Dear Reader,
Most of my books are set in England. But this one is set in my native Wales, and I immediately felt a change in myself, a heightened emotional involvement, as I wrote it. Wales is a land of hills and mountains, sea and cliffs, its own ancient language and culture, a deep spirituality, and music. Always music—the harp, church congregations singing in full harmony, choirs, particularly male voice choirs, often in the past made up of coal miners. Just the thought of it all can bring me to tears. Most of the Welsh coal mines are gone now, but there was a time when they dominated and blackened the countryside along the beautiful river valleys of South Wales.
Longing, my first all-Welsh book, originally published in 1995, has always been very precious to me. It is set in one of the coal-mining valleys in the first half of the nineteenth century, at a time when the owners were almost all wealthy Englishmen and life for the Welsh workers was hard, to say the least. Many of them became involved in the doomed Chartist movement to improve their living and working and political conditions.
The Marquess of Craille is a new owner, having only recently inherited and come to Wales. Siân Jones is the illegitimate daughter of an owner but has deliberately identified with the workers. She is the widow of a miner and is now engaged to the leader of the local Chartist movement. She is soon caught in the middle of a conflict between two men who seem destined to be natural enemies.
A common theme through the book is music, in particular the Welsh song “Hiraeth,” roughly translated “Longing,” that soul-deep yearning we all feel for our homeland and what is beyond our reach and our full understanding. The story is a deeply felt piece of the history of my own people and a passionate love story between two people for whom a future together seems an impossibility.
I do hope you will love this book as much as I always have.
Mary Balogh
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF MARY BALOGH
Longing
“Balogh capture[s] the allure of the land and the culture of the proud people of Wales . . . a very different sort of historical romance. Ms. Balogh’s writing has a very lyrical quality to it, which draws out the feelings of yearning so the the reader can palpably sense them . . . pretty powerful.”
—The Hope Chest Reviews
“A particular favorite of mine.”
—The Romance Reader
Beyond the Sunrise
“Thoroughly enjoyable.”
—New York Times bestselling author Janelle Taylor
“Balogh’s . . . epic love story is a winner . . . absorbing reading right up until the end.”
—Publishers Weekly
“High intrigue, daring exploits, a passionate love affair, what more could you want in a romance? Balogh gives us a humdinger of a tale set during the Napoleonic Wars. Great fun. Highly recommended.”
—Manderley Magazine
“Beyond the Sunrise is an utterly absorbing, powerful tale of a love that was once doomed and yet blooms again amidst the intrigue and ordeal of war. With infinite care and deft plotting, Ms. Balogh spins an intricate tale with the skill of a master weaver. She draws you into the era by evoking the aura of the war and the passionate emotions of her characters. If you have never read another book by Mary Balogh, then Beyond the Sunrise will be your introduction to a writer of remarkable talents.”
—RT Reviews
FURTHER PRAISE FOR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR MARY BALOGH
“Once you start a Mary Balogh book, you won’t be able to stop reading.”
—New York Times bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips
“Mary Balogh has the gift of making a relationship seem utterly real and utterly compelling.”
—Mary Jo Putney
“Winning, witty, and engaging . . . fulfilled all of my romantic fantasies.”
—New York Times bestselling author Teresa Medeiros
“Mary Balogh just keeps getting better and better . . . interesting characters and great stories to tell . . . well worth your time.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Mary Balogh is a superb author whose narrative voice comments on the characters and events of her novel in an ironic tone reminiscent of Jane Austen.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“Mary Balogh reaches deep and touches the heart.”
—New York Times bestselling author Joan Johnston
“A writer whose books belong on every romance shelf.”
—RT Reviews
ALSO BY MARY BALOGH
THE SURVIVORS’ CLUB SERIES
The Proposal
The Arrangement
The Escape
Only Enchanting
THE HUXTABLE SERIES
First Comes Marriage
Then Comes Seduction
At Last Comes Love
Seducing an Angel
A Secret Affair
THE SIMPLY SERIES
Simply Unforgettable
Simply Love
Simply Magic
Simply Perfect
THE BEDWYN SAGA
Slightly Married
Slightly Wicked
Slightly Scandalous
Slightly Tempted
Slightly Sinful
Slightly Dangerou
THE BEDWYN PREQUELS
One Night for Love
A Summer to Remember
THE MISTRESS TRILOGY
More Than a Mistress
No Man’s Mistress
The Secret Mistress
THE WEB SERIES
The Gilded Web
Web of Love
The Devil’s Web
CLASSICS
The Ideal Wife
The Secret Pearl
A Precious Jewel
A Christmas Promise
Dark Angel/ Lord Carew’s Bride
The Famous Heroine/ The Plumed Bonnet
A Christmas Bride/ Christmas Beau
The Temporary Wife/ A Promise of Spring
A Counterfeit Betrothal/ The Notorious Rake
Irresistible
A Matter of Class
Under the Mistletoe
Beyond the Sunrise
Heartless
Silent Melody
A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK
Signet Eclipse
Published by the Penguin Group
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A Penguin Random House Company
Published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC. Previously published in a Topaz edition.
Copyright © Mary Balogh, 1994
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Balogh, Mary.
Longing/Mary Balogh.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-698-15632-6
1. Man-woman relationships—Fiction.
2. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fi
ction.
I. Title.
PR6052.A465L66 2015
823'.914dc23 2014035239
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Praise
Also by MARY BALOGH
Title page
Dedication
Pronunciation Guide
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Historical Note
Excerpt from Only a Promise
For my younger daughter
Siân
(pronounced Shahn)
whose name I have used as the heroine
of this, my Welsh book,
with love
Pronunciation Guide
GLANRHYD
GLAN-HREED
CWMBRAN
CUM-BRAHN (U AS IN PUT)
EMRYS
EM-RISS
HUW
HUGH
IESTYN
YES-TIN
SIN
SHAHN
GWYN
GWINN
GWYNNETH
GWINN-UTH
RHYS
HREES
HOWELL
PENYBONT
PEN-U-BONT
ANGHARAD
ANG-HA-RAD
CERIDWEN
CARE-ID-WEN
MARI
MARRY
MARGED
MARR-GED
DAFYDD
DA-VITH (ITH AS IN WITH)
BLODWYN
BLOD-WIN
IFOR
EYE-VORE
IANTO
YAN-TOE
DILYS
DILL-ISS
GWILYM
GWILL-UM
CEFN
KEVN
FACH
VACH (ACH AS IN COMPOSER BACH)
DUW
DEW
EISTEDDFOD
EYE-STETH-FOD
HIRAETH MAWR
HEE-RYTH MOUR (YTH AS IN PYTHON, OU AS IN OUCH)
BORE DA
BORE-E DAH
Y DERYN PUR
U DER-IN PEER
LLWYN ON
HLOYN ON
GYMANFA GANU
GU-MAN-VU GA-NEE
1
IT was rather late in the day to go walking, especially in a strange place. But the night was warm and moonlit, and the hills beckoned invitingly. Besides, a day and a half of traveling had made him stiff and restless, and since his arrival soon after noon he had been busy with his housekeeper and his butler. His agent had called to pay his respects and make arrangements for the coming days. And there had been Verity to amuse. If the journey had made him irritable, it had made her positively petulant. It was harder for a six-year-old to sit still and idle for hours on end than it was for an adult.
Now she was in bed, coaxed there by an elderly and indulgent nurse, and put to sleep by the stories he had read to her.
He was unable to give in to his own tiredness. Everything was so strange. He had been the owner of this property for longer than two years—ever since the death of his uncle, his mother’s brother—but he had never been here before. He did not even know much about it except that the quarterly reports sent by his agent showed it to be extremely prosperous. But then aristocrats, whose names and titles and wealth had grown out of large landed estates over several centuries, still frowned upon the idea of making money out of industry. It seemed very middle class and not quite the thing at all. Times were changing, but very often times changed faster than people.
Alexander Hyatt, Marquess of Craille, was the owner of a large area of land in one of the valleys of South Wales and the ironworks and coal mine on that land. The back of beyond, as his mother-in-law liked to describe it. It was not a compliment. She had been aghast when he had told her that he was going to take her granddaughter there for an indefinite period of time. It was in vain that he had reminded her that he also owned a castle there—Glanrhyd Castle—that had been built by his uncle’s predecessor.
Alex, standing at his bedroom window, still fully clothed, decided that late or not, strange or not, he was going to go out for a walk after all. The little he had seen of the surrounding area during the day had fascinated him—the narrow valley with steep, heather-covered hills to either side, the river at the bottom with rows of terraced houses beside it and on the lower slopes, the ironworks below the castle, largely hidden by the trees of the park. Glanrhyd Castle itself was built above the valley floor, a little removed from both the works and the houses.
The hills fascinated him. Steep, and yet not sheer, they closed in the valley, making it like a little world cut off from the outside. He felt almost as if he were in a foreign country. In a way, he supposed, he was.
He took a cloak with him in case the night was chillier than it had felt through his open window. But it was still almost warm outside. He strolled the gravel walks bordering the sloping lawns of the park and stood still to breathe in the fresh air and to listen to the sounds of insects. But he was not satisfied with such a sedate walk. The hills called to him. If he walked a little way across and up the slope beyond the park gates he would be able to look down on the valley and have a more panoramic view of it than he had had from the house. It would probably look lovely in the moonlight.
He did not intend to walk far as he soon realized that the hills did not ascend smoothly from the valley to the top. Rather they were rolling hills with peaks and hollows and even some sharp, unexpected drops. But there was no real danger as long as he was in no hurry. There was light enough to see by. And his guess had been correct. From above, and without the obstruction of the trees, he could see that the town was picturesque despite the smoking chimneys of the i
ronworks and despite the black coal tips he could see farther down the valley. Moonlight gleamed off the water of the river, which was broader than it had seemed from below. The houses, in long, snaking lines, looked sleepy and hugged the side of the hill as if for protection. There were very few lights. Obviously his workers went to bed early. Not that it was really early. He supposed it was close to midnight.
He should turn back. But there was a pleasant coolness in the air now, and he was reluctant to give up this only part of the day he had had to himself. If he strolled a little farther on, he thought, he would be able to look back up the valley from the other end of the town. Perhaps he would be able to see the castle above the works. It had been fancifully built, with numerous towers and turrets and long windows. He had been rather amused when he first set eyes on it. And rather pleased too. Somehow it escaped vulgarity, ornate as it was. Somehow it seemed to suit its setting.
He was not sure when he first became aware of a sound that was neither water nor wind nor insects. At first it was a feeling that seemed not quite associated with the ears. But it became more marked as he strolled on. It was the sound of voices. The murmured sound of many voices.
Alex stood still and concentrated. Where was it coming from? From below? But almost all the lights were out in the houses and the works were too far away, although some men would be on shift there. From the mine, then? No, the sound was coming from the hills.
He walked on more warily, more alertly, until the sound was unmistakably that of voices—men’s voices. And then there was one voice, speaking above the rest until they all fell silent, and speaking on. In a strange language, doubtless Welsh.
As he drew closer, Alex realized that he was approaching another of those unexpected peaks, behind which there was presumably another dip and a hollow. He could tell that he was close now. The voice was distinct. Whoever it was was in that hollow. He climbed carefully, ducking down as he approached the top so that his head would not be seen against the skyline. He inched up the last few feet so that he could look down.