enormous fruit flans.
As she worked, Mrs Parry talked. Davina guessed after a while that
the soft flow of words had been prompted at the start by a feeling of
awkwardness in the presence of this stranger niece by marriage,
and that Mrs Parry was basically a shy woman, so she set herself to
respond and draw her out, and soon they were laughing and
chatting together with the comfort of old acquaintances.
Davina also found she was learning a good deal of what had
happened over the past two years. Mrs Parry's late husband had
been a farmer until the economic difficulties which had affected so
many small farms had forced him to sell up. A week after the sale
he had collapsed with a heart attack and died within a few hours.
That, she discovered, was when Gethyn had returned to Wales. In a
matter of weeks Plas Gwyn and the land that belonged to it had
been negotiated for and purchased and Mrs Parry and Rhiannon
were installed. Rhiannon had been an expert rider since childhood,
and the idea of capitalising on this expertise to encourage tourists to
Plas Gwyn had followed almost inevitably.
Gethyn had returned to the States, but about a year later he had
turned up on the doorstep unannounced to take his place as the
master of the house and local landowner.
'I thought he'd soon get bored, after all that travelling around,' Mrs
Parry confided. 'But it seems not. And now he's got the old mill to
interest him. It was almost derelict, but there was a lot of the
original machinery still in it, and he had experts down to advise him
on what would be needed to get it in working order again. He's
done a lot of the actual work himself, helped by local labour.'
Davina's eyes were fixed on her wonderingly. 'He actually means
the mill to produce cloth?'
'Oh, yes. It's been done before at other old mills. It won't be a
large-scale thing, of course, but it's always an attraction for tourists
and the looms can make rugs and tapestries for them to buy at the
little shop they've built on the side. The old crafts are coming back
into their own these days. Mrs Davies in the village had a handloom
and she's going to give demonstrations on it-when the mill is
working again.'
'I see.' Davina was silent for a moment. She found the whole
concept of Gethyn immersing himself in rural crafts a difficult one
to grasp. He was a writer and had his own art to think about. Surely
after the success he'd had, he couldn't have abandoned his writing
career altogether, yet that was what seemed to have happened. In
all Mrs Parry had said, writing had never been mentioned once, and
Davina knew herself that people in the village seemed unaware that
they had a celebrity in their midst.
This was not the Gethyn she remembered, she thought
bewilderedly. He had had a ruthless streak of ambition which had
caused him to pursue fame and money quite unequivocally. He
enjoyed the status that being a best-selling author had brought him.
So what was he doing here in this backwater involved in a venture
which would probably end up making him a considerable loss?
She realised Mrs Parry was watching her curiously and flushed a
little. She could well imagine the kind of speculation that must be
passing through the older woman's mind. Apart from anything else,
Mrs Parry must be wondering if her days as mistress of Plas Gwyn
were numbered, now that Gethyn's wife had arrived unexpectedly
on the scene. Davina would have liked to have given her some kind
of reassurance, but it was impossible without discussing her real
motive for coming to Wales, and that she felt she could not do.
So she changed the subject and began to ask about the
pony-trekking—the number of horses kept for the purpose, and the
problems of organising such a venture.
She learned that not all the horses stabled at Plas Gwyn belonged to
it, but were the property of the Morgan family who farmed nearby.
'Rhiannon had her own horses, of course, but they were sold
As she worked, Mrs Parry talked. Davina guessed after a while that
the soft flow of words had been prompted at the start by a feeling of
awkwardness in the presence of this stranger niece by marriage,
and that Mrs Parry was basically a shy woman, so she set herself to
respond and draw her out, and soon they were laughing and
chatting together with the comfort of old acquaintances.
Davina also found she was learning a good deal of what had
happened over the past two years. Mrs Parry's late husband had
been a farmer until the economic difficulties which had affected so
many small farms had forced him to sell up. A week after the sale
he had collapsed with a heart attack and died within a few hours.
That, she discovered, was when Gethyn had returned to Wales. In a
matter of weeks Plas Gwyn and the land that belonged to it had
been negotiated for and purchased and Mrs Parry and Rhiannon
were installed. Rhiannon had been an expert rider since childhood,
and the idea of capitalising on this expertise to encourage tourists to
Plas Gwyn had followed almost inevitably.
Gethyn had returned to the States, but about a year later he had
turned up on the doorstep unannounced to take his place as the
master of the house and local landowner.
'I thought he'd soon get bored, after all that travelling around,' Mrs
Parry confided. 'But it seems not. And now he's got the old mill to
interest him. It was almost derelict, but there was a lot of the
original machinery still in it, and he had experts down to advise him
on what would be needed to get it in working order again. He's
done a lot of the actual work himself, helped by local labour.'
Davina's eyes were fixed on her wonderingly. 'He actually means
the mill to produce cloth?'
'Oh, yes. It's been done before at other old mills. It won't be a
large-scale thing, of course, but it's always an attraction for tourists
and the looms can make rugs and tapestries for them to buy at the
little shop they've built on the side. The old crafts are coming back
into their own these days. Mrs Davies in the village had a handloom
and she's going to give demonstrations on it-when the mill is
working again.'
'I see.' Davina was silent for a moment. She found the whole
concept of Gethyn immersing himself in rural crafts a difficult one
to grasp. He was a writer and had his own art to think about. Surely
after the success he'd had, he couldn't have abandoned his writing
career altogether, yet that was what seemed to have happened. In
all Mrs Parry had said, writing had never been mentioned once, and
Davina knew herself that people in the village seemed unaware that
they had a celebrity in their midst.
This was not the Gethyn she remembered, she thought
bewilderedly. He had had a ruthless streak of ambition which had
caused him to pursue fame and money quite unequivocally. He
enjoyed the status that being a best-selling author had brought him.
So what was he doing here in this backwater involved in a venture
which would probably end up making him a considerable loss?
She realised Mrs Parry was watching her curiously and flushed a
little. She could well imagine the kind of speculation that must be
passing through the older woman's mind. Apart from anything else,
Mrs Parry must be wondering if her days as mistress of Plas Gwyn
were numbered, now that Gethyn's wife had arrived unexpectedly
on the scene. Davina would have liked to have given her some kind
of reassurance, but it was impossible without discussing her real
motive for coming to Wales, and that she felt she could not do.
So she changed the subject and began to ask about the
pony-trekking—the number of horses kept for the purpose, and the
problems of organising such a venture.
She learned that not all the horses stabled at Plas Gwyn belonged to
it, but were the property of the Morgan family who farmed nearby.
'Rhiannon had her own horses, of course, but they were sold