The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales

by Michael Phillips

  Rhawn Lorimer and I had a nice visit a few days ago, just before Courtenay came home. Her little son is spunky and full of energy. Poor Rhawn, she seems sad. But I think she is growing. She is thinking about God and life and about what kind of person she wants to be. We all have to think about those kinds of things eventually. You helped me think about them, just like Gwyneth helped you do so. Now perhaps it is Rhawn’s turn. It is very humbling to realize that in some small way I am helping her, too. It makes me quiet and happy inside to realize that I am actually helping another person. We talk about many things, and she asks me questions about God and life and why I changed. It is an extraordinary thing to have someone you grew up with ask you those kinds of questions. I would rather you were here to talk to her. But maybe God will be able to help Rhawn find peace regardless. I hope so. I pray for her.

  I pray for you, too, and think of you, as I said, every day. I am lonely for you, but I am not really lonely at all. Steven is a wonderful friend, as is Mother of course, and now Steven’s mother, too. Even Mr. MacDonald is becoming a friend in his own way, though I do not know him. I think he lives in London. Can you imagine what it would be like to meet him! So I am not really lonely, but I do miss you. I so hope that you and your family will be able to come to Wales and spend Christmas with us.

  I know you are busy with your studies. But when you have time, please write me back. I long for any word from you.

  Yours,

  Florilyn

  Percy sat back in his chair and drew in a thoughtful breath, then exhaled slowly. He glanced at his watch. It would be forty minutes before Mrs. Treadway had his supper ready. If he didn’t answer Florilyn’s letter now, the way things usually went, it might be days before he got around to it. He rose with letter in hand, picked up his cup of tea, and walked across the room to his desk.

  5

  Brother and Sister

  Dear Florilyn, Florilyn read.

  I read your recent letter, as always, with great joy in the midst of my busy life here at the university. It is always such a happy event to find an envelope with your hand on it waiting for me after a day of classes and meetings with professors and library research and all the rest with which my life is consumed. I wait until I have a hot cup of tea beside me and can sit down and relax, sharing the peaceful moments with you and imagining that we are enjoying tea together at the end of a long day.

  Hearing you talk about the manor … it sounds like such life is there. How could you possibly be lonely? Now I feel homesick for you all—if one can feel homesick about a place that has never been his home … though Llanfryniog and the manor and all the surrounding region will always feel like home to me!

  After receiving your letter, I decided to find a copy of the book by MacDonald you mentioned. I know my parents have it—they have all his books. But I will buy a copy and read it with you. It will be a way to share together even though so many miles separate us—knowing that we are reading the same book, getting to know the same characters. There are any number of bookshops in Aberdeen, and MacDonald is a great favorite. Everyone at the university is very proud of him, and many professors still remember his student days here.

  My parents and I are talking about our Christmas plans. Weather is always a factor to consider so far north. As long as snowdrifts are not blocking the tracks, I will take the train from Aberdeen to Glasgow. Then my parents and I will travel together by train down to Wales. It will not be like one of my former summer visits—I will only have a week to spend with you. But it will be a joy!

  Florilyn continued to read of Percy’s studies, about his friends and acquaintances and humorous incidents involving one or two of his professors. She relished every word, laughed more than once, and was near tears when she finally set the pages aside, remembering again how Percy could always make her laugh.

  She wiped her eyes, stood, and walked to the window of her room. There she gazed out on the scene spread out before her. The sea in the distance to the west, but partially visible through the trees surrounding most of the house, stretched north and south along Tremadog Bay. Sails of a few fishing boats could be seen off the coast in the direction of the peninsula of Lleyn, faintly visible on the clearest of days stretching far west until it faded from sight.

  Sheep and cattle were plentiful in the surrounding fields and pastures. As the terrain rose inland toward the mountainous slopes of Snowdonia’s peaks, the population of cattle dwindled noticeably, except for here and there a family cow whose provision of milk kept many of the poor crofters alive. Mostly what remained, as grassy pastures and meadows increasingly gave way to the rocks and boulders of the higher elevations, were woolly dots of white. Sheep could survive almost anywhere.

  West of her vantage point, the promontory known as Mochras Head rose above the sea. From it a wide plateau, bordered by the abrupt cliff-edge of the headland, descended to the village and harbor of Llanfryniog, a small but bustling center of activity. Many of the region’s men were employed in the nearby slate mine, while others eked out a meager living from the sea or the land itself.

  A single main street ran through the center of Llanfryniog. From it smaller streets, lanes, walkways, and cottages spread out in both directions in random disorder toward the sea to the west, and inland and up the plateau in the other.

  Several shops along the town’s main street were supplemented by homes whose windows offered an assorted miscellany of goods. Most of their offerings cost no more than a penny or two, certainly not more than a few shillings. There were also a variety of services available from a blacksmith, a cobbler, and a doctor from their homes on the outskirts of the village.

  Llanfryniog boasted three churches, one school, a harbor, and an inn and pub that served the best ale for miles and in front of which a north-south coach stopped daily, connecting the coastal villages of the region with the larger towns of north Wales, where train service might take them throughout all Britain.

  Near the top of the Mochras slope, a private avenue led off the main road east and inland. An imposing iron gate across it, with gatehouse beside, stood fifty yards off the main road. From this impressive entryway, the approach led for half a mile along a winding tree-lined course up a continuing incline to Westbrooke Manor, at the second-floor window of which the late viscount’s daughter, Florilyn Westbrooke, still stood. It was the largest mansion for fifty miles and was situated in the foothills of the Cambrian range, which led further inland to the southern peaks of Snowdonia.

  At length Florilyn drew in a long sigh, melancholy but with a heart of contentment, and left her room. She glanced down the corridor toward what they still called “Percy’s room” with a fond smile then turned in the opposite direction for the main staircase and continued downstairs. The letter from Percy put her in the mood for a ride. The cold front had passed, and glorious golden autumn again reigned in Wales.

  She reached the ground floor and heard voices engaged in heated exchange. One was raised in argument. The answering voice, however, was soft. She turned toward them. She had about lost her patience with Courtenay. She wasn’t about to stand by and let him berate their mother without coming to her defense.

  She walked through the door of the sitting room and saw Courtenay standing with his back turned. He was facing his mother who was seated.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the trusteeship?” he had just said. His tone was demanding. Florilyn could hardly believe the change that had come over him.

  “I tried to, Courtenay,” said Katherine calmly. “You weren’t listening. You interrupted me and stormed off in a huff.”

  “You should have tried harder. You put me in an awkward position with Murray.”

  “What would you have me do, restrain you forcibly as if you were a child?”

  “All this begs the question why you cut off deposits into my bank account,” said Courtenay, ignoring his mother’s question.

  “I did not cut off deposits into your account.”

  “Someon
e did. Nothing has gone into it since Father’s death.”

  “I did not know the status of your account,” said Katherine. “I still know nothing about it. I have done nothing at all about your account. For all I knew, you might have had ten thousand pounds. Your father never shared with me what his accommodations were with you.”

  “He made no arrangement in the trusteeship for my financial well being?”

  “There was no mention of finances whatever. It was simply a matter of legal administration of the affairs of the estate.”

  “Be that as it may, now that you know that I have no money, what do you intend to do about it?”

  “I shall have to think about it,” answered Katherine. “I would be glad to provide you and your sister an allowance for your personal needs. I will be fair.”

  “Like you gave us when we were children?”

  “That is not what I meant. Perhaps you and I could sit down and look at your plans and what you consider a reasonable—”

  “I have no intention of discussing my plans with you,” interrupted Courtenay. “I am telling you that I have financial needs. I have a right to what is mine. I intend to return to the continent.”

  “That is, of course, up to you. But I do not intend to finance with my money travels that have no purpose.”

  “It is my money, not yours.”

  “I was speaking of my own funds,” rejoined Katherine. “The income from estate properties will indeed be yours soon enough. But I will not see you squander it now. It would be a different matter if you were to return to the university—”

  “You actually intend to dictate my future!”

  Katherine let out a lengthy sigh. “I have tried to be patient and understanding, Courtenay,” she said after a moment. “I know this all must be a shock to you. But until you are twenty-five, the estate is mine to manage as I feel is best. I am doing so for you … for your best … maybe to protect you from yourself, from doing something hastily and foolishly.”

  “It is nice to hear what trust you have in me,” said Courtenay in a mocking tone.

  “You are young, that is all. It will take time for you to grow into your role. Believe me, I am doing what I consider best for you and for the estate. I believe you will thank me one day. And during this time when I am in charge, Steven Muir is helping me.”

  “You trust him above me?”

  “I did not say that. It would really make this easier if you did not misinterpret and overreact to my words. You were gone. I heard nothing from you. I had no idea when you would be back or what your plans were. Steven has shown himself to be reliable and trustworthy and capable of handling my business affairs.”

  “What do you mean, handling your business affairs?” asked Courtenay almost mockingly. “I knew he was helping out Radnor as an assistant groom. But how could a groom know anything about business?”

  “He is more than my groom, Courtenay. Tilman Heygate is gone. I am depending on Steven Muir now.” “He’s nothing but a shepherd.”

  “He is more than that, Courtenay. Not that there is anything demeaning about being a shepherd. I believe kings occasionally come from shepherd stock. Steven is more educated and knowledgeable than you realize. He has proved himself capable even beyond what I anticipated. The people love him. That is good for everyone. When your father was gone, and after you left, I had to make a decision. You asked me if I trust him above you—during these past three months, the answer is yes. Where were you if I needed you? You left almost without a word. How was I to know if and when I would see you again? There was much to do in your father’s absence. Therefore, I made the decision not only to keep Steven on at the manor but to hire him as my factor.”

  “Your factor!” exclaimed Courtenay, incredulous at the very idea. “That is the most preposterous thing I have heard in my life. He’s a complete nincompoop!”

  “Nevertheless, I have no intention of changing my mind.”

  “Well, unless you do change your mind, things will not go well with you, Mother, once I am in control—no, and not well for the fool, Stevie Muir, either. Don’t forget, in a year and a half, I will be sitting where you are sitting now. I will be in control, and you will have nothing to say about any of it. My first order of business will be to evict Muir from that cottage of his.”

  “He and his mother are living at the manor now.”

  “Good! That will make them the easier to evict! You will pay for your interference in my affairs, Mother.”

  Courtenay spun around, his face red, and strode toward the door. He saw Florilyn standing just inside it. “And you!” he spat. “You knew all about this and said nothing to me? I thought you were my friend!”

  “I thought so, too, Courtenay,” Florilyn shot back. Her face, too, was red, though from a much different kind of anger. “It has been a great grief to me to see how changed you are. No friend of mine would speak so rudely to my mother,” she added heatedly. “Only a bounder would speak so to his own mother.”

  A suppressed oath escaped Courtenay’s lips of such nature as the mother and sister of a gentleman should never hear. He continued on his way, brushed past Florilyn with a look of contempt and scorn, and left the house with his temper at the boiling point.

  Florilyn walked to her mother, who was by now in tears, and sat down beside her. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said softly.

  Katherine forced a smile as she wiped at her eyes then sighed again. “He is right, you know,” she said. “Courtenay could make our lives miserable. A dowager viscountess and her unmarried daughter do not command a great deal of status in this world. I can hardly imagine how changed everything will be around here when Courtenay, as he so pointedly put it, is in control. If I refuse to give him whatever he wants, he would have no qualms about doubling the rents on everyone for miles. Your father had compassion and cared for the people, though he often did not have money to do everything he might have wished. Beneath his impersonal exterior, he was a good man. I doubt Courtenay will think twice about his tenants.”

  “Don’t forget, Mother,” said Florilyn, “by the time Courtenay accedes to the title, Percy and I will be married. If Courtenay is troublesome, you will come live with us.”

  Katherine smiled.

  “You would have me leave Westbrooke Manor, my dear?”

  “Rather than have Courtenay make your life miserable. You and Percy and I, and all the grandchildren we will give you … we will find a cottage in the hills, and we will raise horses and we will ride and all be happy together. Let Courtenay have his old title and this house. Don’t get me wrong, Mother—I love it here. I would bring Percy here to live if I could. But Courtenay will inherit. There is nothing we can do to change that. So we will make the best of it and all be happy somewhere else.”

  “And what will become of Adela and Steven? Perhaps we should not be too anxious to let their cottage to new tenants. They may need it again.”

  “We shall take two cottages in the hills,” said Florilyn gaily. “We shall build a second one to go with it. Steven shall continue as factor for our small little peasant community in the hills, with the dowager viscountess as our honored mistress.”

  Katherine laughed to hear her daughter talk so. She had a way of making the simplest things sound so wonderful.

  6

  Discussions in London

  Lord Coleraine Litchfield rarely read obituaries in The Times. They were for the elderly, worried that they might find their own names among those who had departed the earth for better places. Death columns did not make up the regular reading program for mining magnates and captains of industry in the prime of their rush to expand their bank accounts and conquer the world for capitalism and commerce.

  He had stumbled on the small notice quite by accident in an announcement concerning a vacancy in the House of Lords owing to the death of Gwynedd viscount Lord Snowdon, whose seat in the Lords would not be filled for eighteen months. Litchfield’s eyes shot open.

  Moments later he wa
s seated in consultation with his private secretary, Palmer Sutcliffe.

  “What we need to find out,” Litchfield said once Sutcliffe had perused the announcement, “is who is now in control of Snowdon’s affairs and his land.”

  “I assume, under the circumstances,” said Sutcliffe thoughtfully, “that there would be a trusteeship in effect. The thing’s probably in the hands of solicitors.”

  “But why this vacancy in the Lords? As I recall, the fellow had a son.”

  “Do you know when the peerage was created?” asked Sutcliffe.

  “No, nothing. It is of ancient date, I believe.”

  “The inheritance stipulations can be unbelievably complex in some instances. Though perhaps this is straightforward enough. It may be no more than a case of the son coming of age.”

  “Find out what you can. This may move our Wales project back to the top of the list.”

  “I will make inquiries immediately—discreetly of course.”

  “What about the old rascal who claimed to know the exact location—that thieving Cardi who said he possessed chunks he had taken out of the ground?”

  “What he showed me was real enough,” nodded Sutcliffe. “Of course he might have taken it from anywhere. The question will be whether he is even still alive and whether we can locate him again. It’s been, what … five years?”

  Litchfield nodded. “I had all but given up on the thing,” he said. “There was no way around Lord Snowdon’s intractability after he called our bluff. I must admit, I underestimated the fellow. He was sharper than I gave him credit for. He would have owned half interest in the project before agreeing to sell. That was more than I was prepared to give. I would far rather simply purchase the land outright. Then one hundred percent of the proceeds would be ours.”