“I didn’t mean to meddle.”
“No, no … of course you didn’t mean to,” said Courtenay sarcastically. “You never mean anything but sweetness and light, do you? But I know your conniving little game. You wormed your way into the manor with my sister and mother years ago. Then somehow you deceived my father into thinking you were his heir. But it won’t work, you little vixen. You are a crafty one, and you’ve got them all blinded to the truth, especially my imbecilic cousin. He is nothing but a fool. The two of you deserve one another. But I know your game, and it won’t work. I will fight you in court. When I become viscount, don’t come to me for any handouts. Enjoy it while you can, because the moment I am able, I will throw you and your father out in the street and never think twice about it, and that idiot Percy with you. Now get out of here, you stuttering little white-haired shrew, before you make me angry!”
Gwyneth’s eyes stung from the bitter rebuke. She turned and ran from the barn.
From one of the library windows, Percy saw the familiar figure running down the drive then onto the plateau and down the incline toward her former home. She was running too fast, he thought. Gwyneth’s was a spirit whose deep currents ran as calm placid waters, not as turbulent rapids. The sight of her flying across the grass seemed wrong.
He turned from the window, set down the book in his hand, and made for the stairway. He had a feeling where he knew he would find her. He did not hurry as he left the house but walked purposefully in the direction he had last seen her.
About twenty minutes later, he approached the still-vacant cottage. Behind it, where the pens and fences and coops and shelters for her animals had once been, he saw Gwyneth seated on the grass with her back to the house. Slowly he walked forward and sat down beside her. She was gently stroking the back of a small rabbit in her lap. She did not turn toward him.
“Bunny White Tail remembers you,” he said.
She nodded.
“I see you coming here nearly every day. Are the animals beginning to return?”
Again Gwyneth nodded but kept her face down. No words were spoken for a minute or two.
“Gwyneth?” said Percy at length. “What is it?”
At last she turned toward him. Her eyes were red. Her face wore the most miserable, forlorn expression he had ever seen. She tried to speak but only succeeded in breaking out in fresh sobs.
“Gwyneth … what happened?” said Percy, stretching his arm around her.
“Oh, Percy … I don’t know what to do!” she wailed, laying her head against his shoulder.
“About what?”
“About Courtenay. I don’t want to have people think I am an important person. I don’t want to inherit all this and have a title. I don’t want it, Percy! Why shouldn’t I let Courtenay have it?”
Percy waited before replying. Gradually Gwyneth’s tears spent themselves. They sat several minutes in silence. In the distance, a doe with two fawns wandered out of a thicket of woods and seemed to think about coming closer. Several other rabbits scampered about the meadow in front of them.
“You know what I would say in answer to your question?” said Percy at length.
“I think so—that it is my duty … that I would probably treat the people more fairly than Courtenay would … that my grandfather—it is still hard to think of him as that … Lord Snowdon, that he would want me to accept my rightful inheritance.” “Why do you feel you should not?”
“I don’t know … I just … it is hard to have people think bad things of me.”
“Who thinks ill of you, Gwyneth?” Again Gwyneth did not answer.
“What happened, Gwyneth? Something happened. What was it?” “Do I have to tell you?”
“I won’t make you, if that is what you mean. But I would like for you to tell me.”
Gwyneth was quiet then drew in a long breath. “Courtenay was rude to me,” she said. “He said cruel things. I don’t know if it is worth it. It seems easier to simply let him have what he wants. People have been cruel to me all my life. But that doesn’t make it easy. It still hurts. It hurts deep, Percy.” Again Gwyneth began to gently weep.
“Gwyneth,” said Percy at length, “it is obvious that Courtenay is selfish and immature, even in what just happened. He is not qualified to be viscount. He would probably double rents just to pay for his silly scheme of racing horses. If he is cruel to you, imagine what he would be like to his tenants. Do you want to be responsible for the cruelty he might inflict on others?”
Gwyneth sighed and slowly shook her head.
“If by some chance Courtenay matures and reforms and somehow is able to conquer his self-centeredness,” Percy went on, “maybe when he is thirty-five or forty or fifty, if you feel he would make a compassionate landlord and viscount and you still do not like being in the position you are in … nothing would stop you from stepping aside at that point. People relinquish titles. You could do so then, and Courtenay would inherit. By then he might be of a character that you could trust to do good for the people.”
“That is wise, Percy,” said Gwyneth after a moment. “That is very wise. I had not thought of that. I don’t have to make a decision right now that will be binding forever. I am still young, too. In my own way I may be just as immature as Courtenay. I need to grow inside, just like he does. After all, I will not even inherit for several years. Everything does not have to be decided immediately.”
They sat and watched the rabbits and deer, though none made closer approach.
“Don’t worry about Courtenay,” said Percy at length. “I will have a talk with him and tell him to stay away from you. If he is rude to you again, he will have to answer to me for it.”
“I would rather you did not talk to him, Percy.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want the two of you arguing over me. This is time for another forgiveness bouquet. Then you and I will think of what Courtenay said to me no more.”
Percy sighed then nodded.
“I would rather march back to the house and take it out of his hide,” he said, then paused and nodded. “But you are right.”
It was silent a moment.
“So will you pick a handful of wildflowers on the way back?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Gwyneth thoughtfully. “That would only make Courtenay laugh at my childishness. I think I must find something that will get the forgiveness deep inside him—some other kind of forgiveness bouquet than wildflowers.”
Percy rose. Gwyneth set Bunny White Tail on the grass, and Percy helped her to her feet. They walked slowly back in the direction of the cottage.
“What does that mean?” said Percy, pointing to the words in Gaelic carved into the stones near the front door.
“MOR BHAIRNE A INBHEAR DÉ” said Gwyneth. “That’s what my father named the house.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s my mother’s name in Gaelic—MORVERN FROM ARKLOW. He never wanted to forget her.”
“Of course. Now I remember—I saw it at your house in Ireland! This was the clue I needed to find you. It was right in front of me all along!”
“If you had known what the Gaelic meant …”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
An Equine Bouquet
Percy and Gwyneth left the cottage, walked toward the coastline, up the edge of the promontory, then turned toward Katherine’s new home and slowly made their way back in the direction of the manor. They had been so preoccupied that they had not noticed the single horse and buggy coming up the main road that had turned into the manor drive some time before. When they arrived back at the manor, they found the rest of the family, along with Hamilton Murray, waiting for them. Courtenay had been apprised of the fact that the family solicitor had come with news of the disposition of the estate. He declined to be present. A written notice of the same news in the form of a letter was, in fact, awaiting him in town at the post.
“I have come,” Murray began when Katherine, Florilyn, Percy, Gwyneth,
Steven, and Codnor were all seated, “with good news to report. Just yesterday I received word from the barrister in London who has been representing your son, Lady Katherine, informing me that all legal objections have been dropped. He had, he said, extensively researched both the Snowdon viscountcy as well as the evidence I had presented him concerning Miss Barrie’s claim. He reached the conclusion that it was no longer in his interest to pursue the contest against her inheritance. He was therefore dropping the suit. He could not predict what would be his client’s response, he said. He was likely perhaps to engage other counsel, though he assured me that no suit, after what his research had made clear, would succeed. After receiving his letter, therefore, I immediately filed the necessary documents concerning title, as well as your continuing trusteeship, Lady Katherine, until such time as Miss Barrie’s formal assumption of her title.”
Murray paused then walked to the couch where Gwyneth sat at Percy’s side. He reached out his hand.
Slowly Gwyneth rose.
“May I be the first to congratulate you, Miss Barrie,” said Murray, “or, I should say, now as the recognized heir apparent to your grandfather’s viscountcy, Mistress of Snowdon.”
The others rose and gathered around her, with many hugs and kisses and warm congratulations. Still ambivilant and uncertain, Gwyneth accepted their attentions with embarrassed gratitude.
As the young people were talking among themselves, Gwyneth’s father sidled up to Katherine. “I think I have nearly begun to understand how all the pieces of this puzzle fit together,” he said in a tone of wry humor. “You will of course continue to be Lady Westbrooke … but I wonder what people will call me. Do you suppose I will have to get used to wearing a top hat?”
Katherine laughed. “Who would make you, Codnor?” she said. “Surely not the future viscountess.”
“I don’t know—custom, convention, tradition. Maybe my Gwyneth will turn hoity-toity and uppity when she inherits.”
“You don’t really believe that …”
“No,” replied Codnor with a light chuckle.
“I cannot imagine a title having less power to go to anyone’s head than Gwyneth’s,” added Katherine.
Already having had a long ride, and the afternoon drawing down upon them, Hamilton Murray willingly accepted Katherine’s offer to spend the night at the manor. A brief conversation between Katherine and Gwyneth, largely bearing on the specifics of Courtenay’s financial difficulties, resulted in a private meeting of some length between Murray and the two women after evening tea during which the disposition of a portion of the gold in the safe was discussed.
The result was, when he returned the next day to Porthmadog, that Hamilton Murray’s briefcase carried one of the long-buried coins to have appraised. Gwyneth was desirous, with Katherine’s blessing, of raising, she said, a sum of approximately £5,500.
Six weeks later, following the completion of the several aspects of her plan, Gwyneth set out alone one morning for a walk in the hills. Gathering this bouquet was something she needed to do alone, that the exercise might accomplish its full work within her. Forgiveness always comes with a price. It is a price whose payment deepens the wells of character within the human soul and draws both payer and payee closer to the heart of God. In the case of the latter, however, those results may not easily nor quickly be seen. As Gwyneth went, therefore, her prayers were full on behalf of Courtenay. It was not easy to find blooms at this time of year as autumn began, but she was determined to find them.
Later that afternoon, after watching for her opportunity, Gwyneth saw Courtenay approaching the stables. She hurried after him then paused at the door. “Courtenay,” she called into the darkness.
A moment later his voice sounded from inside. “What do you want?” he said.
“May I see you for a moment?”
“No. Go away.”
“Please, Courtenay. I know you do not want me going near your horses, but please … just for a moment.”
Gwyneth heard a muttered oath, and then footsteps approached. Slowly Courtenay’s scowling face came into view. “All right, here I am,” he barked. “What do you want? I’m busy.”
“I wanted to give you this,” said Gwyneth. She handed him a small bouquet of wildflowers, tied with a short length of ribbon. She then turned and walked away.
Courtenay started to throw it to the ground, intending to grind the flowers in the dirt with his foot. At the last moment he noticed that among them was tied what appeared to be a tightly rolled slip of paper. Curious, he fumbled with it, letting the flowers drop to the ground as he did. He loosened it from the ribbon then unrolled the paper. He found that he was holding a three-inch by nine-inch parchment, along the top of which was imprinted the single word RECEIPT.
Below Courtenay read the words, “Received of Gwyneth Barrie, on behalf of Courtenay Westbrooke, the sum of £5,379. All indebtedness, including interest, in repayment of earnest money deposit, paid in full.” It was signed, “Lord Coleraine Litchfield.”
Thunderstruck, Courtenay stared at the paper in disbelief. He read over the words a second time then finally looked up.
Gwyneth was just disappearing into the house.
Quickly he stooped down, picked up the flowers she had spent three hours to find, and hurried after her. “Wait … Gwyneth, wait!” he called.
She turned and faced him.
“What is … I mean, is this … what does this mean—how did you …”
“I paid your bill,” said Gwyneth simply.
“So … I don’t understand. Do I now owe you the money?”
“No, Courtenay, you owe me nothing.”
“But it was my debt.”
“I know. But I took your debt on myself so that you would not have to pay it.”
“Why would you do that?” he said, shaking his head in stunned disbelief.
“Because I care about you, Courtenay, and I want the best for you. After all, you are my half brother or my uncle or something—I still am a little confused about all that. I think you are my uncle. But most of all, you are a person God made and that makes you wonderful and special. I think I will even learn to love you in time. For now I wanted to do something for you to show you that I bear you no ill will despite that you are sometimes cruel to me. But I do not think you will be rude to me after this, because you will know that you are forgiven.”
Speechless, Courtenay stared at her for another moment then turned, still holding both receipt and forgiveness bouquet, and walked slowly back in the direction of the stables.
SEVENTY-NINE
The Offer
Courtenay excitedly read for the third time the letter that had come that morning. He could hardly believe the words on the page in front of him.
Dear Mr. Westbrooke, he read.
A late scratch by one of the primary contenders in next month’s Chester Open has left the field one entrant short. Because of the strong showing by your three-year-old Viscount’s Pride in the Wales Handicap two months ago, the organizers would like to offer you this final slot in our field. Please reply as soon as possible. This year’s entry fee is £225.
I am,
Sincerely yours,
Garfield Smythe,
Chairman of the Organizing Committee,
The Chester Open
Courtenay set the letter down, his mind racing. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for! But he had spent his account completely dry engaging that imbecile of a barrister in London who now said there was nothing more he could do. Where could he lay his hands on £225?
For the rest of the day, Courtenay hung about more than was generally his custom. Early in the afternoon, Percy, Steven, and Codnor rode into the hills to check on the new flock of sheep they had taken to one of the high meadows a month earlier. He happened to know that Florilyn was in town visiting Rhawn Lorimer. He also knew that Gwyneth never remained cooped up inside on a nice day for long.
He busied himself in and about the stables, checkin
g on his horses, dreaming and scheming what he dared hope might be a chance to compete in a major race. After about twenty minutes, he saw Gwyneth walking from the kitchen garden behind the house. Though shorter than any of the young people of the manor, the grace and dignity of her bearing made her appear taller than she actually was. Even wearing a worker’s frock and with her hands soiled with dirt, one look was enough to command an observer’s attention. Her entire countenance said that here was a young woman somehow set apart from her peers. As yet, however, because they were focused on himself, Courtenay’s eyes were unseeing of all this. He came out from the shadow of the barn and, with pretended nonchalance, intercepted her.
“Hello, Courtenay,” said Gwyneth sweetly.
“What are you doing today?” he asked.
“I was helping Mrs. Drynwydd pick the beans for tonight’s dinner.”
“If you are going to be viscountess one day, don’t you think you should let the servants do that kind of work?”
“I will never want anyone waiting on me. Why should someone else do for me what I can do well enough for myself. Besides, I like to work.”
An awkward silence followed.
“I say, uh … Gwyneth,” began Courtenay, “you know my, uh—the racehorses that you, well … that you helped me keep?”
“Of course, Courtenay.”
“I have a chance … that is, I’ve been invited to enter a big race next month.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Courtenay. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “It wouldn’t have been possible if you hadn’t … you know, done what you did.”
Gwyneth smiled.
“Are you, uh … interested in horses?”
“I thought you knew that. I love all kinds of animals, especially horses.”
“Do you think I should enter the race?”
“Oh yes—it sounds like just what you have wanted.”
Treasure of the Celtic Triangle Page 37
