Chapter 22 - One Last Spring

April’s showers continued into May, but whenever there was a break in the wet weather for more than an hour or two, Gwen made her way to the dam with her sketchbook in hand. Just as she’d earlier claimed the boulder on the mountain as her own, she now claimed the pile of railroad ties that overlooked the construction. From this spot, she drew the ever-growing retaining wall, the movement of men and machines, the latticework of scaffolding and wooden ladders, the coming and going of the locomotives from the quarry, and the changing face of the nearby hillside.

On most of her visits, Thomas left his office for a short time to sit with her. He was always anxious to see her latest project and was happy to explain the newest developments at the site so she could anticipate what the men would be working on next. Sometimes, however, he steered the conversation to more personal topics and asked about her family and her interests beyond drawing.

Gwen told him about her parents’ deaths and her subsequent move to Llanwddyn, about living with Aunty Jane and her feeling of loss when her brother left for sea, and about some of her experiences at school in Llanfyllin. But even though their talks were often long and Thomas was a good listener, she never once talked about Lewis. She wasn’t sure how to explain her relationship with Lewis—she didn’t understand it herself—so it was easier not to bring it up at all.

Sometimes she wondered if her decision to spend more time drawing at the dam site than on the mountain was a form of self-preservation. She associated the boulder in the clearing with Lewis, and returning there without him was not always easy. But if she ever felt any misgivings over abandoning that special place, she reminded herself that the scope and variety of her sketches were so much greater from her new vantage point.

She also enjoyed learning more about Thomas. He told her of his home in Liverpool, where he lived with his widowed mother and younger sister, Cecilia. He shared some of his experiences at an all-boys boarding school and at college before working under the tutelage of Mr. Wainwright, but she liked it best when he described some of the projects he’d worked on over the last few years. That was when his expression became animated and the passion he felt for his vocation was manifest.

It was obvious that even though he was considerably younger than many of the men working at the dam, Thomas was well respected; he was often called upon to check on problems that arose. When that happened and Thomas was unable to join her at the logs, Harry would inevitably wander over to check on her. Harry never stayed long, and his conversation was usually limited to one or two lines.

“All right, Miss Humphreys?” he would ask.

When Gwen responded in the affirmative, he quickly followed his question with, “Good to know. Just needed to be sure.”

Harry always made her smile. He didn’t want to be found neglecting his unusual assignment, but he obviously didn’t know quite what to do with it either. Gwen often reflected that he probably thought he never did anything for her, while, in fact, the opposite was true. Harry’s quiet consideration had done a great deal to restore Gwen’s faith in the worth of at least some of the English workmen who had flooded her valley. She was still wary of the navvies who roamed the village streets after having been at the pub, but her opinion of them as a whole had improved.

She’d never considered the fact that any of these men could be churchgoers until one Saturday when Thomas broached the subject. He’d been sitting quietly beside her as she’d finished her sketch of the two closest overflow archways, but when she started putting her pencils away, he spoke. “Do you always go to church on Sunday?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gwen said. “I go to the Methodist chapel in the village.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Even though I’m not a Methodist, do you think I could join you there tomorrow?”

Astonished, Gwen turned to look at him. “I’m sure you could. The minister is always happy to have visitors.” She paused. “But you realize the entire meeting is in Welsh—the sermon, the prayers, the singing, everything.”

“Yes, I know that,” he said. “But it’s been almost two months since I was able to attend a Sunday service, and since there are no meetings held in English anywhere near here, I thought that even if I can’t understand the words, it would be better to go somewhere than not to go at all. Besides, I’ve heard great things about how the Welsh sing, so perhaps I can enjoy the music regardless of the language spoken.”

Gwen smiled. “The singing is quite marvelous,” she said. “Our worship service starts at ten o’clock. You can sit with me and my aunt if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said, looking pleased. “Can I meet you at your home and walk to the chapel with you?”

Gwen could only imagine the tongues that would start wagging the moment she and Aunty Jane arrived with Thomas. But there was nothing she could do about it. She certainly couldn’t deny the man his right to attend a Sunday service because of her dislike of village gossip. “That would be fine,” she said. “It’s the gray rock house with the dark green door, about two hundred yards down from the post office.”

“The one with all the rose bushes?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Gwen said. “Be there about quarter to ten. It’s not far to the chapel, but my aunt isn’t able to walk very fast.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said, offering her his hand as she stepped down from the logs.

She gave him a hesitant smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

He released her hand, and with a quick wave, she hurried away, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that something was on the verge of spinning out of control.

Aunty Jane accepted Thomas’s presence on their pew at chapel much more readily than Gwen had anticipated. Perhaps her zealous heart truly was more concerned about saving a man who had not been able to attend Sunday services for weeks than it was about appearances. Gwen wished she could claim the same indifference, but she was all too aware that their arrival with Thomas that morning had caused a stir. It was not that she wasn’t glad Thomas was there. Quite the opposite, in fact. She enjoyed being with him. She simply dreaded all the questions, the speculation, and the talk.

Thomas had taken Aunty Jane’s arm at the front door of their house and had helped her all the way to their bench near the front of the chapel. He had stood back, allowing Gwen to slide in next to her aunt before joining them on the pew, and had then sat quietly through the service, relying on Gwen to give him a prompt before the congregation stood, sat, or kneeled. John Ellis’s sermon had been based on the story of the Good Samaritan, which may have worked in Thomas’s favor because when everyone filtered out of the chapel at the end of the meeting, several members of the congregation went out of their way to greet him and introduce themselves.

By the time Thomas walked Gwen and her aunt home, everyone in the congregation knew Thomas by name, profession, and association with Gwen. And Thomas, who was most gratified by the warm reception he’d received, announced that even though he hadn’t comprehended a single word during the meeting, he was looking forward to returning the next week. Gwen didn’t understand how it had happened; she and Thomas had gone to the same meeting and had talked to the same people, but for some reason, the experience had left him feeling delighted while she felt exhausted.

After Thomas left, Gwen slowly made her way upstairs to her bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she walked over to the chest of drawers, opened the top drawer, and lifted out the folded petticoat inside. Underneath, lying on top of her winter nightgown, was her rose. Making sure she didn’t catch the metal thorns on anything, Gwen gently lifted the rose out of the drawer and walked over to her bed. She lay down and placed the metal flower on the pillow beside her. She studied it for a few minutes, her eyes following the gentle lines of the curling petals. Then, with a sigh, she turned her back on it, closed her eyes, and tried to empty her mind of everything so sleep could come.

As May turned into June, the rainy days finally gave way to warmth and sunshine. The lush green grass was sprinkled with wildflowers, and birds sang from the hedgerows instead of hiding from the storms. It was the season for peat cutting, and many of the men and boys in the village spent the entire week up on the moors cutting peat that would then be stored for fuel for the rest of the year. With Robert gone, Owen offered to cut enough peat for Gwen and her aunt, along with what he needed for his family and the smithy furnace. In exchange, Gwen insisted on taking lunch to Rowland and him while they cut.

Gwen enjoyed the excuse to be outside, and even though her basket was weighed down with food on the way there, her return trip through the pastures was lovely. There was also something quite stirring about seeing all the men of the village working together for a common goal. She could usually hear them singing or whistling before she reached them. It was a backbreaking job, but they worked hard and well together.

Rowland was always particularly glad to see her. He didn’t seem to mind that she didn’t provide his mother’s bara brith; he was excited for the arrival of any food. All that mattered to him was that there was plenty of it. He’d grown a lot while she was in Llanfyllin, and Gwen guessed that his enormous food intake had something to do with the fact that his height and shoulders were starting to resemble his older brother’s.

When she spotted Rowland on the third day of peat cutting, he was lifting the heavy blocks of peat into the back of a cart several yards from the area where his father was still cutting. Gwen took Owen his lunch first, then she continued up the hill to Rowland. He took the basket from her and walked over to an old tree that had fallen to its side not far from the cart.

“Can you stay for a bit?” he asked, sitting down on the wide trunk and making sure there was room for her.

“And risk having your dad tell me off for stopping you from working?” Gwen said.

Rowland laughed. “Dad would never do that to you.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure.” Gwen raised her skirt a couple of inches and walked across the squelching, waterlogged earth until she reached the tree trunk. “I’ll stay until you finish your sandwich.”

“Right,” Rowland said, unwrapping the wax paper. “I’ll eat as slow as I can.” He took a big bite. “That will be hard, mind, because I’m starving.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You’re always starving, Rowland.”

His mouth was full, but he nodded. She waited quietly while he chewed and swallowed.

“So tell me about Thomas Henley,” he said.

Sitting had been a bad idea. “He’s from Liverpool, and he’s an engineer at the dam.”

“I know that stuff already,” Rowland said.

“There’s not much more to tell.”

Rowland gave her a searching look. “Is he courting you?”

Gwen felt color flood her cheeks. Thomas had accompanied her to worship service for the last three weeks, and she’d heard the whispers as they’d walked in and out of the chapel and noticed the curious looks directed her way at the post office, but up until now, no one had dared say anything to her face. She’d hoped interest in her and Thomas would die down as people got used to seeing him on Sundays. She should have known it was a forlorn hope. But why, oh why, did her first inquisitor have to be Rowland Morgan?

“He’s a good friend, and he enjoys going to chapel with Aunty Jane and me,” she said.

“With you,” Rowland corrected her. “He enjoys going to chapel with you. He likes you a lot.”

Gwen got to her feet. “Talking is making you eat too slowly. Your dad will be after you in a minute.”

Rowland groaned and stuffed the last piece of bread into his mouth. Gwen picked up the empty basket. She would leave before he was capable of saying anything more.

“I’ll see you again tomorrow, Rowland.”

Still chewing, Rowland nodded his agreement, and Gwen made her getaway as quickly as she could.