With suddenly heightened interest, Florilyn read of Euphra’s treatment of Margaret upon discovery of the personal letter she had written to David Elginbrod, not yet knowing him to be Margaret’s father.
“Margaret had sought Euphra’s room, with the intention of restoring to her the letter which she had written. Hopes of ministration filled Margaret’s heart; but she expected, from what she knew of her, that anger would be Miss Cameron’s first feeling.
‘What do you want?’ she said angrily.
‘This is your letter, Miss Cameron, is it not?’ said Margaret, advancing with it in her hand.
Euphra took it, glanced at the direction, started up in a passion, and let loose the whole gathered irritability of contempt, weariness, disappointment, and suffering, upon Margaret. Her dark eyes flashed with rage.
‘What right have you, pray, to handle my letters? How did you get this! And open, too. I declare! I suppose you have read it?’
Margaret was afraid of exciting more wrath before she had an opportunity of explaining; but Euphra gave her no time to think of a reply.
‘You have read it, you shameless woman! Impudent prying! Pray, did you hope to find a secret worth a bribe?’
She advanced on Margaret till within afoot of her.
‘Why don’t you answer, you hussy?’
Margaret stood quietly, waiting for an opportunity to speak. Her face was very pale, but perfectly still, and her eyes did not quail.
‘You do not know my name, Miss Cameron; of course you could not.’
‘Your name! What is that to me?’
‘That,’ said Margaret, pointing to the letter, ‘is my father’s name.’
Euphra looked at her own direction again, and then looked at Margaret. She was so bewildered, that if she had any thoughts, she did not know them. Margaret went on:
‘My father is dead. My mother sent the letter to me.’
‘What is it to you? Do you think I am going to make a confidante of you?’”
Florilyn’s heart smote her, and she could read no more. She put the book aside as tears filled her eyes.
She had been just like Euphra. She had treated poor Gwyneth the same way—rudely and angrily. If parallels with the story were to be drawn, Gwyneth was the saintly Margaret, and she was the unlovely Euphra.
She had changed, thought Florilyn to herself, and she thanked God for it. But there were times when the memory of what she had once been still made her cry. She had been shameful toward Gwyneth. Maybe she was Euphra after all!
Once the parallels with the story were clear, Florilyn saw them everywhere. It might as well have been a story set in Westbrooke Manor! On every page as she read over the ensuing days, as Margaret became Euphra’s maid, as their friendship blossomed, as Euphra began to grow and change, and as it became clear that both girls were smitten with Hugh Sutherland, Florilyn was no longer reading about Margaret and Euphra … she was reading about herself and Gwyneth and Percy!
She was drawn into the story so deeply that she was living in it. What intrigue the love triangle took on in her mind! Of course Margaret and Euphra shared their feelings about Hugh far more openly than she and Gwyneth ever had about Percy.
“Margaret could not proceed very far in the story of her life without making some reference to Hugh Sutherland. But she carefully avoided mentioning his name.
‘Ah!’ said Euphra, one day, ‘your history is a little like mine there; a tutor comes into them both. Did you not fall dreadfully in love with him?’
‘I loved him very much.’
‘Do you never see him?’
Margaret was silent. Euphra knew her well enough not to repeat the question.
‘I should have been in love with him, I know … Mr. Sutherland did me some good, Margaret.’
‘Mr. Sutherland loved you very much, Miss Cameron.’”
It was exactly what dear Gwyneth might have said! Florilyn remembered when Gwyneth had urged Percy to go to the party at Burrenchobay Hall with her. Even as she continued her reading, the names on the page might have been Percival Drummond, Florilyn Westbrooke, and Gwyneth Barrie.
“‘He loved me once,’ said poor Euphra, with a sigh.
‘I saw he did. That was why I began to love you too.’
Margaret had at last unwittingly opened the door of her secret. But Euphra could not understand what she meant.
‘What do you mean, Margaret?’
Margaret both blushed and laughed outright.
‘I must confess it,’ said she, at once; ‘it cannot hurt him now: my tutor and yours are the same.’
‘And you never spoke all the time he was here!’
‘Not once. He never knew I was in the house.’
‘How strange! And you saw he loved me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were not jealous?’
‘I did not say that. But I soon found that the only way to escape from my jealousy, if the feeling I had was jealousy, was to love you too. I did.’
‘You beautiful creature! But you could not have loved him much.’
‘I loved him enough to love you for his sake.’
It would have been unendurable to Euphra, a little while before, to find that she had a rival in a servant. Now she scarcely regarded that aspect of her position.”
Again Florilyn put the book down thoughtfully. Had Gwyneth been in love with Percy? If so, she would never have divulged it.
SIXTEEN
Surveying the Landscape
Katherine Westbrooke’s brain had been busy. She knew that time passed quickly. She must not unnecessarily delay whatever planned changes she hoped to make. She would have to complete all necessary legalities before Courtenay’s twenty-fifth birthday or he would move to stop her in the courts. She hoped, as Hamilton Murray had suggested, that he might be grateful for the infusion of cash into the estate’s coffers. However, she knew she mustn’t bank on the unpredictable responses of a self-motivated and, as things presently stood, angry young man.
She therefore made a number of visits to the village and its environs, but thus far without inspiration coming to her.
The only home within miles that might have been considered large enough and suitable for the extended household of an aristocratic dowager viscountess was that occupied by Styles Lorimer and his wife and daughter, Rhawn, and her son. There were rumors that Mr. and Mrs. Lorimer were considering a move to southern England. But nothing was known for certain. It was doubtful they would make a decision anytime soon.
There were several sizeable farms within a mile or two of Llanfryniog. All were occupied, however, and she had no intention of evicting one of her tenants for the sake of her own potential future need.
Gradually the idea floated out of the mists to the surface of Katherine’s thoughts. What was to prevent her building a new home instead? Florilyn’s words returned to her memory: “We shall build a second cottage to go with it.” If they could build a cottage, they could just as well build a house sizeable enough to suit all her needs, with stables and paddocks and pastures and meadows for whatever animals she wanted to raise, as well as quarters for Adela and Steven, and perhaps, she dared only hope, also for her daughter and family. Nothing so imposing or on the grand scale of the manor itself—her funds were not unlimited, nor were her tastes of an extravagant nature—but something large enough to be functional and comfortable for two or three families.
At length Katherine realized it was time she spoke with Florilyn, divulged what was on her mind, and canvassed her thoughts on the matter. A decision could possibly affect her future as well.
She waited until Courtenay was at Burrenchobay Hall visiting Colville Burrenchobay then sought Florilyn in her room. “I would like to talk to you, dear,” she said, poking her head through the open doorway.
Florilyn glanced up from her book then laid it aside. “Of course, Mother,” she said. “Come in. Your expression looks serious. Is something wrong?”
Katherine sat down in one
of several chairs about the expansive room and drew in a long sigh. “It shows that plainly, does it?” she said with a melancholy smile.
“I don’t always know what you are thinking,” rejoined Florilyn. “But I can tell when you are downcast.”
“It’s about your brother,” said Katherine. “He’s much changed since your father’s death.”
“I know it only too well. I used to think we were friends. He’s too snooty and full of himself to bother with the likes of me now. I hate the way he treats you, Mother.”
“It’s obvious he resents not being able to lord it over us. He thinks he should have been made viscount immediately. He also blames me for his present financial straits.”
“It’s not your fault that Daddy’s not here to indulge him.”
“He thinks it is my duty to continue doing so. The anger that is stewing inside him is worrisome to me. Honestly, Florilyn, I am very concerned for our future. You, of course, will be married. But I fear Courtenay may make my life so intolerable here that I may have no alternative but to find another place to live. We spoke about it almost jokingly before. I now fear it may be more likely than we thought. Leaving the manor may become a practical necessity.”
“But the manor is yours, Mother.”
“It won’t be once Courtenay turns twenty-five.”
“Where would you go?”
“I have been reflecting on what you said before, about us living in a cottage in the hills.”
“I was just thinking out loud, Mother!” laughed Florilyn. “I didn’t really think you would leave the manor.”
“What if I have to? What would you think if I built a new house that would not be under Courtenay’s control?”
Florilyn stared back at her mother without expression. “You mean … Where, Mother … on the grounds somewhere?” she said at length.
“I don’t know … somewhere near the village, yet far enough from the manor where we could live our own lives.”
Florilyn rose and wandered to her window. She stood with her back to her mother, looking out toward the hills of Snowdonia to the east and the plateau overlooking the waters of Tremadog Bay to the west. “You said we,” she said at length.
“I know you will be married,” rejoined Katherine. “But that may not take place before Courtenay’s twenty-fifth birthday … I don’t know what your plans are. But do you relish the idea of being here after that?”
“We could live our own lives, Mother.”
“What if he took it into his head to charge you rent?”
Florilyn spun around from the window. “He wouldn’t dare!” she said.
“He might not be able to evict me because of my position, but I doubt there would be any restrictions on what he could do to you.”
The two women were quiet for several moments.
“Then let’s go for a ride, Mother,” said Florilyn at length. “We shall look for a perfect place for your new home!”
An hour later, mother and daughter set out from Westbrooke Manor on Red Rhud and Crimson Son. They rode east, up the rising slope to the top of the inland ridge, then bore northward. From the height they had gained, the entire plateau below, stretching down to the village of Llanfryniog, and the blue waters of Tremadog Bay were visible, with their own Westbrooke Manor and its grounds and gardens below and to their left.
“What a beautiful site this would be for a home!” exclaimed Katherine as they rode, with the sea and coastline all spread out below.
“You would have to build a road all the way up here, Mother.”
“A road would be more easily managed than building a house! If it were to be your home, Florilyn—and who is to say that it wouldn’t be one day—and if you could live anywhere in the entire region, where would you choose?”
Florilyn reined in and gazed all about. “That is a hard question, Mother,” she said. “But … let me see … I do love the mountains. But then there is snow in the winter when you get too far inland. And the sight of the sea is spectacular. Just think what it would be to have all your windows overlooking the ocean.”
Florilyn’s thoughts drifted back to an hour earlier when she and her mother had been talking in her room, and the view as she was standing at the window. “Probably down there, Mother,” she said after a minute. She pointed from their high vantage point to the plateau of Mochras Head. “On the headland overlooking the sea.”
Katherine followed her daughter’s outstretched arm. Slowly she began to nod. “Yes, I see … it would be a spectacular site for a home. Closer to the manor,” she added, “but also near to the village and main road. Shall we go have a closer look? I may like your idea.”
She turned Crimson Son down the slope in the direction of the sea, and Florilyn followed.
SEVENTEEN
The Revelation of the Fir Wood
Florilyn reached the last chapter of her book. As she began reading, her eyes grew wide.
It wasn’t only that two girls both loved Hugh Sutherland. Hugh had to discover which of the two he really loved … and had loved all along.
A sudden pang seized Florilyn’s heart. It was not the aristocratic Euphra that in the end took possession of Hugh’s heart, but the peasant girl Margaret!
“She was the angel herself,” she read on the page.
Percy often called Gwyneth an angel.
Hugh at length discovered that he had loved Margaret from the first day in the fir wood. Was her own fate, Florilyn mused, destined to be the same as Euphra’s? Loving … would she, too, have to let him go?
“It was with a mingling of strange emotions that Hugh approached the scene of those not very old, and yet, to his feeling, quite early memories. The dusk was beginning to gather. The hoar-frost lay thick on the ground. The pine-trees stood up in the cold.
Here and there amongst them, rose the Titans of the little forest—the huge, old, contorted, wizard-like, yet benevolent beings—the Scotch firs. Towards one of these he bent his way. It was the one under which he had seen Margaret, when he met her first in the wood. To think that the young girl to whom he had given the primrose he had just found should now be the queen of his heart! Her childish dream of the angel haunting the wood had been true, only she was the angel herself. He drew near the place. How well he knew it! He seated himself, cold as it was in the February of Scotland, at the foot of the blessed tree.
While he sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, a light rustle in the fallen leaves made him raise them suddenly. It was all winter and fallen leaves about him; but he lifted his eyes, and in his soul it was summer: Margaret stood before him. She looked just the same—at home everywhere; most at home in Nature’s secret chamber.
She came nearer.
‘Margaret!’ he murmured.
She came close to him. He rose, trembling.
‘Margaret, dare I love you?’ he faltered.
She looked at him with wide-open eyes.
‘Me?’ exclaimed Margaret, and her eyes did not move from his. A slight rose-flush bloomed out on her motionless face.
She looked at him with parted lips.
‘Do you remember this?’ she said, taking from her pocket a little book, and from the book a withered flower.
Hugh saw that it was like a primrose, and hoped against hope that it was the one which he had given to her, on the spring morning in the fir-wood.
‘Why did you keep that?’ he said.
‘Because I loved you.’
‘Loved me?’
‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’
‘Why did you say, then, that you didn’t care if—if—?’
‘Because love is enough, Hugh.—That was why.’”
Tears flooded Florilyn’s eyes. The deepest love had not come as Hugh had expected it. He thought he had loved Euphra. But his heart had belonged to Margaret all along. In the same way, Percy thought he was in love with her.
But from the beginning … since his first days in Wales … had his heart always belonged—?
Florilyn burst into sobs. She could not complete the thought. She closed the book, rose, and went to her window. She stood for several minutes but could not stop the flow of tears.
At length she left her room and walked down the corridor away from the main staircase, seeking the back stairs and door to the outside that Percy had himself used many times. The cool air felt good on her hot face. But it could not still the turmoil in her heart.
With the weather turning increasingly cold and damp, for the next several weeks Florilyn made the approaching winter her companion in melancholy. For hours she walked along the Mochras promontory staring down at the gray sea below or along the chilly misty beach beneath the headland or in the gardens of the manor or woods nearer home. Daily she visited little Nugget, who recognized her voice and came scampering at her call.
Not having been a great reader, Florilyn had never before experienced the power of a book to move the human heart so deeply. But this story, and the interwoven lives of its two young women loving the same young man, along with the fictional fir wood, which in her mind had become the fields and hills of North Wales, pressed heavily upon her heart.
At length she knew what she had to do.
She must let Percy discover his own fir wood … and who was the angel awaiting him there.
EIGHTEEN
Wales Again
As Percy and his mother and father sat clattering south in the train from Glasgow, Percy could not escape the feeling that something beyond a festive Christmas celebration awaited him in Wales. It would be going too far to call it a sense of impending doom. Yet perhaps something a little like it.
“You’re uncommonly quiet, Percy,” said his mother on the afternoon of their first day of the journey.
“Sorry, Mother,” smiled Percy. “A lot on my mind I suppose.”
“School?”
“No, not really. It’s going well, though I am anticipating graduating in May with more than a little eagerness.”
“You still haven’t said what you will do after you and Florilyn are married—go to work for Mr. Snyder or begin law school.”
Treasure of the Celtic Triangle Page 8
