Treasure of the Celtic Triangle

by Michael Phillips

  They took seats on the couch and two chairs, and Edward resumed. “Percy has told me a little of your predicament, shall we call it,” he said. “Out of faithfulness to you, he did not want to divulge too much. He felt I ought to hear whatever you were comfortable telling me yourself. I realize you do not know me so intimately—I have probably always just been a distant uncle to you. But I hope you will be able to trust me. My only desire is to help the two of you discover what is God’s will. I will say or do nothing stemming from any motives of my own other than to help you know what is in your hearts and know what is best for you to do. Do you think you can trust me?”

  “I will try, Uncle Edward,” replied Florilyn. “I believe I can. I trust Percy, and he trusts you. So how can I not trust you, also?”

  “Then why don’t you explain to me what you have been thinking?”

  Florilyn took a deep breath. It was quiet a few moments as she composed her thoughts. “In a way,” she began, casting a half-nervous, half-humorous smile toward Percy’s father, “it’s your fault, Uncle Edward … and my mother’s. It all began with a George MacDonald novel I read, which I would never have done if you two weren’t talking about him all the time.”

  “Ah, yes,” smiled the vicar. “Which one of his books was it?”

  “David Elginbrod.”

  The vicar nodded. “One of my favorites. MacDonald does have a way of probing the heart through his characters, does he not?”

  “I’ve never read a book that drew me into it so completely,” said Florilyn. “By the time I was finished, I wasn’t reading about MacDonald’s characters at all but about Percy and me.” She paused and again drew in a thoughtful breath. “Percy told me about a conversation you and he had about circumstances,” she began again. “He said you talked about going slow, about how God uses circumstances to make his will clear but that you have to be careful not to imbue circumstances with too much significance, either, because you never know for certain whether God is speaking through them. That’s why, Percy said, you always told him that God is never in a hurry, that we must give God as much time as possible to clarify what the circumstances are supposed to mean.”

  “Very eloquently put, my dear,” said Edward. “I doubt if I said it so clearly myself.”

  “It has remained with me ever since,” Florilyn went on. “Then as I read the MacDonald novel, the sense grew upon me that perhaps Percy and I had been hastier than we should have been and perhaps hadn’t given God enough time. I knew I had to talk to him, though it was one of the hardest things I have ever done.” She cast Percy an apologetic smile. She then went on to tell her uncle about Gwyneth’s leaving and of the similarities she had seen in the story with their own circumstances.

  At length the room fell silent. Florilyn was in tears. But they were good tears.

  “My first response,” said Edward after a minute or two, “is to commend you for your honesty and fortitude. What you have done in voicing your reservation is not something most young people have the courage to do. I know Percy feels the same. As painful as this time may be for both of you, he admires what you have done.”

  Florilyn glanced with an expression of question toward Percy where he sat. “Is that really true, Percy?” she said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I thought you were angry with me.”

  “Not for a second. Like Dad says, sure it is painful. But how could I not admire you? He’s right—it took courage. It shows that you were trying to listen to God’s voice.”

  Florilyn smiled, though almost bashfully. She was not accustomed to being praised for spiritual virtue—especially by a vicar and his son!

  “However God leads in the end,” Edward went on, “slowing down the process is always a good thing. There is never a disadvantage to going slow if there is the slightest doubt about a course of action. It is fearfully easy to run ahead of God. But he is never in a rush. Even should it turn out that it is indeed God’s will for the two of you to marry, this pause for prayerful reevaluation will only make that decision stronger in the end.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Boxing Day in Llanfryniog

  The three left the room a short time later. Edward told his wife and sister that he and the young people had an important matter to discuss with them. Meal preparations and decorating was suspended. When at last everything was out in the open, Florilyn’s tears had passed. She was at last ready to join in the revelry of the Christmas spirit.

  The reaction of the two mothers at the news that the engagement of their son and daughter had been called off, however, was one of melancholy and a good many tears. In light of Florilyn’s near gaiety, and that neither did Percy seem shattered by the turn of events, they did not ask too many questions. Both secretly hoped to get more enlightenment privately from Edward later.

  The afternoon progressed. The mood of Katherine Westbrooke and Mary Drummond remained subdued. But gradually the festive spirit returned to the household. By the time they sat down with their guests and members of the household for a lavish Christmas Eve dinner, all hints of the low spirits from earlier in the day were gone.

  Around the table in the formal dining room sat Katherine, Courtenay, and Florilyn Westbrooke; Edward, Mary, and Percy Drummond; Adela and Steven Muir, with Hollin Radnor; Mrs. Drynwydd, Katherine’s cook; Mrs. Llewellyn the housekeeper; and Jeremiah Broakes, the Westbrooke butler. The only one of the number who did not seem to be entering into the spirit of the season was Courtenay. He had finally made a belated appearance but was annoyed in the extreme to be seated at the same table with staff and servants.

  The women pitched in to clean up after dinner. The assembly then retired to the formal sitting room. The remainder of Christmas Eve was spent in lively conversation, singing carols, and exchanging a few gifts. Once the dinner had time to settle, Christmas cake and warm mulled wine punch were brought in from the kitchen to cap off the pleasant evening.

  After the early morning church services and celebrations of song, Christmas day for most households in Wales was a family affair. It was a quiet day to enjoy the giving of simple gifts along with good food, warm fires, hot tea, here and there a toddy, and usually an afternoon nap to make up for the sleep lost to the early morning. By the end of the day, no one was actually hungry for an evening meal, though most went through the ritual of nibbling at the platters of ham or roast turkey or pheasant, with perhaps a fresh mince pie or plum pudding added to what was left of the fruit cake from the day before.

  A thoughtful mood settled over the manor as its inhabitants returned from the village in the cold shortly after daybreak. Most climbed back upstairs to their rooms, some to sleep, some to read, some to ponder what the day represented. Edward’s prayer and words of the night before had given them much to consider. But mostly they were thinking of loved ones—of what was, what had been, and what never would be again. It was after a quiet, and for some a melancholy, morning that brought sad reminders of hidden heartaches to tinge the day’s glories with invisible pain.

  Katherine was full of the remembrance of Christmases past—with a family of four. Now that family had dwindled to three, and for all Courtenay’s grumpiness it might as well be only two.

  As she sat alone in her sitting room, a distant sound caused her heart to leap. She was reminded of the happy shouts of a boy’s excited voice. Memories flooded her mind … of the Christmas morning she and Roderick had taken nine-year-old Courtenay outside and presented him his very own first pony. It was one of the happiest Christmases ever.

  The sound came again. With a wistful sigh, she realized it was only a door closing somewhere. No sounds of children would enliven this day and bring joy to her mother’s heart. Those days were gone. Courtenay was no longer nine. He was an angry young man of twenty-three who cherished no fond or loving thoughts toward her.

  There had been many strains in their family over the years. But they had always enjoyed Christmas as a happy time. Now she was a widow. She was estranged from her s
on. Though surrounded by many who loved her, she could not help feeling isolated … even alone. She knew she should be happy. But she could not help feeling stabs of loneliness.

  Florilyn had been relieved the previous afternoon after unburdening herself to Percy and his father. When she awoke on Christmas morning, however, a wave of melancholy swept into her heart like an incoming tide. Her feelings were more fragile than she realized. Percy’s reaction to their talk, and his demeanor through the rest of the day and evening, had unsettled her.

  What she had expected, she could not have said. Perhaps she was surprised at how quickly he had accepted her decision. Had she wanted him to protest with more vigor? Had she hoped he would try to talk her out of suspending the engagement? Had she wanted Percy to protest and say that he was desperately in love with her and that nothing would dissuade him from marrying her?

  On the other hand, if he had seemed more devastated, she might have steeled herself to be strong and supportive. But now less than a day later, he was behaving as if nothing had happened. For all she had said about God’s will and knowing what they were doing was right, why hadn’t he fought a little harder against it? Didn’t Percy know how hard this was for her? If she didn’t know better, she would think that he was glad to have the engagement called off!

  So sure of herself yesterday, suddenly her emotions were playing tricks on her, turning themselves upside down and inside out with no logic or rhyme or reason. She didn’t know what she thought or what she felt.

  On his part, Percy likewise woke on Christmas morning to an inrush of confusion. He had spent half the night tossing and turning and trying to come to grips with Florilyn’s decision. He had done his best to hide his turmoil by acting normal. He would need to come to terms with the sudden change in his own way. He would go for rides and walks and spend time alone, thinking and praying on his own. In the meantime, having no idea that doing so only made her think he cared less than he did, he determined to put Florilyn at ease by being as cheerful as possible. He would not add to her burden by being downcast himself.

  In her own room in another part of the house, Mrs. Drynwydd prepared for her own private Christmas ritual. Alone and with her door closed, she removed from her bureau a wooden box whose red paint was worn and dulled by the passage of years. She carried it to her rocking chair, sat down, and, with lips already quivering, unlatched and lifted off its top.

  Her eyes began to moisten the moment they fell on the familiar contents—love letters from a time long ago, when she was young and the hopes and dreams of life all lay ahead, the envelopes containing them brittle and yellowed with age; a few trinkets of jewelry, Christmas gifts from her husband; two or three tree ornaments; a pair of baby shoes; and finally a tiny white china doll. She had labored over the dress of yellow and red for months before the Christmas when her daughter was six. Never had a girl loved a doll so much! She carried it with her nearly every moment for the next year and slept with it cuddled beside her under her blankets every night for the rest of her brief life.

  Before her twelfth birthday, her daughter was dead, and her husband with her. Whether Christmas was celebrated in heaven, Elvira Drynwydd didn’t know. But she tried to comfort herself with the thought that at least they were together.

  Laying the doll in her lap, she reached across to the table at her right and picked up a small silver music box. It had also been a gift from her husband. Slowly she wound its key then again set it beside her. Listening to its haunting strains on Christmas morning did not make her happy. Every year the pain of memories brought fresh tears. But she had to remember. Love never forgets.

  With her daughter’s doll pressed to her breast, the wife and mother who now celebrated Christmas alone rocked gently back and forth. Softly she mouthed the words, “Silent night, holy night … all is calm, all is bright,” to the simple melody that for many brought joy but caused her heart to ache more deeply than at any other time of year … and quietly wept.

  All through the great house, others of the extended manor family found themselves similarly reflecting on the hopes and disappointments the season inevitably brings—homesickness not for a place, but for the innocent world of childhood. Family sorrows and broken relationships and bittersweet reminders of lost loved ones, all intruded minor chords into the carols of Bethlehem, reminding one and all that in the midst of its celebration, Christmas brings pangs of regret … and yearnings for what can never be again. The great house was still. No children’s voices, no happy shouts, no scampering footsteps reverberated within its rooms and corridors. Only memories echoing with silent nostalgic dissonance against the empty walls of longing hearts.

  As they gathered in midafternoon for the Christmas meal, Katherine bowed her head and herself led them in prayer. “Father God,” she prayed, “we come to You with hearts full of gratitude for the gift of Your Son and the gift of Yourself You have provided for us. We thank You for this day and for all it represents in our lives. Yet some of us also come to You on this day with heavy hearts for the sorrow of losses of those we love and even with uncertainties for the future. We ask that You will enable us to grow through these heartaches and allow our fears and unknowns and our silent burdens make us into the people You want us to be.” She paused.

  The dining room was silent.

  “Make us into Your people, heavenly Father,” she added softly. “Amen.”

  Beside her, Adela reached over and took her hand. She smiled and mouthed a silent, Thank you. The two women understood one another.

  The loss of a husband or wife is never so difficult as on the special days of the year. Though many avoid speaking of those who are gone, those who loved them hunger to hear their names spoken aloud. Mrs. Llewellyn, too, was also thinking of her departed husband. Even Hollin Radnor and stoic Jeremiah Broakes experienced twinges of melancholy to be reminded again of life’s joys and sorrows and of mothers and fathers now passed from the earth.

  “I’m sorry, Edward,” said Katherine. “I didn’t mean to usurp your role as head of the family, not to mention as a minister. But I felt I needed to pray.”

  “It was a beautiful prayer, Katherine,” said Edward. “It must be hard for you to celebrate Christmas with Roderick gone. And you, Adela—I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten how to pronounce your husband’s name.”

  “Glythvyr,” said Adela with a quiet smile.

  “Ah yes,” nodded Edward. “Well, God bless them both and bless their memories in your hearts.”

  Both housekeeper and cook were also thinking of their husbands but said nothing.

  Katherine had been taught by her parents, and had learned from her own experience, that the best antidote for personal sorrow is service to others. Midway through the meal she explained her scheme for the remainder of the day, and the day that would follow—a day when those of means traditionally boxed up gifts and food to share with those less fortunate. “Tomorrow is Boxing Day,” she began. “I have plans for us all. I want us to visit every home in the village, and the surrounding crofts, with gifts of good cheer. I have been ordering food and drink and gifts from purveyors throughout Wales and northern England. Regular shipments have been arriving at the manor for two months in preparation. I have also been keeping our ladies busy in the kitchen baking Christmas cakes and puddings. They probably thought I was preparing for seven years of famine!” She looked at Mrs. Llewellyn with a smile.

  The housekeeper glanced toward Mrs. Drynwydd, and both ladies nodded their heads and returned her smile.

  “So we will all pitch in this afternoon and tomorrow, preparing the hampers, and then tomorrow deliver them. I want someone from the manor to visit every house and cottage in Llanfryniog with a gift in remembrance of the season. We will take Christmas hampers to those most in need and a bottle of sherry or port to the rest. Hollin knows every man, woman, and child for miles around. He has been helping me with this. In addition, each household will receive ten pounds and a note personally from me.”

  She paused
. A far-off look came into her eye, followed by the rising of a few tears. “I’ve not told any of you this,” she said, “but several months after Roderick’s death, Mr. Murray surprised me by delivering to me a check for £1,000. He said it was from a life insurance policy Roderick had taken out. I had never heard of such a thing. I asked him what life insurance meant. He told me that Roderick had paid to have his life insured, such that if anything happened to him I would receive the amount in question. I still did not entirely understand. Roderick knew that I would not be in need. Yet for whatever reason, he chose to do it. I can only believe that he would be pleased if I were to use it, not for myself, but for our people. Therefore, I determined that I would use this money in some way that would reflect the love he had come to have late in his life for our community.”

  Her voice became husky, and she brushed at her eyes. “Sometimes it is not until a person is gone,” she went on, “that we reflect on who they really were. We come perhaps to know them better in death in some ways even than we did in life. I want to honor the good that was in Roderick by telling the people that the gifts of these ten pound notes are from him, from money he left for me to use for the village he loved.”

  When dinner was completed, the extended family of Westbrooke Manor, the three families of Westbrookes, Drummonds, and Muirs, along with those of the staff who lived at the manor, gathered in Katherine’s sitting room. In the last month it had become a warehouse of goods and wrapping supplies, with boxes of food and cases of sherry and port stacked everywhere. There they began the happy work of assembling and filling some fifty wicker hampers with cured hams, cheeses, crackers, biscuits, Christmas cakes and puddings, and other assorted edible treats to be enjoyed on New Year’s Day, a day of yet greater feasting and celebration, with many of its own unique traditions, even than Christmas itself. After she set the work in motion, Katherine sat down at a writing table on one side of the room and continued the task she had begun some days before of writing out nearly a hundred brief notes of Christmas greeting to be included with each gift along with a ten-pound note.