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Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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during the brief but opulent reign of Edward VII; nice, commodious ones with plenty of room to do what needed to be done. Dorothy enjoyed herself hugely. When they finally got back to the kitchen, Tom the Flicks was there too. Tom Feste, actually; she’d finally learned his real name though not yet his precise connection with the Rhyses. Not that it mattered, they all appeared to call each other cousins regardless of degree.
Madoc was still the best-looking, Janet decided, comparing the three of them together. Dafydd was the handsomest, an entirely different thing. That made Tom the ugly duckling, which wasn’t fair. He wasn’t so bad, if you liked them tall and skinny and oozing personality from every pore. Magnetic, that was the word. Like those fancy gadgets that well-meaning people gave you at Christmas to stick on your refrigerator door. And about as useful, from what little she’d seen of him so far. His job on the films was supposed to involve production, but nobody seemed all that clear as to what he produced.
Dorothy didn’t think much of Tom, that was plain enough. When he tried to chuck her under the chin, she turned her head away and primmed up her mouth, so exactly like her mother when Janet was miffed about something that Madoc burst out laughing.
“Let her alone, Tom, she’s too young for you. What happened to Patricia, by the way?”
“Good question. What happened to Patricia, Dafydd?”
That must have been the blonde in the Daimler, trust Madoc to remember her name. Apparently Dafydd didn’t; he looked blank for a moment, then shrugged. “Oh yes, Patricia. She wanted to go to Swansea, so I drove her to the station and put her on the train. I assumed you knew.”
“Clever you.”
Meaning, Janet supposed, that Tom admired the way Dafydd had thwarted Patricia’s hope of being driven to Swansea in the Daimler. Or that Tom was pleased at having got the woman off his hands so effortlessly. Or that Tom was not pleased, and wanted Dafydd to know it. This wasn’t Janet’s kind of conversation. She stood up and reached for the diaper bag.
“This has been lovely, but I expect Betty will be wondering where we’ve got to. We’ll see you later on, won’t we? Madoc, do you want to stay and visit awhile longer?”
“No, I promised Uncle Caradoc I’d help him hang up his new sickle. Come on, Dorothy, say thanks to Aunt Elen and Uncle Huw. Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help this afternoon.”
There would be, for sure. They left the farm with their consciences clear and dawdled back toward the big house, taking time to sniff the apple blossoms along the way.
After a while, Madoc asked, “How does Dafydd strike you this trip, Jenny? He seems a bit down in the mouth, don’t you think?”
“It could be that he’s worn-out from the rackety life he leads; but if you really want to know, I’m wondering whether he might be plain jealous.”
“Jealous? Of whom?”
“You, of course.”
“That’s a switch. What makes you say that? Is it because of you?”
“I suppose I’m part of it, in a way. I expect it’s more seeing everybody making a fuss over Dorothy, and us being so well settled in our own house and, oh, you know. Dafydd’s used to being cock of the walk; now you’ve got something to crow about that he doesn’t. Dafydd’s what? Thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-nine. Six years older than I. Good Lord, he’ll be forty his next birthday. I see what you mean.”
“Then you’d better take him aside and give him a little brotherly talking-to about growing up, don’t you think?”
“No, you do it. You know him better than I.”
“Madoc, that’s ridiculous! I’ve seen Dafydd maybe half a dozen times in the four years we’ve been married: once here, once that time when he stayed overnight with us in Fredericton right after we’d bought the house, and occasionally for dinner in St. John or someplace when he happened to be passing through.”
“But he talks to
Madoc was still the best-looking, Janet decided, comparing the three of them together. Dafydd was the handsomest, an entirely different thing. That made Tom the ugly duckling, which wasn’t fair. He wasn’t so bad, if you liked them tall and skinny and oozing personality from every pore. Magnetic, that was the word. Like those fancy gadgets that well-meaning people gave you at Christmas to stick on your refrigerator door. And about as useful, from what little she’d seen of him so far. His job on the films was supposed to involve production, but nobody seemed all that clear as to what he produced.
Dorothy didn’t think much of Tom, that was plain enough. When he tried to chuck her under the chin, she turned her head away and primmed up her mouth, so exactly like her mother when Janet was miffed about something that Madoc burst out laughing.
“Let her alone, Tom, she’s too young for you. What happened to Patricia, by the way?”
“Good question. What happened to Patricia, Dafydd?”
That must have been the blonde in the Daimler, trust Madoc to remember her name. Apparently Dafydd didn’t; he looked blank for a moment, then shrugged. “Oh yes, Patricia. She wanted to go to Swansea, so I drove her to the station and put her on the train. I assumed you knew.”
“Clever you.”
Meaning, Janet supposed, that Tom admired the way Dafydd had thwarted Patricia’s hope of being driven to Swansea in the Daimler. Or that Tom was pleased at having got the woman off his hands so effortlessly. Or that Tom was not pleased, and wanted Dafydd to know it. This wasn’t Janet’s kind of conversation. She stood up and reached for the diaper bag.
“This has been lovely, but I expect Betty will be wondering where we’ve got to. We’ll see you later on, won’t we? Madoc, do you want to stay and visit awhile longer?”
“No, I promised Uncle Caradoc I’d help him hang up his new sickle. Come on, Dorothy, say thanks to Aunt Elen and Uncle Huw. Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help this afternoon.”
There would be, for sure. They left the farm with their consciences clear and dawdled back toward the big house, taking time to sniff the apple blossoms along the way.
After a while, Madoc asked, “How does Dafydd strike you this trip, Jenny? He seems a bit down in the mouth, don’t you think?”
“It could be that he’s worn-out from the rackety life he leads; but if you really want to know, I’m wondering whether he might be plain jealous.”
“Jealous? Of whom?”
“You, of course.”
“That’s a switch. What makes you say that? Is it because of you?”
“I suppose I’m part of it, in a way. I expect it’s more seeing everybody making a fuss over Dorothy, and us being so well settled in our own house and, oh, you know. Dafydd’s used to being cock of the walk; now you’ve got something to crow about that he doesn’t. Dafydd’s what? Thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-nine. Six years older than I. Good Lord, he’ll be forty his next birthday. I see what you mean.”
“Then you’d better take him aside and give him a little brotherly talking-to about growing up, don’t you think?”
“No, you do it. You know him better than I.”
“Madoc, that’s ridiculous! I’ve seen Dafydd maybe half a dozen times in the four years we’ve been married: once here, once that time when he stayed overnight with us in Fredericton right after we’d bought the house, and occasionally for dinner in St. John or someplace when he happened to be passing through.”
“But he talks to
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