Treasure of the Celtic Triangle

by Michael Phillips

  “Is that possible?” he rejoined laughing. “I think I shall be anxious to get back to Wales.”

  They shook hands then Steven hastened back to the kitchen.

  Florilyn watched him go with a curious expression.

  Later that afternoon, as she wandered through the stables and outside, she found herself thinking about the young man whom she had always regarded as little more than a shepherd but in whom her mother had placed so much trust. More and more he carried himself as a young man of breeding, even education, as did Steven’s mother Adela. Besides being thoughtful and considerate, Steven was well spoken and genteel. She wondered if there had been more education in his background than she was aware of.

  She and her mother were alone at lunch several hours later.

  “Do you and Adela Muir still talk about MacDonald?” Florilyn asked. “Does she still read his books?”

  “As avidly as ever,” answered Katherine with a light laugh. “Whenever I get a new one, she usually finishes it before I do.”

  “You let her read them first?”

  “She is a much faster reader than I. Even with her work, she breezes through them in three or four days. It only makes sense for her to read them first rather than having to wait several weeks for me to finish what is often a five-hundred-page book.”

  “Then you discuss them?”

  Katherine nodded. “Usually she sees more in the characters and in the spiritual truths MacDonald has woven into their life stories than I do. She is a very perceptive reader.”

  “That seems unusual for a domestic.”

  “Adela was never a domestic until she came here. She is more educated than most people realize.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Her father was a schoolteacher on the peninsula. She grew up in an environment of learning and education, with books everywhere she says.”

  “I had no idea. Did you know that when you hired her?”

  “Not exactly, though I had an idea there must have been something in her background to account for her love of books and her fluency with the world of ideas after she began to work here. Finally I asked her about it, and she told me the whole story.”

  “Which is…?”

  “Just what I told you, that she is the daughter of a teacher who was the son of a curate. They were relatively poor, and she was the youngest of five. She had no opportunity to further her education beyond what her father and mother gave her. Her brother, Gwyneth’s father, came to Llanfryniog to work in the slates at a young age, staying with their great-aunt, Mrs. Myfanawy, who was a native of Llanfryniog.” “That’s Grannie?” said Florilyn.

  Katherine nodded. “After the parents died,” she went on, “Adela had no place to go. She followed Codnor here and also stayed with Mrs. Myfanawy awhile until she fell in love with Glythvyr Muir and became a shepherd’s wife. But their father and grandfather—the teacher and the curate—were gentlemen and well educated.”

  “That would account for Steven, too.”

  “Account for him…? What do you mean?”

  “He seems so much more than just a shepherd boy, as if he had more education and gentlemanly training than he would have received at the village school.”

  “Adela tried to do as much for his education as she could. She says he was always a great reader and devoured whatever books they could get their hands on. I must say, I have never regretted making him factor. He has as much business sense and skill in managing things as Tilman Heygate ever had.”

  “And now he’s off to London on your business. I saw him all dressed up before he left. He looked like a dandy!”

  “That was a shock, I have to admit!” laughed Katherine.

  It grew silent for a few moments as mother and daughter each finished her soup.

  “Will the new house be finished when Courtenay turns twenty-five?” asked Florilyn at length.

  “There is little chance of that, I’m afraid,” replied Katherine. “The work will slow considerably once winter sets in.”

  “What will we do? Do you really think he will kick us out of the manor?”

  Katherine sighed. “I have long since stopped trying to predict what your brother will do. I doubt he will be quite so brazen as that. But he has made abundantly clear that I will not be welcome here. Until the new house is completed, I have assumed that we will go to Edward and Mary’s in Glasgow. They would make us more than welcome. I am going down to the site this afternoon. There are two or three points Steven wanted me to look at. Care to join me?”

  “I would like that.”

  Later that evening, alone in her room, the conversation with her mother and visit to Mochras Head and the construction site of the new house left Florilyn in an agitated state about the future. Months before, she would have written to Percy and poured out her heart and frustrations and uncertainties. As she sat down at her writing desk to attempt to do so now, however, she suddenly realized that she didn’t even know where he was.

  Almost the same moment, the image of Steven, handsome in his suit and with the top hat in his hand, rose into her mind. With the image came a smile, and she found herself wishing that, in Percy’s absence, Steven were here and that she could talk to him. Whenever they chanced to talk, whether about the weather or horses or sometimes when Florilyn had mentioned something she had read, his responses always surprised her. They were calm, deliberate, well thought out. It seemed that whatever she found herself thinking about, Steven had thought about it already himself. Now that she had learned that he was not merely a talented peasant-shepherd but was of educated, even gentlemanly lineage, she would value his responses even more.

  FORTY-ONE

  Laragh

  Midway through his second day on the ancient Emerald Isle, Percy rode into the village of Laragh in the single-horse buggy he had rented in Wicklow. He had no idea what he would do here. But Laragh was his only lead. The addresses on the letters confirmed this as the home of his uncle’s first wife.

  What he hoped to find so many years later, Percy had no idea. If his uncle had not been able to find his daughter after an absence of only eight years, what could he hope to do after thirty? But perhaps the O’Sullivans had returned. He would try to find the addresses, perhaps inquire at the post for the people his uncle had written to. He would see what he could learn about the names on the envelopes. Surely there was someone here who knew them.

  He found the town’s only inn. After seeing to his horse’s lodgings, he was soon comfortably laying out his few things in what would be his own accommodation until his next steps were shown him. Again his grandfather’s words returned to him. “Listen to the heavenly nudges. As they grow within you, move one step at a time into the light of their leading.”

  Percy sat down at the small writing table in the room, took out his uncle’s letters from his satchel, and set them before him. Now that he was here, he needed to read them again, slowly, quietly. He had to see what missing pieces they could provide of his uncle’s story. He withdrew the first and unfolded the yellowed sheet.

  April 17, 1842

  Pine Cottage

  Laragh, County Wicklow

  Dear Mrs. O’Sullivan,

  I must first offer my profoundest apologies for being out of contact with you for so long. I have been attempting to set things in order in my life that will make it possible for me to be a responsible father and give young Morvern the life she deserves. She would be eight now, and my negligence in waiting so long to see her again weighs heavily upon my conscience. However, at last it is my hope to change that. I have not remarried, and the memory of dear Avonmara remains precious in my heart. My father died two years ago, and I have now come into his title in my own right. I did not fully divulge my position before. I wanted Avonmara to know me and love me as I was, not for any future title that might come to me. I am, however, now a viscount. I am not a wealthy man, but I can assure you that Morvern will have all the advantages of her position that I am able to give her.
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  I hope you and she and all your family are well. After hearing from you, I will make plans to come to Ireland personally so that Morvern might begin her life with me as her father.

  I am,

  Sincerely yours,

  Your son-in-law,

  Roderick Westbrooke, Viscount Lord Snowdon

  Llanfryniog, Gwynedd, Wales

  Percy refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope then withdrew the next.

  May 10, 1842

  Pine Cottage

  Laragh, County Wicklow

  Dear Mrs. O’Sullivan,

  I write again in hopes that my letter of last month, which came back to me unopened, was perhaps waylaid in the post and returned by mistake. I pray this letter will reach you. In it I expressed my sincere apologies for being out of contact with you so many years. In attempting to set things in order in my life, I believe that it is now possible for me to be a responsible father and give my daughter the life she deserves. My tardiness in being so long to contact you weighs heavily upon my conscience. However, my father died two years ago, and I have now come into a viscountcy in my own right. I am not wealthy, but I can assure you that I can give Morvern all the advantages of her position as the daughter of a viscount.

  I pray you and she and your family are well. I would like to make plans to come to Ireland personally as soon as possible so that Morvern might begin her new life with me.

  I am,

  Sincerely yours,

  Your son-in-law,

  Roderick Westbrooke, Viscount Lord Snowdon

  Llanfryniog, Gwynedd, Wales

  Next he read the third, which followed yet a month later.

  June 15, 1842

  Pine Cottage

  Laragh, County Wicklow

  Dear Mrs. O’Sullivan,

  This is my third attempt to establish contact with you. My previous two letters have been returned unopened. If you by any chance receive this, please forgive me for neglecting my duty for so long. It would be perfectly understandable if you never wanted to see me again; however, I hope you will find it in your heart to allow me to make up for the past by providing Morvern a future with the opportunities I can provide her as the daughter of a viscount.

  I hope you and Morvern are well. Please reply. I am longing to see my daughter again.

  I am, yet again,

  Sincerely yours,

  Your son-in-law,

  Roderick Westbrooke, Viscount Lord Snowdon

  Llanfryniog, Gwynedd, Wales

  Finally Percy’s uncle had written to his wife’s sister.

  July 21, 1842

  Vanora Maloney

  Dell Bank

  Laragh, County Wicklow

  Dear Vanora,

  I have written to your mother three times, attempting to establish contact again with you all, and especially with Morvern. I realize it has been a long time, and my silence is inexcusable. I can only beg the forgiveness of you all and say that I am at last in a position to give my daughter every advantage I can afford her. I would very much appreciate your speaking to your mother on my behalf and assuring her of my good intentions. My letters are returned labeled “Moved Without Forward.” If your mother and Morvern have indeed moved, perhaps you could put me in touch with them. I would like to come to Ireland as soon as possible so that

  Morvern might begin her life with me as her father.

  I hope you and Daibheid and your family are well.

  I am,

  Sincerely yours,

  Your brother-in-law,

  Roderick Westbrooke, Viscount Lord Snowdon

  Llanfryniog, Gwynedd, Wales

  Then had followed another half dozen letters to both Pine Cottage and Dell Bank in the same vein throughout the fall of 1842, after which, Percy assumed, had come his uncle’s ill-fated return to Ireland.

  FORTY-TWO

  Market Day

  Market day in Llanfryniog in the year 1873 had been planned a week earlier than usual. Thus it was that on the Saturday of the last week of June, wagons and carts and carriages began to roll into the small coastal village of North Wales while the morning was early and a chill still hung in the air.

  By midmorning, dozens of tables and booths and stands were spread out between the Methodist chapel and the village, displaying a great variety of homegrown and homemade wares. Of the former, because they were in season, strawberries and new potatoes were among the most prominent. They were supplemented by turnips, carrots, floral bouquets, bottles of elderberry and hedgerow wines, cheeses and jams, as well as small trinkets and sweeties for the children. Handcrafts made through the winter and spring months by the women of Llanfryniog rounded out the inventory of stock in trade. And of course all the fisher wives arrived with baskets full of the previous day’s or night’s catch.

  Indeed, describing their goods as for trade was not far from the truth. As hard as they worked to prepare for it, few actually expected to go home that evening with more money in their pockets than they came with. Everyone saved up their pennies and shillings for market day. But though the collection did not amount to much, spending was as greatly anticipated as selling. Money circulated between the villagers, but there was little accumulation. This was a day not for profit but for fun. What one received from selling goods was happily spent or traded at a neighbor’s table. All the women knitted wool caps and socks and sweaters and scarves, and everyone grew potatoes and made cheese. They did not need to buy from one another—it was simply the accepted means of lubricating commerce in a small farming and fishing community. Where cash was in short supply, barter was as common as coin. It was not the economic profitability of the exercise that everyone looked forward to but the social tradition in the life of the community. If visitors from inland or along the coast north and south added to the general flow of commerce with an influx of cash, perhaps all would go home feeling that the day had been well spent.

  By noon the town was full with bustle and activity. Singing could be heard and would continue all afternoon. All three churches boasted choirs that practiced months for this day. The children from the school came together to alternate their own choral numbers with the adult choirs from the three churches. Fiddlers and accordionists and dancers filled in at every opportunity. There was not a minute throughout the day when some music was not drifting through the air over the numerous activities. Aromas from fires and kettles tempted the hungry to part with a few coins for their lunch. A variety of games and amusements kept children scurrying about excitedly from one to another to another.

  Nor would any market day be complete without a suitable offering of animal flesh for sale or trade. At one end of the field was tied an assortment of pigs, sheep, horses, and several bulls to see what offers might be made. By noon, Chandos and Kyvwlch Gwarthegydd, Padrig Gwlwlwyd, Holin Radnor from the manor, and a handful of men were clustered about examining teeth and legs, hooves and flanks, and talking of all things equine, bovine, and porcine.

  It was not the sort of gathering that Colville Burrenchobay would normally have given a tuppence for now that he was a sophisticated young man of twenty-four. But his sixteen-year-old brother Ainsworth had arrived at that age where young ladies and mischief in general exercised great fascination. When their sister Davina and her fiancé, William Rasmussen, son of Baronet Rasmussen of Blaenau Ffestiniog, decided to join him, Colville was hardly inclined to stay home alone.

  The brothers Burrenchobay led the way into Llanfryniog about one o’clock. Colville was not expecting much from the afternoon. Ainsworth, however, recently returned from a first year at Cambridge as undistinguished as that of his brother several years before, was hungry for amusement and sport. He was also eager to survey what pretty new faces the new summer might have turned up. Behind them, though she was engaged to the handsome young man at her side, Davina glanced about with as lively an eye as her younger brother. She was still a month shy of her nineteenth birthday and not quite yet cured of the flirtatious demon that had so successf
ully enchanted young Rasmussen.

  Heads turned as the young people rode slowly up the road on their horses from the harbor to the chapel then made their way toward the town and site of the day’s festivities. The three Burrenchobays were used to commanding attention wherever they went. Their father being the parliamentary representative for coastal Gwynedd was enough in itself to draw looks from men and women alike. They were not aristocrats by birth, though their father had been knighted and was now known as Sir Armond. With Lord Snowdon dead and Courtenay, his presumptive heir, out of the country, the MP’s two sons and daughter were as close to aristocracy as anyone living along the coast was likely to claim on this day. That rumors had followed the two Burrenchobay sons for years added curiosity and a hint of terrified excitement on the part of the young ladies whenever the two were present. Colville’s amorous escapades had been a subject of local gossip for years. Ainsworth was anxious to follow in his brother’s tradition. Both were known to be good with their fists and even better with their guns. They were handsome, hot tempered, and enjoyed being in the limelight—an irresistible, if dangerous, combination.

  As for young Willy Rasmussen, some might have questioned whether a mere baronet’s son from the inland regions of Snowdonia would qualify as an aristocrat at all. It was universally accepted that Willy, never known for his intellectual prowess, had made the best of the match. The moment Davina’s engagement was announced, there had been great disappointment in Llanfryniog. Though Davina was five years younger than Courtenay Westbrooke, many had hoped to see the important families of the region joined by two marriages. Colville’s with Florilyn had been accepted for years as a fait accompli. Now, with Lady Florilyn involved with her Scots cousin—though no one quite knew where the thing stood—neither of the Westbrooke-Burrenchobay marriages seemed likely to materialize.

  By the time the foursome split apart, the sheep-shearing contest was about ready to get under way. Ainsworth quickly disappeared with three or four girls in tow hanging on his every exaggerated tale of life at the great English university. Willy Rasmussen followed Davina about like a well-trained puppy as she visited with the village girls too old to wilt from Ainsworth’s smiles. The envious glances went curiously in both directions. With the foolishness of youth that judged by looks rather than character, every girl in the place hoped someday to be so lucky as Davina in landing a squire as handsome as young Willy Rasmussen. On her part, however, pangs of envy also stole unbidden into Davina’s heart to realize that for her the game of fascination and conquest was done. In her quieter moments, she wondered if she had perhaps acted too hastily in accepting Willy’s proposal. The result was an occasional wistful glance about the crowd to see what young men were in attendance. If Willy noticed her roving eyes, he remained oblivious to its cause.