The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales

by Michael Phillips

  “Then it’s the whip and spur he’ll need, Muir, not sugar.”

  “That is not my preferred method.”

  “We shall see about that. In the future, you may address me as my lord, or Mr. Westbrooke. The Lord Snowdon will have to wait a year.” “Yes, sir … my lord,” nodded Steven. “Where is Radnor?” asked Courtenay. “I could not say, my lord.”

  “I take it you are still helping him out around the place?” “When I can, yes.”

  “Well then, you can help out now by saddling the black stallion for me. I take it he is being kept in the new stables?” “Not exactly, my lord.”

  “Never mind, then. Wherever he is, saddle him. I will be taking him out.”

  “I fear that will not be possible, my lord.” “What the devil are you talking about?” “I assume you were referring to the stallion Demon?” “Of course that’s who I’m talking about! Either tell me where he is or why you refuse to saddle him for me.”

  “Demon is no longer with us, my lord. Your mother instructed me to give him to Padrig Gwlwlwyd … or to get rid—” “You let that fool sell him! Why you?”

  “Lady Snowdon trusted my judgment. She left the matter in my hands.”

  “I can’t imagine what she was thinking!”

  “You will have to take that up with her, my lord.”

  “So you took the horse to Gwlwlwyd?”

  Steven nodded.

  “I hope you got a good price.”

  “Your mother did not want a good price.”

  “That’s absurd. Why not?”

  “She considered the animal dangerous. After what happened to your father, she simply wanted rid of him. She was fearful of endangering a new owner.”

  Courtenay burst out in a derisive laugh. “That’s hardly sound policy in horse selling. ‘Let the buyer beware’ is the foundation of that business.”

  “Your mother did not want the breaking of the sixth commandment on her head.”

  “Good enough policy in the church but heresy in the horse market. A man buys a horse as he takes a wife—for better or worse.”

  “That is not the way a Christian ought to look at it.”

  “And what would be?” asked Courtenay sarcastically.

  “If one knows the dangers of a horse, failing to reveal them to a new owner would also break the ninth commandment. We are told not to bear false witness against our neighbor.”

  A snort sounded from Courtenay’s mouth. “There is one commandment you seem to find especially difficult, Muir, and that is to mind your own business. So what did you do?”

  “Your mother instructed me, if he felt he could reform him, to give Demon to Mr. Gwlwlwyd at no charge.”

  “That is ridiculous! The horse was worth five hundred pounds!”

  “Those were your mother’s instructions.”

  “What did the man say?”

  “He declined to take the animal. He said there was the curse of death on him.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I put him down, my lord.”

  Courtenay stared back as if he had not heard him correctly. “You what?”

  “I put him down,” answered Steven calmly.

  Stunned into speechless fury, Courtenay turned on his heels and stormed angrily back toward the house.

  2

  Mother and Son

  Courtenay found his mother still in the luncheon room with a book. Katherine Westbrooke glanced up. The thundercloud on Courtenay’s brow was impossible to mistake.

  He approached and glowered down at her. “I have just learned from that lout Stevie Muir that you instructed him to put Demon down!” he said angrily.

  “That is true,” replied Katherine calmly. “You had no right.”

  “It seemed the best course of action under the circumstances.” “But you had no right.”

  “Why would I not? I am the one who bought him.”

  “He was my horse!”

  “I believe he was your father’s horse.”

  “Yes, and with Father dead, he was mine. How dare you presume—” “You were gone,” rejoined Katherine in a slightly peremptory tone. “I thought it best,” she repeated. “On what basis, if I may ask?”

  “The beast was a murderer. He had already taken one life. I had no intention of his endangering another.”

  “That is ridiculous. He was only dangerous to one who did not know how to handle him. I had plans for that animal. I will never forgive you for interfering in my plans.”

  The words hit Katherine as if they had been shot from a gun. She tried not to allow the pain to show. She knew what he perceived as her emotional weakness would only anger her son the more. “I am sorry, Courtenay,” she said softly. “As I said, I thought it best. Perhaps I was wrong. Your father’s death weighed heavily upon me. But while you were away, I bought another stallion, an Anglo-Arabian. I thought you might like—”

  “Yes, I saw it,” snapped Courtenay. “He’s nothing like what I had with Demon, what I would have been able to do with him! And what is that simpleton Muir still doing around here? He says he is training the thing. He knows nothing about horses.”

  “Actually, he knows horses very well. He has a compelling way with them.”

  “I want to know what he is doing here.” “I decided to keep him. He is a big help.”

  “He is an idiot. I don’t like him. I want him gone before the day is out.”

  Katherine drew in a deep breath, struggling between tears and rising indignation of her own. “And if I choose to keep him?” she said. Her tone contained a slight edge such as Courtenay had never heard from her before. It was the hint of a challenge.

  “Then he will be working for you not me,” he replied curtly. “Just tell him to keep out of my way. Make sure he knows that his duties here will not last one minute past the day I am in charge. I can’t stand the sight of the ridiculous fellow. What is that solicitor’s name … Father’s man in Porthmadog?”

  “Mr. Murray … Hamilton Murray,” replied Katherine.

  Courtenay turned to leave the room.

  “Where are you going?” asked his mother behind him.

  “To see Murray and get some money in the bank and get the problem with my account sorted out.”

  “Courtenay,” said Katherine after him as he again moved toward the door, “before you see him, you ought to know—”

  “All I need to know is where to find him. What’s done with Demon is done. Now that I am here and prepared to take up my position, Mother, I will thank you not to interfere further in my affairs. I would not want things to become unpleasant for you. I will not be home for dinner.”

  3

  Rude Awakening

  During the long afternoon ride up the coast and around the Traeth Bach inlet, Courtenay’s mood alternated between anger and a growing disquiet. His mother was different. It had unnerved him. She was more self-assured, confident, her manner calm but uncomfortably firm. She seemed altogether unruffled by what he said. He wasn’t sure he liked the change.

  All along he had assumed, though the estate was in legal limbo until he came of age, that he was de facto in charge. He tried to convince himself that all it would take was a visit to his father’s solicitor to straighten out the confusion. He certainly had no intention of letting his mother throw her weight around.

  Though concerned, Courtenay was still not yet cognizant of the painful reality of his position. As an indulgent father, the viscount had given him whatever he wanted and kept him well supplied with cash. Courtenay had not anticipated the least straitening of his financial security after his father’s death. If anything, he assumed, notwithstanding the twenty-fifth birthday stipulation of the inheritance, that financially he would have the full benefit of his father’s resources immediately at his command. Though confident the matter would quickly be resolved, an undefined angst whispered in his ear that his mother was up to something that did not bode well. In actual fact, he was about to reap the fruit of his father
’s financial status more speedily than he might have wished. He had no idea that without his wife’s generosity, his father would have been what nearly amounted to a landed and titled pauper.

  Three hours after setting out, the Gelderlander, his favorite mount before Demon, in a hot lather at the livery, Courtenay Westbrooke sat in a chair opposite the desk of Hamilton Murray in the solicitor’s offices of Murray, Sidcup, and Murray. The jaw of the would-be heir hung open at what he had just heard. “A trusteeship …” he repeated in disbelief. “And it makes no mention whatever of my role as the future viscount?”

  “I am afraid that is the situation as it stands … yes,” replied Murray.

  The office fell quiet as Courtenay sat shaking his head in annoyance. He was doing his best to keep from exploding. But only with difficulty. “At whose behest was this so-called trusteeship drawn up?” Courtenay asked at length.

  “Your father’s, Mr. Westbrooke,” replied Murray. “It was several days before his death. I took it down myself.”

  “Where was I?”

  “I really couldn’t say, Mr. Westbrooke.”

  “My father did not ask for me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And my mother was there?”

  “That is correct.”

  “You are positive there was no coercion?”

  “Of course not. Your father may have been weak, but he had all his mental faculties. This was how he wanted it.”

  “And you, as the family solicitor, did not intercede on my behalf?”

  “That would not have been my place, Mr. Westbrooke. I represented your father, not you.”

  “Well you represent me now. It might have behooved you to think of that sooner. From where I sit, it appears that you have betrayed my interests.”

  “I am sorry you should see it like that.”

  Courtenay thought a moment. “I could contest it in court,” he said at length.

  “You would not prevail,” replied Murray. “I fail to see what advantage you would hope to gain.”

  “To invalidate the trusteeship of my mother over me.”

  “It is not a trusteeship over you, Mr. Westbrooke. It is over the estate. Your father simply felt—”

  “Don’t split hairs with me, Murray,” Courtenay shot back. “This effectively puts me under my mother’s thumb for the next year and a half. I have no intention of allowing such a state of affairs to persist.”

  “Even if the trusteeship were somehow invalidated, you would still not inherit until your twenty-fifth birthday. The terms of inheritance of the viscountcy and estate are clear and irrevocable—the eldest child of the viscount or viscountess, or their issue, regardless of gender, succeeds to the title and inherits the property on his or her twenty-fifth birthday.”

  “Provision would yet be made for my financial needs.”

  “That is true. In that case the court would act as trustee. However, you would not have unfettered access to estate funds. Perhaps there would be a stipend, but other than that—”

  “That would be an improvement upon my current predicament,” rejoined Courtenay testily. “So what recourse do I have? How do I access my own funds?”

  “As I say, Mr. Westbrooke, those funds are not yet yours. At present your mother controls everything. Have you spoken with her about it?”

  A snort sounded from Courtenay’s mouth. “My mother is a woman. Do you really expect her to be reasonable about it? I am sure she is enjoying her little power grab.”

  “I have found Lady Snowdon to be an intelligent and thoughtful woman.”

  “Yes, well you are entitled to your opinion. But unless you can come up with some way around it, once I do become viscount, I will be engaging a new solicitor to handle my affairs. I doubt the Westbrooke retainer is one you would be eager to lose, Mr. Murray, so I suggest you think of something.”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Westbrooke, but legally my hands are tied. I must abide by the terms of the trusteeship. At this point, I represent your mother.”

  Courtenay’s long ride back to Llanfryniog was filled with smoldering anger and venomous thoughts.

  The stark reality began to dawn on him that he was dependent upon his mother for everything. The same eye-opening reality had long been a thorn in the side of the marriage between Roderick and Katherine Westbrooke. The late viscount had been a man of dreams and schemes. But his wife, who with her brother Edward Drummond of Glasgow had inherited half a small fortune from Courtenay’s grandfather, was of a more prudent temperament. With what little cash remained to accompany the title and property beyond what meager rents the homes and cottages of the nearby village of Llanfryniog provided, the viscount found himself in the humiliating position of having to rely on his wife for anything that might be considered of a speculative nature.

  Now the viscount’s son, still some months away from his twenty-fourth birthday, realized that he had no job, no prospects, no money. Having failed to complete his studies at Oxford, he found himself at loose ends. What was he to do until he was twenty-five?

  It was a good thing Courtenay saw no one, and that the manor had mostly retired for the night before he left Mistress Chattan’s pub, where he had moodily partaken of what passed for a supper and far more ale than was good for him.

  The only conclusion the stringy beef, hard potatoes, and brussels sprouts that resembled rocks had left him with was that he had no intention of going cap in hand to his mother to beg for money. What a humiliating prospect!

  4

  Letter to Aberdeen

  In the two rooms he occupied on the top floor of the Aberdeen boarding house, Percival Drummond, in his fourth year at the university in the great northern city of Scotland, eased into the comfortable overstuffed chair in his room with a cup of tea. His day’s studies were done. In his hand he held a sealed letter that had been waiting for him when he arrived home.

  He took a satisfying swallow, then set the cup down on the table beside him, slit open the envelope, and removed two blue handwritten sheets from inside it.

  Dear Percy, he read in the familiar feminine hand.

  At last it has happened. Mother and I were surprised two days ago when Courtenay appeared without warning. He has hardly said a word to either of us since returning home. We don’t know where he has been. I thought he was distant and aloof before. But, goodness! It is terrible now. I can’t imagine that he and I used to be close. But like you and I have talked about so many times, we have all changed since your first summer with us in Wales five years ago.

  What I cannot understand about Courtenay is why he is so irritable. He’s twenty-three. Shouldn’t he be acting more like a man? He seems angry at the whole world. Whatever he had hoped to accomplish during his three months away after Daddy’s death, it certainly has not improved his disposition.

  But on to more cheerful topics! I’m sorry for beginning this letter with my dreary news!

  I hope all is well and that your studies are not too demanding. I think of you constantly and cannot wait until we see one another again. But I know it is wise for you to graduate before we think of the future. Only I miss you so dreadfully!

  Percy set the letter aside a moment with a smile. He missed her, too. He could almost hear her voice as if she were speaking rather than writing to him. He picked up his cup of tea with his free hand and resumed.

  I told you, I think, about the gorgeous new horse Mother bought, an Anglo-Arabian stallion we have named Snowdonia. He is the most exquisite blend of white and gray. The instant we saw him, mother and I immediately thought of the snow on the gray mountains of Gwynedd. He almost seemed to name himself. Steven has been training him and thinks he will soon be comfortable with a saddle. He hopes to ride him in another few weeks. Steven has a way with horses that reminds me of Gwyneth. Maybe it runs in families! There is still no word of her. Her disappearance remains a mystery.

  Steven is such a dear. He is the most gracious and considerate young man I have ever met—except for you, of course
! He is so nice to everyone, and everyone loves him—other than Courtenay. Mother has not once regretted her decision to make him factor when Mr. Heygate left. Everything is running as smoothly as before, even with Daddy and Mr. Heygate gone. I can tell that Mother misses Daddy terribly. She doesn’t talk about it, but I can tell. I miss him, too. Daddy was gruff and distant sometimes. But he loved us and we knew it.

  Speaking of Steven—I can’t think of him as Stevie anymore. Mother calls him Steven, and now that he walks about so confidently and in charge of the estate for Mother, he seems so different. Mother and Mrs. Muir have become such good friends, especially with them both losing their husbands. And with Steven now living and working at the manor, Mother asked Mrs. Muir if she would like to work for her, too, as sort of a second housekeeper. Mrs. Llewellyn is not a young woman, and she had confessed to my mother that going up and down the stairs was becoming more difficult for her. She is relieved and happy to have Mrs. Muir’s help. So now both Steven and Mrs. Muir are living at the manor and working for us. Steven is selling his flock and all their animals, though it’s been difficult for him to arrange everything. Some of them he is giving to the poor families of the region. Mother says she will make up any losses. I don’t know what is going to happen to their cottage in the hills. But his mother seems very happy here.

  I have been trying to follow in your father’s and mother’s footsteps, and my mother’s, too, and read some of Mr. MacDonald’s books. I have to admit, they are very long and sometimes difficult. The Scottish dialect is hard to understand. Maybe not for you because you are Scottish. I could read them more easily if someone translated the Scots for me. But I am going slow and trying to absorb what I read. I am reading one of his novels called David Elginbrod, which Mother says is his first realistic novel. She says before that he wrote poetry and fantasies and short stories. It is a story about three young people called Hugh and Margaret and Euphra. (What a funny name!) I am not too far into it yet.