He wanted to live out the rest of his life here. There was a house and property-Ty Gwyn, White House in English, though in fact it was a manor built of gray stone-that were separate from Glandwr though they adjoined it and were owned by Bewcastle, having been purchased by a former duke. Ty Gwyn was unentailed. It was Sydnam’s dream and his hope that he could persuade Bewcastle to sell it to him. He would then own his own home and land, though he would be able to continue as Glandwr’s steward if Bewcastle so wished.

Having to face the bustle of a large gathering at Glandwr was just too much for him when he was accustomed to the vast, empty, quiet house. And so he was moving out and into the cottage, at least until the house was empty again.

He resented the expected intrusion, if the truth were known, even though he knew that he had no right to object to a man’s coming to his own home with his own wife and his brothers and sisters-and anyone else he chose to invite for that matter.

He did not look forward to the summer.

He would stay out of the way as much as he was able. He would try at least to remain out of sight of the children. He did not want to frighten them. The worst feeling in the world was to see fear, revulsion, horror, and panic on the faces of children and to know that it was his own appearance that had caused it.

One month, Bewcastle’s secretary had written. Thirty-one days, if that statement was to be taken literally. It seemed like an eternity.

But he would survive it.

He had survived a great deal worse. There had been days-and nights-when he had wished he had not done so. Survived, that was.