s going up to get one for himself.”

“Hmm.” Lettice scowled. “That could also mean he’s trying to hide his involvement. And he’d certainly qualify. He’s local and he has no sense. He’s also well-acquainted with Mr. Vaughan, but I swear I’ll have his head if he did something so dangerous.” Lettice set her shoulders. “I’m going to ask him. You stay here, all right? I’ll be back in a moment, and then we’ll leave.”

Juliana nodded as Lettice slid into the aisle without waiting for an answer. Shrinking into her corner, Juliana watched people surge from their seats.

Unfortunately, Mr. Vaughan was moving through the crowd toward her, shaking a hand here and speaking a word there. His frequent glances at her warned her of his intention to waylay her. She searched for Lettice, but the maid was arguing with Mr. Pennant at the far end of the room.

Dear heaven. Juliana had best avoid Mr. Vaughan. But as she reached the end of the aisle, he did, too, and blocked her exit.

Clearing his throat, he thrust a pamphlet at her. “Would you like one?”

She swallowed, waiting for him to notice the quality of her clothing and denounce her. But when he merely pressed the pamphlet upon her, she took it.

As she did, his fingers brushed hers. The brief contact made her feel suddenly warm in the damp cold of the basement. Stuffing the pamphlet under her arm, she dropped her gaze. “Th-thank you,” she said in Welsh, praying that her accent would pass muster.

He flashed her a smile. “Would you tell Miss Johnes I’m sorry for the other men’s insulting remarks?”

“Yes.”

She tried to slide past him, but he caught her arm. “I hope
you
didn’t take offense.”

“Of course not. But I must go home.”

He released her, only to follow her down the aisle. “Why so soon? Miss Johnes is staying. Can’t you?”

By that time, she’d reached the door. She passed into a dimly lit hall and headed for the stairs, shaking her head.

Once more he caught her arm. “Here now, I think you’ve been lying to me.”

Her heart hammering in her chest, she lifted her face to his. He didn’t appear angry, but she couldn’t be sure in the faint light. “What do you mean?”

“I think you did take offense at what the men said, else you wouldn’t run off so soon.”

Relief flooded her and she forced a smile. “I promise their words gave me no offense. Now please excuse me—”

She headed up the stairs, but he hurried to block her way once more, halting a step above her. “Then perhaps ’tis my speeches driving you off.”

“Oh, no! You were wonderful! ” Then she groaned. That wasn’t the way to escape him.

A blazing grin transformed his serious features. “Thank you.” Taking her hand, he rubbed his thumb over the knuckles, making her short of breath. He stared down at her hand, seemingly at a loss for words. But when she tried to pull free, he said, “You know, ’twas you who helped me speak so well. Everyone else seemed determined to dislike me, but every time you smiled, I felt welcomed. You had such sympathy in your expression that it emboldened me.”

She blushed. Papa always chastised her for being too familiar with people, but she couldn’t help it. Occasionally someone just captured her interest.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” he went on, “what is your name?”

“M-my name?”

Her distress seemed to amuse him. “Yes, your name.”

Dear heaven. She looked beyond him for Lettice, but the hallway in which they stood was empty. Everyone else was still inside.

“Is it so difficult a question to answer?”

She stared down at the tapered fingers that held fast to hers, like ropes mooring the ships at the docks of the Towy. How was she to set herself adrift of him? “I must go, sir.”

A mock frown creased his forehead. “ ‘Let her who was asked and refused him, beware! ’ ”

Her caution was momentarily forgotten. “Why, that’s Huw Morus’s ‘Praise of a Girl’! ”

“You know of Morus?”

“Of course! ” Enthusiasm spilled into her voice. “He’s one of my favorite poets, and that’s my favorite poem by him. I have every line memorized. Let me think . . . what is the rest?”

When she bit her lip in concentration, his voice dropped into an enticing rhythm, “ ‘Give a kiss and good grace / And pardon to trace, / And purity too, in your faultless face.’ ”

“Oh . . . yes.” Too late, she remembered the words . . . and their inappropriateness. The color rose in her cheeks.

His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand. “I think he wrote the words just for you.”

She tried for a light tone. “Hardly. Morus died before I was born.”

He laughed. “For a servant, you’re quite a scholar.”

Bother, she’d forgotten her role! And if she stood here like a goose much longer, letting him say such adorable things, she’d give everything away. “That shows how little you know about servants.”

“I know you have beautiful eyes, like rare emeralds winking in the sun. Poets write paeans to eyes like yours.”

Why must he be as silvery-tongued as all those poets? “You shouldn’t say such things to me.”

Now his fingers stroked her palm, sending strange shivers up her arms. “Why not? Have you a husband?”