Chapter One

Early September 2018, Llanelen, North Wales

“And so you see, Penny,” Mrs. Lloyd explained, “that’s why the 1917 National Eisteddfod is always referred to as Eisteddfod y Gadair Ddu. The Eisteddfod of the Black Chair.” She shifted her bottom slightly to settle herself more comfortably in the client’s chair and checked the progress of her manicure before continuing. “And the story goes that on the dreary day that the Black Chair, or y Gadair Ddu, as we call it in Welsh, was delivered to Hedd Wyn’s parents’ farm—still draped in its black cloth, mind you—the whole village turned out dressed in mourning. And there was a great storm, with such thunder and lightning, and heavy rain, and the land covered in darkness, that folks had never seen the likes of it before or since.” She made a little tsking noise. “What on earth was our finest poet doing out there in all that Belgian mud? It doesn’t bear thinking about. And not just him. What a terrible waste that war was. All those young lives, lost. What was it all for? I ask you.”

Penny Brannigan placed a stack of neatly folded white hand towels on the work top in the manicure room of the Llanelen Spa. “Yes, that war does seem pointless now,” she agreed, “but then you could say that about most wars, couldn’t you?” She turned away to open a cupboard and put the towels away, then turned back to face Mrs. Lloyd and said, “I’ve never been to a National Eisteddfod. I know what they are, of course, and I’ve been tempted to go, but in the end, I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I’m not one for crowds.”

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Lloyd good-naturedly, “you’ll get crowds at the Eisteddfod, all right. It’s only the biggest event in the country.” She mulled that over for a moment. “Well, the Royal Welsh Show might give it a run for its money, I suppose.” Held every year, usually in August, the National Eisteddfod is a week-long cultural celebration of Welsh music, dance, visual arts, and especially literature and poetry. Filled with colourful pageantry and mystical symbolism, its origins can be traced back to the twelfth century, but the elaborate, modern-day ceremonies date back just a few hundred years, when the concept of bards and druids was introduced. The festival attracts about 150,000 visitors each year, and as many as 6,000 competitors vie for prizes. It has been held outside Wales only half a dozen times, including in Birkenhead in 1917. But because there was a war on, the event was held in September that year, and lasted only three days.

“I remember the story about the Black Chair,” said Eirlys, Penny’s assistant, who was giving Mrs. Lloyd her manicure. Now in her early twenties, Eirlys had started working at the Spa as a bright sixteen-year-old school leaver and brought a youthful enthusiasm and innovation to her workplace. She had convinced Penny to introduce nail varnish in bright primary colours and cool pastels to appeal to teenagers, and had taken makeup courses so the Spa could offer a complete bridal service. “And Hedd Wyn, the poet, too. We learned all about him, and even visited Yr Ysgwrn—that’s his farmhouse—on a school outing. I saw the chair myself. We all got to sit on it. Famous, it is, and incredibly beautiful, too.”

“Well, I’m very pleased to hear that,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “That you learned all about the history of Hedd Wyn and the Black Chair in school. It’s only right that young people learn about our Welsh heritage. And as for that chair, well, it’s practically a national treasure. Probably the best-known piece of furniture in the whole country. Anyway, what got me started on all this, an item on BBC Wales last evening said that the chair was taken somewhere to be refurbished or restored, or whatever they do to old pieces of furniture to preserve them and make them presentable, and then it’s coming back to the farmhouse where Hedd Wyn lived to be put on display again. And that’s not all. They’ve restored the farmhouse and done up one of the old outbuildings, the cow shed I think it was, and made it into a proper visitor centre with an exhibition space and a tearoom and a shop.” She nodded at Eirlys. “That would be the farm you visited, back when it was still owned by the family. Now it’s going to be a national historic site where folk can learn the story of our great poet. It’s amazing when you think of it. He left school when he was fourteen to look after the sheep on his father’s farm and went on to become one of the nation’s greatest poets. But according to the news program, the refurbished centre doesn’t open for a few months yet.”

The conversation moved on as the manicure continued in the Llanelen Spa’s bright studio with its display wall of bottles of nail varnish in every colour, from pale pinks to deep blues. “Well, I’d best be running along,” Penny said after a few minutes. “I really only wanted to pop in to say hello to you, Mrs. Lloyd, so I’ll leave you and Eirlys to it.” And after wishing Mrs. Lloyd good luck at her bridge game that evening, she left the two of them to finish the manicure and returned to her office.

Penny had drifted into Llanelen almost thirty years ago as a backpacking university graduate from Eastern Canada with no particular plans except to embellish her recently earned fine arts degree by visiting the grand museums and galleries of Europe. On her way to Holyhead to catch the ferry to Dublin, she had found herself in the slightly out-of-the-way Welsh market town on a lovely summer’s day, just as the afternoon was fading into a soft, golden evening. Although she’d thought she’d stop for just a night or two, she’d met people, one thing had led to another, and she’d stayed on for the next three decades, building a happy, comfortable life for herself. Her roots in her adopted country were deep and strong, and as the years went by, she’d realised there was no reason to return to her homeland.

She entered her office, turned the page in her diary to see what she had on for the day, then checked her watch. She’d be a few minutes early, but it was time for her meeting with her business partner, Victoria Hopkirk. The beauty side of their spa business—the hair salon, manicure and pedicure studio, and makeup service, including makeup for weddings and other special occasions—was thriving, but they’d agreed they needed to do a better job of promoting their other services—massages, facials, and daylong pampering.

The women tried to have lunch together at least once a week, occasionally at a nearby café but usually—to keep any business discussion private—in Victoria’s flat on the first floor of the Spa. Against just about everyone’s advice, they’d bought the three-storey stone building a few years ago, and given its priceless location beside the River Conwy, with stunning views to the lush, green, wooded hills beyond, and its solid structure, their instincts had turned out to be sound. Following a complete renovation, the once-decrepit building had proved a beautiful, functional investment.

Penny pulled her office door shut behind her and made her way down the hall that led to the reception area. Just as she reached the receptionist’s desk, the door to the Spa opened and Victoria Hopkirk herself entered, struggling to cope with the door and manage two bags of shopping.

“It’s an absolutely beautiful day,” she said as Penny sprang toward her, arms outstretched to hold the door open. “We really should be outside on such a glorious day. Why don’t we take a picnic lunch to the churchyard? Just let me drop this lot off”—she lifted the bags slightly—“and we can pick up a couple of sandwiches on the way.”

*   *   *

Victoria was right; the weather was glorious. It was the kind of day that straddles two seasons, starting off slightly cool and then warming as the morning wears on. Now, seated side by side on a bench in the churchyard overlooking the River Conwy, the two women munched their sandwiches, tossing the occasional crumb to a friendly robin who hopped and hovered nearby, hoping for a handout. A pair of white swans drifted by, navigating their way smoothly down the fast-flowing river toward the three-arched bridge that had spanned the river for almost four hundred years. Penny and Victoria leaned back against the bench, lifting their faces to a cloudless blue sky, soaking in the sunshine, and revelling in a moment of shared companionship and a deep sense of well-being.

When they’d finished their lunch, Penny stood up to stretch her legs, and while she was admiring the roofline of the centuries-old stone church, two figures emerged from the covered porch. She waved to them.

“It’s Emyr and Thomas,” she said. Victoria swung around on the bench and also waved. “It looks like Emyr’s coming over to see us.”

With a few long strides, Emyr Gruffydd joined them. A gentle breeze ruffled his dark hair, and he raised a hand to smooth it. After greeting them, he sat with his back to the river on the low stone wall that ran alongside the edge of the churchyard. Penny sat down again beside Victoria on the bench facing him, and the three smiled at one another.

“I’m glad I bumped into you,” Emyr said. “I was just having a word with the rector about a dinner party.”

“Oh,” said Penny. “Up at the Hall?”

Emry nodded. “Yes. It’s been a long time since we had a proper do, and the time just feels right. It’s going to be a rather formal occasion, so I was just asking Thomas if he’d say grace, and he’s kindly agreed, so now, Victoria, I’m asking you if you’d agree to favour us with an after-dinner harp recital.”

“I’d love to, if I can. What date are we talking about?”

“Oh, sorry. Of course, the date. Thomas just asked me the same question and I wasn’t really able to tell him. It’ll be in November. Because this year marks the hundredth anniversary of the Armistice and the end of the First World War, I’ve decided to hold a dinner on the Saturday night before Remembrance Sunday.”

Victoria pulled her diary out of her handbag and riffled forward several pages from the blue ribbon marking the current week. “Here we are. Remembrance Sunday actually falls right on November eleventh this year, so your dinner party would be on the tenth. I could do that.”

Emyr nodded. “Wonderful. And I’ll let the rector know the date.”

“Will it be a very large party?” asked Penny.

“Well, besides Thomas and Bronwyn, I haven’t really thought about who to invite, but I was thinking around twenty. Maybe a few more. You know how these lists tend to grow. If you invite this person”—he held out his right hand, palm up—“then you have to invite that person.” He made a similar gesture with his left hand. “Possibly as many as thirty. But no more than that. Most of the dinner guests will be invited just for the evening, and a few others will be my guests for the weekend.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” said Penny. “A proper old-fashioned country house party.”

“Yes.” Emyr smiled. “We haven’t given a black-tie dinner at the Hall, let alone entertained weekend guests, since …” His voice trailed off and his dark-blue eyes turned toward the bridge.

Since Meg Wynne Thompson died. Penny silently finished the sentence for him, recalling the terrible time about ten years ago when Emyr’s beautiful fiancée had been murdered. Penny looked at Emyr’s eyes and then followed their gaze. A lot of water has passed under that bridge since then, she thought.

After taking a moment to collect himself, Emyr returned his attention to Penny and Victoria.

“My great-grandmother served as a nurse during World War I, so the war has personal relevance for me, as I’m sure it does for most families. So besides the dinner, I thought I’d put together a small exhibit of items, from the war or to do with the war, for the guests to view after dinner and before the harp recital. Or maybe they would view the exhibit in the library before dinner and we’d have the recital after dinner, in the sitting room.” He made a little sheepish grimace. “As you can tell, I haven’t really thought through the program.”

“Oh, you mean an exhibit of medals, or letters, and things like that?” Penny asked. “I expect Alwynne Gwilt could find some things for you, and she’d probably be happy to help. She organized that exhibit at the town museum a few years ago to commemorate the start of the war.”

“Yes, I remember that exhibit,” replied Emyr, “but I have enough items. More than enough, in fact. And some very special things, too, including my great-grandmother’s nursing uniform. My mother showed it to me once, when I was a boy, and it’s up in the attics somewhere.”

“Oh,” said Penny. “Is it the uniform with the white apron with the red cross on the bib?”

She placed a hand on her chest where the red cross would be as Emyr nodded.

“That’s the one. It’s blue with a white collar, as I recall, and there’s a sort of little cape that comes with it.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “But as nice as the uniform is, there’s something even better. I’ve arranged for an incredible centrepiece for the exhibit.” Penny and Victoria edged forward a little on the bench to be closer to him.

“I was the treasurer of the committee that raised the funds for the restoration of the bardic chair of Hedd Wyn, and the committee has granted permission for it to stop off at the Hall for a couple of days on its return journey to Yr Ysgwrn. So it was actually the opportunity of having the chair at the Hall that gave me the idea to hold the dinner party to mark the end of the First World War.”

“That’s amazing!” exclaimed Penny. “Mrs. Lloyd was just telling me about the Black Chair this morning, and its sad story.” She looked excitedly from Victoria to Emyr and back again. “Isn’t it strange how coincidences like that happen?”

“I’m tempted to say that nothing is ever a coincidence where Mrs. Lloyd is concerned,” said Emyr, “but in this case, it would seem like one. But its restoration has been in the news lately, so it may be on people’s minds.”

“What chair?” asked Victoria. After Emyr filled her in on the history of the Black Chair, she asked, “And will the chair be on public view here in Llanelen, as well? In the museum, maybe, so everyone will have a chance to see it?”

“Unfortunately not. There wouldn’t be time to arrange something like that. It’s just going to be a brief, private stop at the Hall. Maybe even for just the one night. Details still to be arranged.”

“But if you’re up at the Hall for the dinner, presumably you’ll get to see it,” Penny remarked to Victoria. “Lucky old you.”

Victoria grinned. “Yes, lucky old me.”

“I hope you’ll get to see it as well, Penny,” said Emyr. She raised her eyebrows. “It’s a lot to ask, I know, but I wondered if you’d help organize the dinner party. There’s so much to do, and I couldn’t possibly pull together an event like that on my own.” He gave her a winsome, slightly pleading smile. “As you’ve just seen. I can’t even get the date right. And you’re really good with that sort of thing. You did a fabulous job of organizing everything that time we hosted the television antiques show at the Hall.”

Penny dove right in. “Let me think,” she said. “We can ask Florence to organize the dinner itself—the meal, that is. She’ll have some great menu suggestions. She’ll definitely need help with food preparation, though, but we can bring in staff from the hotel for that, and waitstaff, too, probably, and hopefully Gwennie will be available to clean and prepare the dining room—oh, and the library.”

“And Heather Hughes for the flowers, of course,” Victoria chimed in.

“Oh, and maybe we could involve Lane Hardwick with the coffee service,” said Penny. “He loves coffee and he’d really enjoy having that responsibility. And besides, the experience would be good for him.”

She’d met young Lane Hardwick a few months ago when she’d been painting a set of watercolours at the ruins of a local castle and he’d been part of a volunteer team clearing away nearly a century’s worth of overgrowth from what had once been magnificent formal gardens. He’d been struggling to find his place in the world, but Penny had heard that since Emyr had hired him to work in the Ty Brith Hall gardens, Lane had been flourishing.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” laughed Emyr. “And by the way, it’s all a bit hush-hush, so please keep this under your bonnets for now. But knowing this place, I’m sure word will get around soon enough.”