The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales

by Michael Phillips

  “You were the best father a girl ever had, Papa,” said Gwyneth, rising and going to him. She knelt beside him and took his hands in hers.

  He gazed down upon her, his eyes full of tears. “That’s all I knew of it, lassie,” said Barrie after a moment. “I tried to be a faithful man, and I sent what money I could to Mrs. O’Sullivan, who was your great-grandmother, until I was sent word that she had died. But I never heard anything from her or the rest of the family after that. You grew up into a fine girl. The other children were cruel to you, but you made the best of it, with Grannie’s help. I doubt it’s done you any harm. For the sticks and stones of hurtful words injure us no more than we let them. And like Grannie always told you, they make us into better people if we use them to learn to forgive.”

  “They did not hurt me, Papa.”

  “Then came a day,” Barrie continued, “when I received a surprise visitor at the cottage. It was the viscount, Lord Snowdon himself. He asked if he could speak with me privately.”

  “I think I remember it,” said Gwyneth. “I was with my animals behind the cottage. I thought he had come for his rent.”

  “The rent was the last thing on his mind that day,” her father went on. “I invited him inside, and we had a long talk. He was curious, he said, about my past. I didn’t know why. He asked if I had ever been in Ireland. I told him about my time there, that I had gone looking for work and had married there. He asked about you, Gwyneth. I told him you were born in Ireland. He asked my wife’s name. I replied that it was Morvern O’Sullivan. He seemed taken aback but then asked me where she was now. I told him she was dead. He was silent for a time, then rose, thanked me, and left.

  “I thought the thing strange but could make nothing of it. Then came another visit, three or four years later. Gwyneth, by then you were growing into a beautiful young woman and you were working at the manor for his wife and daughter. That’s when the viscount came to me again when you were away from the cottage. He was more serious now. He spoke to me like we were old friends. He told me he had been thinking much about our earlier conversation. He now had something to confide in me that I must never tell another soul. I replied that I would agree so long as my conscience allowed. He nodded and added that he did not think what he had to say would place a constraint on my conscience. Then he proceeded to tell me about his own past, how he, too, like me, had gone to Ireland as a young man and had fallen in love with a red-haired Irish beauty. Her name was Avonmara O’Sullivan.”

  Now for the first time, both Gwyneth and Grannie recognized the name O’Sullivan. Their eyes widened as Barrie continued.

  He saw their reaction and smiled. “I see that you remember the name,” he said, nodding. “I was shocked as well. In what seems a remarkable coincidence, the child that was born to the viscount and Avonmara O’Sullivan was a girl called Morvern. She was, in fact, the very same Morvern O’Sullivan I had fallen in love with and married … my own wife … and your mother, Gwyneth.”

  The room was silent as Gwyneth sat absorbing the stunning fact.

  “You cannot be saying … but does that mean,” she said slowly, “that Avonmara O’Sullivan was my grandmother …” She paused, hardly able to bring herself to complete the thought. Unable to believe she was saying the words, she slowly added, “And Lord Snowdon was my grandfather?”

  “That is exactly what it means, my child,” said Barrie tenderly.

  Again the room was silent as Gwyneth struggled to take in what he had just said. “I always thought he looked at me strangely,” she said after a moment. “There were times I saw him in the village, and he simply stared at me.”

  “It was one of those occasions,” rejoined her father, “that prompted his first visit to me. He suddenly recognized in your face the very face of his young love. It was after that he came to talk to me. As you grew older, and after you were at the manor and he saw more of you, the conviction grew on him all the more that her eyes, the eyes of Avonmara O’Sullivan, had been passed on to you.”

  “What happened to her?” asked Gwyneth seriously.

  “She died when your mother was born. After her death, the viscount returned to Wales. He planned to come back for his daughter. But by the time he returned, she was gone from the village where her family had lived, and he never saw his daughter again. He was devastated over the guilt he felt at having waited too long. And then, when you were older, as I say, he came to me again. He had reason to believe, he said, that you were his granddaughter. That had been the reason for his curiosity about my past. Now he realized that he wanted to do something for you. But he could not openly acknowledge that he had had a child before meeting his wife, Lady Snowdon. He did not want to hurt her or jeopardize her standing in the community. He saw no need for his past to come out. If he was to do something for you, provide for you, in acknowledgment of his love for your grandmother and mother, he must do so in secret. He was not a wealthy man, he said, but he would give us what money he could. Only I must agree to leave Llanfryniog in secret, telling not a soul the reason or where we were going. He did not even want to know himself, he said. We must simply disappear. If I would agree, then he would provide the means for us to have a good life.”

  He paused briefly. “Some might say that he was trying to cover up a youthful indiscretion. There would even be some who would say that he was trying to blackmail me into silence about something he had kept hushed up for over thirty years. But I honestly felt the man to be sincere. He had no reason to confess all this to me otherwise. His heart was genuine. He wanted to do good for you.”

  He drew in a breath. “For better or worse,” he sighed, “I agreed. I knew that he was offering what I could never give you. I knew also that none of us would outlive the occasional persecutions that came to us in Llanfryniog, though they had lessened over the years. I felt it my responsibility to give you both—you, Grannie, as well,” he added, glancing at his great-aunt, “a life free of that if I could. And I had to think of your future when I was gone, Gwyneth,” he continued, turning again toward his daughter. “Before he was through, the poor viscount was in tears. His grief was more than he could bear not to have seen his daughter again. By then the poignant reality was borne in upon me that I was in the presence of my own father-in-law. I was watching him weep at the memory of his first love and the daughter they had together … the very woman I had loved myself. He told me how he had gone back and tried to find his daughter. So I agreed to the terms of his offer. That’s when I told the two of you that we were leaving Llanfryniog, but that we must do so without telling a soul. If I was wrong, may God forgive me, and may you forgive me, Grannie, and you, Gwyneth dear. I did what I thought was best for us all. So we set sail and returned to the land of my former happiness. It was the only place outside north Wales I had ever lived, the only other place where I felt I could make a home.”

  Barrie let out a long emotional sigh.

  62

  Unexpected Weight of Duty

  At length, unable to say more, Codnor Barrie glanced toward Percy.

  “But then,” said Percy, picking up the story again from the viscount’s side, “when my uncle knew he was dying, apparently he changed his mind about keeping his connection with you secret.” He paused as he looked at Gwyneth. “He wanted me to find you,” said Percy. “If I could, he wanted the truth to come out at last and for right to be done.”

  “Find me?” said Gwyneth. “You said before that he asked you to find his daughter.”

  “I said I thought he wanted me to find his daughter,” rejoined Percy. “His mind was wandering by then. He was occasionally confused. He seemed to have forgotten what your father told him, that your mother was dead. He confused you with your mother. All this time, I thought he wanted me to find his daughter, when actually it was you he wanted me to find, Gwyneth. It was you he was thinking of on his deathbed.”

  “Why would Lord Snowdon care about me?”

  “For the same reason he came to talk to your father abou
t you. For the same reason he wanted to provide for you.”

  “But he had already done so, and we were gone. Why did he want you to find me then?”

  “Because when he spoke to your father, he did not tell him everything,” answered Percy. “There was one vital bit of information he kept from him.”

  “What was that?”

  “He did not tell his daughter’s real name,” answered Percy.

  “It wasn’t O’Sullivan?”

  “Avonmara’s maiden name was O’Sullivan. But when she married, she became Avonmara Westbrooke. Your mother’s real name was Morvern Westbrooke.”

  Grannie had been intently following the conversation. “They were married!” she now exclaimed.

  Percy nodded. “In Laragh, north of here. The marriage is listed in the parish record book for 1833 … between Roderick Westbrooke, the future Lord Snowdon, and Avonmara O’Sullivan. Their marriage made your mother my uncle’s rightful heir.”

  “The Lord be praised!” exclaimed Grannie.

  Gwyneth glanced back and forth in bewilderment between Percy and her father.

  “Gwyneth, lassie,” said Barrie, “that’s why young Percy came looking for you. You are not only Lord Snowdon’s granddaughter … you are also his heir.”

  “Your father is right,” nodded Percy. “Your mother, Morvern, whom your father married as Morvern O’Sullivan but who was really Morvern Westbrooke, was the daughter of Avonmara O’Sullivan and Roderick Westbrooke. You are the daughter of his firstborn and his heir. So we have to get back to Wales without delay.”

  “Back to Wales … why?”

  “Courtenay’s birthday is in a matter of days. He is about to inherit the title and the entire estate. Once he does, it will be too late. It may have been to prevent Courtenay from becoming viscount, seeing what sort of man he was becoming, that prompted my uncle to tell me of his past and send me on a quest to find his rightful heir. Having found you, I must complete that quest.”

  “But I have no desire to take it from Courtenay,” said Gwyneth hesitantly. “I am happy where I am.”

  “Of course you are,” said Percy. “But there is your duty to consider. If this is indeed the fate that has fallen to you, can you neglect it? You little know to what Courtenay has sunk. He has threatened to turn my Aunt Katherine out of the manor. I believe you have a responsibility to your grandfather’s wish. That was simply that you as his true heir, if you could be found, should inherit in place of Courtenay. I think he knew that you would do right for everyone, for the village, and especially for his wife. I do not think he believed that would be true if Courtenay became viscount.”

  Gwyneth was quiet several long minutes. At length she rose, walked slowly across the room, and left the house.

  “The lassie’s suddenly got much for her mind to weigh,” said Grannie when she was gone. “She was always a thoughtful lassie. But she’s never had a worry or care in her life. Now there’s a great burden on her shoulders. She’s got to be a grown-up woman. It’s likely a fearsome thing for her innocent heart.”

  “What should I do, Grannie?” said Codnor, still not pausing to reflect what change Percy’s revelation might bring to his own life.

  “Let her be, laddie. She’s been building strength into her soul for twenty years. It strikes me as likely that it’s all been preparing her for this moment. She’s a strong lassie and getting stronger, I’ll warrant, even as we speak. She’ll see her way through to what the Lord would have of her. When that time comes, nothing will stop her from the doing of it.”

  Though the water in the kettle had been boiling for twenty minutes, tea had long been forgotten in the rush of the conversation and Percy’s startling words about the viscount’s first marriage. As it now grew quiet, the practicalities of the corporeal man began to make themselves felt. The man of the house realized that for some time he had been aware of the aroma of mutton roasting in the oven. Grannie, too, seemed to notice it. Slowly she rose and walked to the stove. From the bin she took two handfuls of potatoes and plopped them into a steaming kettle of water.

  “Where are you staying, Percy, lad?” asked Barrie.

  “With the young Catholic priest in Arklow, Father Abban.” “When were you to return to him?”

  “I made no arrangements. I said I would walk back into town.”

  “It is a long way. You have come down on the far side of the mountain. I will take you back when the time comes. So you must join us for Sunday dinner and the afternoon.”

  “Nothing could delight me more.”

  “Then come,” said Barrie rising, “I will introduce you to my sheep and dogs while the potatoes are boiling.”

  They left the cottage. In the distance, Percy saw Gwyneth walking away from the house. She entered a small wood near their home and disappeared from sight. The two men continued toward the sheep.

  Thirty minutes later, Codnor Barrie began a walk down the hill on an unexpected mission. As he did, Percy made his way toward the wood.

  It was with a mingling of strange emotions that he felt himself closed up in the shadows of the tall firs and pines a few minutes later. He hardly considered the significance of the moment, for it was not at all by accident that Percival Drummond now sought Gwyneth Barrie in the fir wood. Deeper into its depths he went.

  She seemed to sense his presence behind her, even before she heard his footsteps behind her. She stopped and turned.

  Her heart leaped at the sight. But she was not surprised. For how could she wonder to see before her eyes the form of which her soul was full? She stood watching … and waiting.

  Percy approached slowly. “Gwyneth!” he whispered then held out his hand to her.

  She took it. They walked on amid the tall trees in silence.

  “Are you in love with him?” Percy asked at length.

  “He is the man my father chose for me to marry,” replied Gwyneth.

  “But are you in love with him?”

  “I will learn to love him.”

  “But … if there was someone else …”

  She dared not glance at him.

  “Gwyneth,” he persisted, “if there was someone else … someone who loved you with all his heart …”

  Tears began to rise in her eyes.

  “Gwyneth … must you marry him?”

  “It is what my father—”

  “I do love you, Gwyneth,” said Percy. “I think perhaps I always loved you, though it took me some years to know it. I have spoken with your father,” he added. “He is on his way now to your betrothed with a request to relinquish you … if such is your wish. He has given me permission to ask … if you would be my wife instead.”

  63

  New Friends

  Having written his urgent request to Percy, Steven Muir’s anxiety was only temporarily relieved.

  An unintentionally overheard argument between Florilyn and Lady Katherine, during which he heard the words, in a rude and angry voice, “old enough to marry without your permission … Colville says … perhaps not even wait until summer,” was enough to convince him that he must delay no longer. To act was imperative. He might not hear back from Percy for a week, maybe two. It could be months before he was actually in a position to return to Wales. By then it would be too late.

  After two more days, therefore, Steven sought his mistress in her quarters. “Lady Katherine,” he said, “I have what might seem a strange request. Before I make it, I must ask you a question.”

  “Of course, Steven,” said Katherine.

  “I apologize if I am interfering in your personal affairs, but I would very much like to know if you are in favor of Lady Florilyn’s marriage to Colville Burrenchobay.”

  “Need you ask, Steven?”

  “I have some idea how you feel, Lady Katherine, but I must be certain nothing has changed.”

  “Nothing has changed. I abhor the very idea. As much as it is possible for a Christian to say such a thing, I fear I loathe that young man. The thought of Florilyn
marrying him is disgusting to me.”

  Steven listened somberly. It was as he suspected.

  “Sadly, she no longer listens to me,” Katherine went on. “She cares not a feather what I think. There was a time when young people sought their parents’ wisdom and counsel in the matter of marriage. Apparently that time, at least in this family, is long past. I cannot prevent the sense that Colville has been subtly prejudicing her against me.”

  “I think it is entirely likely,” nodded Steven.

  “Why do you ask?” said Katherine.

  “Because with your permission, I would like to speak with Lady Florilyn.”

  “Do you think it would do any good?”

  “Perhaps not. She is entirely changed toward me as well. But I must try. I am considering speaking to her with another whom she was also once close to. I would rather not divulge more.”

  “You have my blessing, Steven,” said Katherine. “I will be deeply grateful for anything you are able to do.”

  Steven left his mistress and walked briskly to the stables. Within minutes he was on his way in the two-seater buggy into Llanfryniog. Fifteen minutes after that, the buggy sat on the street in front of the Lorimer home, and Steven was walking toward the door. Ten minutes after that, Steven was guiding the horse out of town with Rhawn Lorimer seated at his side, her son in the care of her mother. The question he must put to Florilyn’s onetime friend required quiet and solitude.

  He led about a mile inland, on the dirt track that led in the direction of his former home in the hills, then reined in. They sat a few moments in silence, taking in the view of the sea in the distance.