The Cold Light of Mourning (3 page)

Four

T
he private road leading to Ty Brith wound its way up the hillside for about three kilometres. At first narrow and flanked on each side by trees and brush, the road widened as it got closer to the Hall and the trees gave way to lush, green fields.

On this night, from the bend in the road where the trees ended and the fields began, lanterns had been placed alongside the fence to light the visitors’ way to the Hall and to let them know that a magical evening was about to unfold.

It seemed that every window in the Hall was aglow, and the welcoming sound of excited party voices greeted visitors as they emerged from their cars on the warm summer evening and crunched across the gravelled forecourt to the porte cochere.

Emyr Gruffydd, with Meg Wynne Thompson by his side, was standing just inside the front door to greet his guests. Tall, with dark wavy hair, a determined chin, and deep-set blue eyes, Emyr was good looking in a way that would have been better appreciated thirty years earlier. But the woman beside him was definitely of her time, and by anyone’s standards, she was exquisite.

Meg Wynne, dressed in a strapless emerald green vintage Valentino gown, was tall, with the perfect posture and long legs that suggested a pampered childhood filled with ballet and riding lessons, and holiday visits to London for the pantomime, followed by a walk down Regent Street to see the Christmas lights. Her shoulder-length, frosted blond hair was brushed softly back from her face and held in place with a diamond clip. Chandelier diamond-and-emerald earrings, a wedding gift from her soon-to-be father-in-law, almost brushed her bare shoulders. Her smile was polite but superficial, and if she felt any excitement, she did not show it. Her calm, poised presence was reassuring but discomfiting at the same time, as if she was deliberately holding something back. The aura around her was not of happiness, but of triumph.

At twenty-eight, she seemed on the brink of a charmed life: adding great wealth to her great beauty. She had worked tirelessly for both.

The daughter of a lorry driver father and a shop assistant mother from Durham, Meg Wynne had set about early to reinvent herself. As a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl she worshipped the princess of Wales, knew the names of all the best designers, and dreamed of the day she would travel with Louis Vuitton luggage, wear Armani and Versace, and have closets filled with Chanel shoes and Prada handbags. She devoured fashion magazines and used them to carefully plan her escape from working class to first class.

She instinctively knew she would have to find a way to get into the orbit of the people she aspired to join, and this meant finding a suitable career that would put her in all the right places and in touch with all the right people. Bright and talented with an innate sense of colour, proportion, and design, she easily won a scholarship to Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design where she graduated top in her class. And since she was moving to London where no one knew her anyway, she thought that would be a good time to change her name from the simple Sandra that her mother had chosen for her, to Meg Wynne, which she thought would grant her more acceptance in the world she was about to join.

Snapped up after graduation by a high-end London graphic design firm, she met fashion-magazine editors and advertising and public relations creative directors. Her world expanded to include international contacts and, as she became more polished and sophisticated, with the help of an acting coach, her accent went from Durham to Duchy. She sought out the best cosmetic surgeon in London and redefined her body. She learned about table manners and paid attention to the smallest detail of everyday etiquette. Let other women be common and vulgar. She would be elegant, sophisticated, and professional. Her designs at work were award-winners, but in the end, her best design was herself.

Of course, this upward mobility came with a price. She shed friends and lovers along the way as they outlived their usefulness. This she did without regret or remorse as she set about finding the man who could take her life to the next level or, even better, the level above that.

While she accepted that a lifestyle on the Beckham scale was probably beyond her grasp, she did think that a man who came with a large, beautiful house, a generous income, and a title was not too much to ask for.

And when she met Emyr, she decided that two out of three wasn’t bad and who knew? One way or another, the title could always come later.

When he asked her to marry him, she accepted without hesitation. She knew that he loved her, would be devoted to her, and would always give in to her. When he suggested she might like to have his mother’s engagement ring, she said that was so thoughtful and sweet, but really she would prefer something more modern in platinum from Cartier.

When he asked if she would mind if they married at his home in Wales, she was glad to agree. She had come too far, and accomplished too much, to have her wedding in Durham, with all its ugly, embarrassing, working-class associations. It was bad enough that her parents would be coming to the wedding in Wales, but if they weren’t invited, or for some reason didn’t go, eyebrows might be raised and questions asked.

Her timid, withdrawn mother, she knew, would be so socially overwhelmed by the scale of events surrounding the wedding that she would be more than content to hover silently in the background, hoping no one would notice her or speak to her. But her father was another story. How would she manage the situation if he drank too much, got loud and boisterous, and started shouting the odds?

When she tucked her arm through Emyr’s as they turned to join their guests inside, she caught a glimpse of her parents across the entrance hall. Her father’s flushed face, as he raised his glass to take a long drink, worried her. I’m going to have to have a word with him about that, she thought. I can’t let him ruin this night. Earlier, she had left instructions with the serving staff that her father was not to be offered anything alcoholic to drink, but that if he asked for something, it should be well watered down and slow to arrive.

Dinner was announced, and the members of the party made their way to the dining room. The large, gracious room, seldom used anymore, had been thoroughly turned out, its panelling and furniture polished, curtains aired, and the rugs and carpets shampooed.

Every piece of silverware and crystal had been polished until it gleamed, and in the warm, rich glow of dozens of candles, the table settings glittered like they might have done fifty years earlier. The heady fragrance of fabulous flowers filled the air as the sideboards overflowed with spectacular arrangements of old-fashioned pink roses and white peonies. The centrepieces were scaled-back versions of the same arrangements, placed precisely along the length of the table.

At Meg Wynne’s request, the evening was black tie, and as the guests took their places, everyone agreed that reviving the long-abandoned custom of dressing for dinner had been the right thing to do.

As he looked around the room, Emyr’s father’s face lit up.

“It’s wonderful to have so much life in the old place again,” Rhys Gruffydd said to Meg Wynne who was seated on his right. “Thank you, dear girl, for organizing this. I know it’s terribly old-fashioned of me, but I do miss the days when people used to dress for dinner.”

He looked admiringly around the table and then back at the woman who, by this time tomorrow, would be his daughter-in-law.

“Everything looks so beautiful. And it’s so good to have the house filled with young people and overnight guests again. I just wish that Emyr’s mother could have …” His voice trailed off as he contemplated his water glass. After a few moments, he looked at his companion again and continued. “We’ve been too quiet here, for too long.” A wistful smile softened the angular contours of his face. “I hope all that’s going to change once you and Emyr have settled in. I know you’ll be good for him. No, better than good for him. You’ll be the making of the man. You’ll give him the strength he needs and be his rock.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” Meg Wynne replied. “It’s such a beautiful house, and I know it’s seen many wonderful parties. We’ll bring some of that energy and excitement back.”

She smiled at him and lightly touched his hand before turning to have a few words with the guest on her other side.

As the waiters entered to serve the starter, a tomato, red pepper, and orange soup, Meg looked across the table to Emyr who was deep in conversation with David Williams, the old friend he had chosen as his best man.

Suddenly, the sound of Meg’s father’s voice, raised in alcohol-fuelled anger, registered with the guests and the conversational buzz died away as everyone stopped what they were saying and turned their attention to Bill Thompson.

“I’m telling you, no good will come of it!” he was shouting at his wife. “She’s—” He broke off as his wife put her hands to her face in despair and he realized that everyone was watching him.

After a moment of stunned, embarrassed silence, the guests turned back to the person beside them and did their best to pick up conversations where they had left off.

“Take no notice,” Rhys whispered to Meg Wynne’s profile, covering her hand with his. “He’s in his cups and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

But as Meg Wynne sat staring straight ahead, a dark look of undisguised hatred clouded her face.

The meal continued through the fish course of turbot with lobster sauce, champagne sorbet, main course of roast saddle of Welsh lamb, followed by cappuccino mousse, and finally, a cheese board. Out of consideration for Rhys Gruffydd’s failing health and to allow everyone to get to bed by a decent hour, coffee, liqueurs, and Godiva chocolate truffles were served at the table, rather than in the drawing room.

The dinner drew to a close about eleven, chairs were pushed back, and guests gathered up their belongings and made their way to the front entrance where a small van was waiting to give anyone who had been drinking a lift back to the village.

Thank yous and good nights were called back to Emyr and Rhys Gruffydd as they stood in the doorway, lit from behind by the warm glow of the entrance hall, with David standing behind them in the shadows. As the last of the guests departed, Rhys made his way slowly back inside and David and Emyr stepped outside and lit cigarettes.

“Big day tomorrow,” David said, blowing smoke at the stars. “Are you up for it? Sure you want to go through with it? It’s not too late—you can still change your mind.”

“Why on earth would you say that?” Emyr asked irritably, glaring at him. “Of course I want to go through with it and I’ve never been more sure of anything. I know what I’m doing. I’m not stupid. And it’s her I’m marrying, not the parents. When this is over, they won’t be coming back. They’re only here now because of her mother.”

David shrugged and dropping his cigarette, ground it into the gravel with the polished toe of a Gucci evening shoe.

“Of course not. Well, I just thought I should say something,” he said smoothly.

“David, for God’s sake, if it was the money she was after, she’d have picked you.”

David touched his friend on his shoulder and gave him a loose, easy smile.

“In that case, I’m here to support you in every way I can. You’ve only to tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Well, I’m glad of that,” replied Emyr. “Because there’s a lot to be done in the morning. We’re going to be really busy.”

As the exchange hung in the air between them, with its awkward, unpleasant undertones of thoughts unspoken, they silently turned to go back into the house. Emyr paused for a moment on the doorstep and turned back to look at the cloudless sky. Later, a full moon would rise over the valley, drizzling it with a pale honey light.

The van made its way into town, dropping off a few guests along the way before pulling up in front of the Red Dragon.

The two bridesmaids, Jennifer and Anne, delicately pinching the skirts of their evening dresses to lift them up, got out first, followed by Meg Wynne, who helped her mother disembark. Her father was the last one off, but no one waited for him or spoke to him. The little group of women went on ahead and entered the small lobby.

Subdued good nights were said as they made their way up the blue-carpeted stairs to their rooms. The bridesmaids waited as Meg Wynne said good night to her mother at her door, bending down to kiss her on both cheeks, and then the three continued on down the corridor.

“Shall we come in for a bit to help you get settled?” Jennifer asked when they reached Meg’s room.

“Mm, I could use some help with the zipper,” Meg Wynne replied.

Her father’s drinking had spoiled what should have been a charmed evening, and Meg Wynne was glad of the girls’ company as they entered her comfortably furnished room.

With the door firmly closed behind them, Meg Wynne turned to face her friends and released the pent-up emotion of the past hours.

“Bloody typical,” she exploded as she threw her beaded evening bag on the bed. “Leave it to him to ruin everything. I wish to God he were dead!”

Behind her, the two bridesmaids exchanged worried glances.

“Look, Meg Wynne,” Jennifer began. “I know this is really difficult for you, but I wonder if you should have a word with your dad in the morning and ask him again if he could just try, for one day, to leave off the drinking. Tell him it’s ruining your wedding and maybe even let him know that if he starts drinking in the morning that you won’t let him attend, let alone walk you down the aisle. That might get his attention.”

Jennifer handed Meg Wynne the burgundy leather case for her earrings.

“Stand still,” she said to Meg Wynne as she moved around behind her. “I’ll undo your dress for you.”

Anne, seated in the wing chair beside the window, got up from the chair to close the curtains.

The room overlooked the street, and, glancing down, she saw a shadowy silhouette across the street looking up at the window. She felt a small frisson of anxiety, but shrugging off the feeling, pulled the curtains closed, shutting out the night and the light from the street.