Son of a rogue and a gypsy, Hero Fiennes Tiffin was a notorious rake until a shattering betrayal left him alone and embittered in the Welsh countryside. Desperation drives quiet schoolteacher Josephine Langford to ask Hero Fiennes Tiffin to help sav...
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Josephine was so deep in her meditation that it was a shock to rise and discover that Polly had come and left a pot of tea and a steaming pitcher of water. Remembering how much there was to be done, she washed and dressed quickly, then went downstairs for breakfast. First, however, she made a detour to the library.
Resisting the temptation to stare at the carpet where they had made love, she knelt by the wreckage of Hero's harp. She was studying it when he entered the library himself.
Glancing up, she said hesitantly, "Many of the pegs snapped, and the bow has separated from the box, but it looks as if the pieces can be joined again."
He went down on one knee and lifted the pieces. "You're right," he said when he had finished his examination. "There is no damage that can't be repaired." He stroked the satiny willow wood. "I'm glad. Tam was a great artist—it was sacrilege to try to destroy his work."
"Luckily the harp is very solidly made. It put a sizable dent in the wall." She sat back on her heels. "Last night, when you hurled it away, I felt as if you were also trying to destroy the music in you. I hope you weren't successful." She ended with a faint, questioning lilt.
"I suppose that was my intent, though I wasn't thinking that clearly." He plucked one string that was still taut, and a melancholy note sounded. "Perhaps I should write a song about the mine explosion. Commemorating the honoured dead is an ancient Celtic tradition."
She laid her hand over his. "Please do that, and sing it at the next local eisteddfod. It would mean a great deal to everyone in the valley."
His face tightened, and she guessed that he was thinking that it would have meant more if he had been able to effect changes at the mine earlier. Though his grief and guilt were under control this morning, they had not gone away. She guessed that he would never be entirely free of them.
The stillness was broken when Williams entered, a panting young boy at his side. Recognizing Trevor Morris, Marge's oldest, Josephine got to her feet. "Does your mother need me, Trevor?" she asked. "I was about to go down to the village."
He shook his head. "No, Miss Langford, it's wonderful news. My dad is alive! They found him this morning. Mama sent me to tell you as soon as they brought him home."
Josephine's heartfelt, "Thank God," was drowned by Hero's exuberant, "Hallelujah!"
It seemed almost too good to be true, but the proof was in Trevor's shining face. Hero's face reflected the same joy, and she knew that this news would heal him as nothing else.
Hero said, "Williams, order the curricle. Trevor can tell us the story while we ride into the village."
Within five minutes, they were racing toward Penrith at a speed that would have frightened Josephine if the driver had been anyone less skilful than Hero. Squeezed between them, Trevor explained, "The explosion blew Dad into one of the older tunnels and broke his leg. He was unconscious for a long time. When he woke up, he remembered he was near one of the adits."
