“What are you reading?” asked Percy.
“Actually, a book your father just brought me—a novel by one of your fellow Scotsmen whom he has been taken with in recent years.”
“Not that MacDonald fellow?”
“Why, yes it is!”
Percy chuckled. “My father and mother are always talking about him. Now that you mention it, I recall hearing them say they were planning to send you something of his that had just been published.”
“What kind of books do you like?” Katherine asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t really read much.”
“Have you read any of MacDonald’s?” she asked?
“No,” laughed Percy. “I figure if my parents like them, I probably wouldn’t! We haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye lately.”
“You might surprise yourself and actually like them,” suggested his aunt.
“They’re huge, long novels, aren’t they?” said Percy. “I have seen several about the house. They look boring. I doubt I would be able to wade through something like that.”
“Your father and mother are terribly fond of him. They are constantly waiting for every new title. If you don’t care for the novels, maybe you would enjoy his fairy tales.”
“Children’s stories!” laughed Percy. “You’re right—that would probably be just the right thing for me.”
“I said fairy tales, not children’s stories,” rejoined his aunt with a smile.
“What’s the difference?”
“All the difference in the world when the author is George MacDonald.”
“Well, maybe I should,” chuckled Percy. “Got to have something to occupy my time on a day like this, I suppose. Perhaps you could recommend something for me.”
“I will be happy to,” smiled his aunt. She rose and walked across the room and disappeared between two tall bookcases.
Percy followed.
Ten minutes later, his aunt had resumed her seat in the alcove with her book. On the other side of the library, Percy was slouched in a small couch that sat adjacent to a window looking out north from the manor, one leg slung up over the side rest, reading a book of much different fare than he had ever dipped into before, that his aunt had selected for him to try.
19
Altercation
Lord Snowdon sat in his office perusing the letter that had arrived two days before. He had read it over at least ten times but still could not satisfy himself that he had gotten to the bottom of it. The thing seemed straightforward enough. His naturally suspicious nature, however, could not prevent him from wondering if it was as simple as it appeared on the surface.
The Right Honorable, the Viscount Roderick Westbrooke, Lord Snowdon, he read yet again.
My Lord,
I have the honor to request your indulgence on a matter of some importance to me, though perhaps to no one else. I can only hope that you will treat the fancy of an aging sentimentalist with confidentiality and will consider my request with the same seriousness with which I make it.
Having spent some of the happiest years of my life as a boy romping the hills of Snowdonia with my father, it is my desire at this late stage of my life to build a small cottage on a meadow that I particularly cherished which sits on the slopes of one of Gwynned’s lesser peaks. Investigating the matter, I find that the property in question lies within and almost at the boundary of your own estate. I am hoping that its remote location and relative insignificance among your vast holdings will encourage you to consider selling it to me.
I can assure you that my plans would in no way encroach on your privacy. I would seek to gain access by obtaining a right of way eastward through public lands from the main road between Blaenau Ffestiniog and Dolgellau. To put the matter in its simplest terms, you would not even know I was there.
I would purchase whatever amount of land you would graciously consent to part with up to a thousand or more acres. However, if a transaction of such size is impossible, I could carry out the plans for my small cottage with as little as twenty.
I am a wealthy man and believe I can make the transaction well worth your consideration. I am willing to pay anything within reason.
I am,
Sincerely and gratefully yours,
Palmer Sutcliffe
Westbrooke set aside the letter, leaned back in his chair, and exhaled a long thoughtful sigh. Who is this man? he wondered.
He reached for the copy of Debrit’s Peerage on his desk and flipped through it but found nothing. He would have Tilman Heygate institute further inquiries.
Was it possible that this letter had come to him as manna from heaven, to meet his ongoing financial need? His wife’s refusal in the matter of the yacht he had hoped to purchase remained a burr under his collar. This fellow Sutcliffe’s proposal could make him independent of his wife’s miserliness once and for all.
The wheels of the viscount’s brain began to spin with increased momentum. How much could he reasonably ask for twenty acres? Such land was probably only worth ten or twenty pounds an acre. Surely Sutcliffe was no fool. Perhaps he would pay double, even triple that. But a few hundred pounds would hardly relieve his dependency on his wife.
Five hundred pounds … a thousand pounds? Even that would but temporarily ease his financial straits.
But a thousand acres! The thought of parting with such a sizable chunk of his holdings brought almost a physical pain to his chest. And yet … if he could raise, say, ten thousand pounds, he would be sitting pretty. For such a sum, however, he would have to give up a good deal of land.
How much would he be willing to let go of? Everything depended on how determined this Sutcliffe was on obtaining the specific land he mentioned … his land … and how wealthy he really was. If he asked too much, the man could simply build his cottage elsewhere. Land was cheap in Snowdonia.
The viscount drew in another deep breath. He would have to handle the matter with delicacy so as not to push too hard. As onerous as was the thought of parting with any of the estate’s ground, this was the opportunity of a lifetime to gain financial independence.
He rose and left his office in search of his factor.
As Westbrooke contemplated the potential change in his fortunes, outside the sun was winning a brief battle against several swirling gray clouds, aided in the contest by a stiff wind off the sea. It now emerged bright and, for the present, victorious.
Seeing the change, the viscount’s son left the house for the stables, thinking of a ride. The rain had put him in a surly mood. It would doubtless be a miserable afternoon for whichever horse he chose to bear him to help ameliorate his inward vexation at the world.
The sun’s rays sent their life-probing radiance through the windows and into the house and into souls that were more malleable than that of young Courtenay Westbrooke. Little bubbles of God-shaped joy burst from hearts of servants and gentility alike. Gladness returned, and with it an occasional song came to the lips of housekeeper, maids, and cook.
Percy Drummond felt it, too. On the couch in the library, he had begun to doze. The sudden warmth as the sun shown on his face through the window brought him back to himself. An afternoon nap is a much different thing to a fifty-year-old than to a sixteen-year-old, for whom the very thought of sleep when the sun is shining is an abhorrence. Percy laid down the book of fairy tales, which had nearly fallen from his hand, got up, and left the library. He had no definite purpose in mind. He only knew that the sun and fresh air drew him and he must be out in it.
He left the house a minute or two later and drew in a satisfying breath of the chilly, damp air. Almost the same moment, he heard the fearsome shriek of a horse. A dreadful mad frenzy had just erupted. Thinking that either man or beast must be in some terrible trouble, he broke into a run and sprinted toward the stable yard as the earsplitting whinnying rose in fury.
Percy flew through the door of the barn. After the brightness of the sun, it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. He was aware
of frenetic kicking and stomping and flying dust. Men’s voices were raised in argument. Drowning them out, however, continued the horrifying screaming of a beast either in terror or tremendous pain.
Courtenay had come in some time earlier and, not finding the groom, had set about saddling his horse carelessly and in haste. The moment he mounted the nervous and highly strung Gelderlander, the horse began to back and rear. Courtenay gave him a vicious cut with his whip. The poor beast went wild, plunging and kicking.
Hearing the racket, Hollin Radnor hurried in from outside as the viscount’s son was bringing his whip down a second time. “Don’t punish him, my lord!” implored Radnor, hurrying forward. “You’ll drive him madder than he is already!”
“Get back, Radnor,” yelled Courtenay, “or you’ll come in for your share with him!”
The viscount’s son was a good horseman in the sense of being able to hold himself in the saddle in almost any circumstances. Yet he knew little about horses. He had not learned to love them as among the noblest creatures of the animal creation. To him, they were mere beasts of burden to be compelled into obedience. If it took cruelty to achieve that end, he would not withhold it.
One of his father’s horses had been put down years before because Courtenay, at twelve, had ridden it to such exhaustion, whipping it beyond all hope of endurance, that the poor creature had simply collapsed and shattered both its front legs. Even then, angered at having been thrown, he withdrew his whip and attacked the animal as it lay dying. Alas, the intervening six years had taught him nothing about curbing his temper.
But Hollin Radnor did love horses, if not more than his own life, perhaps close to it. Ignoring the young lord’s command, he ran to the horse’s head and set about desperately trying to calm him.
Courtenay’s rage as he looked down on the insolent servant overpowered good sense and common decency together. A series of blows from the whip descended on head of groom and horse together.
Almost the same moment, Percy rushed in.
“My lord, my lord,” Radnor cried as the blows fell relentlessly on him, “the curb chain is too tight! The animal is suffering great pain. Please, my lord … hold off him and allow me to loosen it!”
Percy now ran toward them hoping to protect Radnor from further blows.
Seeing his cousin take the groom’s side added contempt to Courtenay’s dudgeon. The next blows from his whip were directed at Percy.
“Stop … stop, Courtenay!” howled Percy. “If you don’t stop hitting Mr. Radnor, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” cried Courtenay scornfully. “Get back. This is between me and him.” Another whack fell from the whip against Percy’s cheek and forehead.
A stinging pain on his face brought his blood to a boil as hot as his cousin’s. “It’s between you and me now!” Percy yelled. “Stop, I tell you, or I’ll throw you from that horse!”
A peal of derisive laughter filled the barn. But it is unwise to laugh at an angry man. Percy rushed toward Courtenay, took hold of the nearest booted foot, and with a great shove pitched him backward over the thoroughbred’s side. Taken by surprise at Percy’s daring and strength, Courtenay did not keep hold of the reins. He tumbled to the ground with a great thud and groan.
Radnor led the crazed and terrified horse a little way off and struggled to slacken the twisted chain that had been biting into his jaw. The poor animal was dripping with sweat, his flesh quivering and trembling, still prancing and jerking his head about. Radnor gradually soothed him with whispered words and the gentle touch of his hand.
Percy stood above Courtenay waiting.
Recovering his shock, his cousin leaped to his feet. “You will pay for that, you little rotter!” he cried, squaring off against Percy with fists in the air. “Do you really think you are any match for me?”
“Probably not,” replied Percy, his gaze warily fixed on Courtenay’s eyes and fists. “You may beat me to a pulp, but you will not touch that horse or Mr. Radnor again.”
“You think you can stop me?”
“I will stop you.”
Courtenay leaped forward with marvelous speed. The fist of his right hand smashed into Percy’s forehead with such lightning force that Percy scarcely had a chance to blink. A second pounded into his cheek at the edge of his nose and drew blood.
Percy staggered back, dazed, and toppled to the dirt floor.
Seeing blood coming from his nose, and with Radnor leading the frothing horse outside, Courtenay thought better of pursuing the battle on either front. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he said down to Percy where he lay. “You stay away from my horse. You stay away from everything of mine, or it will go worse for you next time!” He turned and stormed from the barn.
By the time the incident had passed, the sky had darkened again. The weather remained fitful for the remainder of the day.
20
Devious Invitation
The conversation around the dinner table that evening at Westbrooke Manor was noticeably subdued.
No word had reached either husband or wife about the day’s altercation in the barn. There had been talk among the servants, however, for Hollin Radnor had sought one of the maids to bandage his face and arms. Though he divulged nothing about the cause of his wounds, the girl who tended him came of a family that considered horses almost equal in the family to the children. Her father was universally regarded the most knowledgeable man concerning horseflesh in the region. She knew the mark of a whip when she saw one. Everyone at the manor knew the young master’s proclivity with the leather. Speculation had run rampant ever since.
Some of this talk came within the hearing of Florilyn Westbrooke. She was a girl for whom secrets existed but for one purpose—that she might find them out, discover their source, and use the information gained to work mischief in the lives of those involved. This she would do by any and all means that lay open to her cunning and wiles. She was a pixie, a knave, an inciter of annoyance, what the French would call a provocateur. To disrupt, confuse, frustrate, sabotage, and irritate was the spice of her life.
The moment her cousin entered the dining room, she divined the truth. Percy’s forehead and cheek were badly swollen and bruised. A thin cut extended along the opposite cheek up to and across half his forehead. She knew as well as Padrig Gwlwlwyd’s daughter what the cut of a whip looked like. Her suspicions were all but confirmed when Courtenay came in a minute later, favoring one leg but without a mark on his face. Both boys wore serious expressions. Neither looked at the other throughout the meal.
“You must have had an interesting day, Courtenay,” said Florilyn with a twinkle in her eye.
Her brother did not reply.
“I thought you were going for a ride earlier,” she went on. “I was watching, but I never saw you leave the stables. Did you have some kind of trouble?”
“I decided not to go,” said Courtenay moodily.
Florilyn turned to her cousin. “What happened to you, Percy?” she said. “You look a mess.”
Percy shrugged and went on with his dinner.
“Did something happen, Percy, my boy?” now asked the viscount. For the first time, he seemed to take note of Percy’s face.
“Just a little accident,” answered Percy. “I fell in the barn.”
His uncle did not press the matter, though Katherine appeared concerned.
Florilyn, however, was not about to let it go. She continued to bait both boys throughout dinner. But to no avail.
Later that evening in her room, Florilyn’s lust to know what had happened between her cousin and brother gradually gave way to a yet deeper puzzle. Why hadn’t Percy said a word about the incident? What could account for such behavior? If Courtenay had so much as spoken an ill word to her, she would have been ranting with accusations to their parents at the first opportunity, trying to get even with him.
She knew good and well that Courtenay had given Percy those cuts and bruises. Why his silence? Was he afraid of getting more of the
same from Courtenay if he squealed?
Somehow she thought not. Percy was smaller than Courtenay, that was true. But she doubted he was afraid of him. Percy carried himself as one who knew how to handle himself in a tussle. There had to be more to it.
Did some twisted form of gallantry prevent him from blabbing? Twice now he had refused to blame either Courtenay or her. What was the reason for his silence? Did he possess some peculiar code of conduct that barred accusation … even when it was deserved?
Not knowing nearly drove her mad. She was determined to loosen Percy’s tongue one way or another.
By morning Florilyn had made up her mind what to do. She needed to get Percy angry. Angry enough to retaliate. What was the fun of being mean to him if he wouldn’t fight back? Even if it meant getting in trouble herself, making Percy lose his temper would be such a sweet victory it would be worth it.
The rain passed through Wales and the sun came out, gloriously and warm the next morning. By noon, most of the meadows and fields were dry enough to consider riding again.
Percy was surprised to hear a knock on his door shortly after he had returned upstairs from lunch. There stood Florilyn in her riding habit. “I know you probably hate me for what I did the other day,” she said, dropping her eyes.
“I don’t hate you,” said Percy. “I would just like to know why you did it. What do you have against me, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I just get that way and can’t help myself. But would you like to go for a ride today? I promise, I won’t swat your horse.”
Percy thought for a moment. It wasn’t much of an apology. But he was dying to get out of the house, and he was leery of doing so alone lest again he encounter Courtenay, which he was not anxious to do.
“Don’t worry,” she added with a winning smile. “I’ll give you the gentlest mount in the stables.”
From Across the Ancient Waters- Wales Page 10
