leave their work without good reason.’
‘And meeting me wasn’t a good reason,’ observed Tamsyn shortly.
‘It wasn’t absolutely necessary in the circumstances,’ conceded Hywel Benedict. ‘I had to come to London anyway, so I offered to meet you.’
‘I see.’ Tamsyn swallowed the retort that sprang to her lips. ‘How is he?’
‘Lance? Oh, he’s all right.’ He spoke with a faint accent which she couldn’t identify but reluctantly found attractive. His whole speaking voice was attractive and she had to force herself to think of other things. But he was the most disturbing man she had ever met.
‘Are you a doctor, too, Mr. Benedict?’
Hywel Benedict shook his head. ‘No. Healing men’s bodies is not for me.’
Tamsyn frowned. It was a strange reply to make and she was curious to know exactly what he did do, but she didn’t like to ask. Looking out on to countryside that was amazingly like the New England countryside back home, she asked: ‘Where are we?’
‘Approaching Maidenhead. Our destination, as you know, is Trefallath, but we have some distance to travel before we cross the border.’
‘The border.’ Tamsyn was intrigued. ‘The border between England and Wales, of course.’
‘Of course. Though it’s no border as you know it. Merely a continuation of the road.’ His tone was dry, and she detected it.
‘Are you a nationalist, Mr. Benedict?’
‘A nationalist?’ A slight smile lightened his dark features. ‘And what would you know of such things, Tamsyn Stanford?’
‘I read books,’ retorted Tamsyn shortly. ‘I’ve read about the Welsh people. I know of their language, and the way they’re trying to retain their individuality.’
‘Do you now?’ His mocking voice disturbed her. ‘And why would an American girl like yourself be interested in us poor barbarians?’
Tamsyn flushed. ‘You forget, Mr. Benedict. I’m half Welsh myself.’
‘Ah, yes, I had forgotten. But perhaps I can be for-given for so doing. A hybrid like yourself, reared in the artificial atmosphere of the hothouse, is hardly likely to display the characteristics of its less cultivated ancestry, is she?’
‘I think you’re being offensive, Mr. Benedict,’ said Tamsyn, unreasonably hurt by his words.
‘Offensive, is it?’ His low attractive voice mocked her. ‘And why would you think that?’
‘I get the feeling that you consider me lacking in some way,’ replied Tamsyn evenly. ‘Is it because this is the first time I’ve come to stay with my father?’
Hywel Benedict stood on his brakes as a vehicle overtook them and then cut in dangerously closely in front of them. ‘Well, you haven’t exactly taken a deal of interest in his affairs before now, have you?’
‘There were reasons.’
‘I know it. Your mother.’
‘Is that so unreasonable?’
‘Possessive woman, your mother,’ he commented dryly. ‘Until it became necessary to shift the responsibility for a period.’
Tamsyn gave him an angry stare. ‘I don’t require anyone to take responsibility for me. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. If my father hadn’t wanted me here, he could always have refused—–’
‘Now hold it, Tamsyn Stanford. I never said that your father didn’t want you here, did I? On the contrary, I should imagine he is waiting in anticipation for you to arrive. My comments are my own.’
‘Then perhaps you should keep your comments to yourself,’ retorted Tamsyn, staring with concentration at the passing landscape in an effort to rid herself of the feeling that this man had aroused within her. A feeling of unease, and inadequacy, that did not make her feel good.
They drove on for some distance in silence, while Tamsyn endeavoured to take an interest in her surroundings. The countryside around them was gently undulating, green fields stretching away on either side, interspersed with woodland and winding streams. They passed through places with unfamiliar names like Nettlebed and Shillingford and Abingdon, and Tamsyn caught tantalising glimpses of old churches that in other circumstances she would have liked to have had identified. Had her father met her, as she had expected him to do, it would have been different, and she tried to quell a feeling of indignation which was likely to colour her judgement when she did meet him again.
Hywel Benedict seemed perfectly content to drive in silence, occasionally taking out a pipe and putting it in the corner of his mouth and lighting it absently, only to put it out again after a few inhalations. Tamsyn was tempted to say she objected to the strong aroma it emitted, but as it wouldn’t have been entirely true, she said nothing.
At last, she broke the silence by saying: ‘Do you live at Trefallath, Mr. Benedict?’
‘I live in the valley,’ he conceded slowly. ‘Trefallath you will find is little more than a cluster of houses. The real population of the valley is spread out among the farms in the area. But no doubt you’ll discover all this for yourself.’
Tamsyn sighed. ‘It sounds remote. My mother said it was once.’
‘Did she now?’ Hywel Benedict inclined his head. ‘She’s right, of course. It is remote. But we like it that way.’
Tamsyn shook her head. ‘But what do you do for entertainment?’ She coloured. ‘I mean, don’t you have any desire to be nearer London—or Cardiff, if that is the right place? Don’t you feel—well, out of touch?’
Hywel Benedict looked at her out of the corners of his eyes. ‘Out of touch with what? What do your cities have to offer us?’
Tamsyn gave an impatient exclamation. ‘Surely it’s obvious! The cultural assets one finds there! The exhibitions; theatres; concerts! Don’t you care for books, or films, or music?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Of course we care for these things. But do you honestly suppose that they’re confined to your cities? There’s more life in the valley than ever you will find in Cardiff, or London, or Boston either, for that matter.’
Tamsyn was irritated by the way he spoke, as though he was explaining the facts of life to a recalcitrant child. What could he know about it if he had lived in Trefallath all his life? He was merely using his age and experience against her youth and immaturity. But academically speaking she should be able to annihilate him.
‘I don’t think we’re talking about the same things,’ she remarked, in a voice that was intended to sound cool and patronising.
‘I think we are,’ he contradicted her insistently. ‘You think because you’ve lived in a city all your life that you’ve become worldly, that you are necessarily more cultured’—the way he said the word was a mockery—‘that you are better educated, infinitely more intelligent; not so!’ He shook his head again. ‘You’re just a little girl copying the mannerisms of her elders!’
