From Across the Ancient Waters

by Michael Phillips

  Still huffing, but with the wind taken out of his sails by Percy’s soft tongue, the viscount turned and strode back to the house.

  Under the circumstances, when he had the buggy put away and Hollin Radnor had taken charge of the horse, Percy slipped into the house through the servants’ entrance and went straight to his room without seeing any of the family.

  He met only his aunt at breakfast the next morning. She was quieter than usual and seemed behaving oddly. The servants, too, throughout the day looked at him with peculiar expressions. He saw nothing of Florilyn.

  By early afternoon, great black clouds were rolling in from the north, accompanied by a precipitous drop in temperature. Having by then judged that he would surely have cooled off, Percy again sought his uncle. He found him subdued and not particularly talkative. Whether he was embarrassed by what had taken place or still angry, Percy could not tell.

  “Could I talk to you, Uncle Roderick?” asked Percy, standing at the open door.

  An affirmative wave of the hand beckoned him in.

  “I am sorry about the buggy incident,” Percy began, “mostly for taking it behind your back. That was wrong of me. But it has occurred to me to wonder whether you are at all curious about my reasons.”

  “You told me you wished to take that old woman in the village to visit some peasants in the hills.”

  “Yes. If I recollect, you called her a witch.”

  “What of it?”

  “She is not a witch, Uncle Roderick,” rejoined Percy. “I happen to be on very friendly terms with Mrs. Barrie, as, I am happy to say, your daughter is also. She is one of the finest women in all Llanfryniog. You would know that yourself if you took more interest in your tenants.”

  “How dare you accuse me of … of … “The viscount hesitated. He didn’t quite know what he was being accused of.

  “Of not being interested in the lives of your people,” added Percy, finishing the thought for him. “What would you call it, then?” he went on. “Are you interested in them, Uncle Roderick? One of them lay dying in his bed yesterday. One of his closest relatives wanted to see him before the end. Yet all you could think of was a dilapidated old buggy that was gathering dust in your barn that you will never ride in again as long as you live. Your people would love you if you gave them half a chance, Uncle Roderick. But you never go near them.”

  A heavy silence hung in the air. Percy’s words stung all the more in that his uncle knew they were true. His anger of the day before had sufficiently spent itself so that whatever defense might have risen from his old Adam died before it reached his lips. “And … what of the old man?” he asked after a moment, making a stab at expressing a modicum of concern.

  “He died late yesterday afternoon,” replied Percy. “His family was around him. His hand rested in Grannie’s as she prayed right up until the moment God took him. His wife and son were at his side, as were Gwyneth and myself. His passing was peaceful. It was one of the most extraordinary days I have ever spent, and I will never forget it. So while I am sorry to have upset you and for acting behind your back, I cannot be sorry that I was there or for making it possible for Mrs. Barrie to be there. When I last saw her, Florilyn was angry with Gwyneth for not coming to work. If you have any influence with your daughter in the matter, I hope you might speak a word to her on Gwyneth’s behalf. I think she was perturbed at me as well. She was behaving irritably and strangely. I am not sure why. I doubt my influence will carry very far with her just now.”

  “Don’t be too sure, Percy, my boy. You may discover that you carry great weight with Florilyn, more than you know. However, you’re right—she tends to be impulsive. Family trait, you know. I will see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “However, there may be reasons having nothing to do with what happened yesterday to account for my daughter’s change of mood,” the viscount said. “She has been devastated by the news, as we all have. She spent much of the day yesterday crying, as my wife tells me. For her brother’s sake, your aunt shed a good many tears of her own as well. I did not hear of the affair until a short time ago. Maybe they tried to keep it from me, knowing that I was already angry with you. They probably thought I would send you away, which I may have to do anyway.”

  “I am sorry, Uncle Roderick,” said Percy, “but I must confess I have no idea what you are talking about. What reason does Florilyn have to be angry with me and cry all day? And why would you send me away? Is it really over my use of that old buggy?”

  “Tut, tut, my boy. It is more serious than that. I am talking about you and Miss Lorimer.”

  “What about us—that I danced with her the other night? Gosh, I am sorry if that hurt Florilyn’s feelings. But the girl was most insistent. She threatened to make a scene if I did not dance with her. Under the circumstances, I thought it best—”

  “By heavens, man!” thundered Lord Snowdon as his fist slammed down on his desk with a sudden resurfacing of his anger. “Stop playing innocent with me. Out with it! Is it true? That’s all I want to know.”

  Percy stared back at his uncle dumbfounded.

  “I told you … yes, I danced with the girl. I have never denied it. Everyone saw us. You saw us.”

  “Are you intentionally trying to act like an imbecile? I don’t mean the dancing. I mean the rumor—is it true?”

  “What rumor?”

  “About you and the Lorimer girl! Her father came to see me this morning demanding to know what I intended to do. Are you or are you not the father of her child?”

  Percy stared back speechless again. The words slammed into his brain like an ongoing locomotive. “Her … child!” he repeated slowly.

  “She says you are the father.”

  Percy broke out laughing. “I know I’m not the most worldly wise young man in the world,” he said, still chuckling, “but, Uncle Roderick … I’ve only been here three weeks.”

  “Stop making light of it, you young fool. This is a serious matter with grave consequences. She claims that you and she had a liaison in Glasgow.”

  At last his uncle’s words silenced him. Percy exhaled slowly and stood for some time in silence. “I see,” he said at length. “Yes, you’re right, it is serious. I am sorry for seeming to take it lightly. I had no idea what was being said.”

  Again he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. No wonder Florilyn had been so strange yesterday morning. Then came an even more horrifying thought—what if the rumors had reached Gwyneth’s ears?

  His uncle’s voice interrupted his reflections. “You still have not answered me,” he said. “I must know. Is it true?”

  Percy stood in silence. He was thinking hard. He was remembering many things he had heard and been taught through the years.

  “I think, Uncle Roderick,” he said at last, “that I would prefer not to answer.”

  “That is as good as admitting it is true!”

  “Only in the mind of one who does not understand silence.”

  “I demand that you answer the charges!” the viscount shrieked.

  “I am sorry, Uncle Roderick.”

  “Do you refuse me?”

  “If you demand that I answer … yes.”

  “Then at least tell me why you refuse,” rejoined his uncle, calming slightly.

  “Jesus says not to worry about how to defend yourself. When accused, He did not defend Himself.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I try to follow His example.”

  “There you go preaching at me again!”

  “I am sorry. Nothing was further from my mind.”

  “What was on your mind then?” asked the viscount sarcastically.

  “That you are going to have to decide for youself whether you think I am capable of such a heinous thing as is being said. You have to decide what you think of my character. But I will not defend myself. Nor will I stoop to answer the charges.”

  At last the viscount was silenced, even
if momentarily. “A noble sentiment,” he said after a few seconds. “Idealistic, though naive. Would it not be easier to put all doubt about the matter to rest and simply to say yea or nay?”

  “It would not put the matter to rest,” said Percy.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because those inclined to believe the rumor would go on believing it even if I denied it. The stronger my denials, the surer they would be I was lying. One of the few Shakespeare quotes I happen to know concerns protesting too much. There are certain kinds of charges, Uncle Roderick, that can only be countered by silence—and those are charges against one’s character and veracity as a man. I am not much of a man yet. But I am enough one to know that this is such a time. The only way you will be able to arrive at the truth in this matter, as you say, is for you to arrive at that truth within your own heart. Nothing I say will help you or convince you one way or the other. I alone must bear the burden of the doubts that may hound me as a result of this. But the burden of proof, for you, Uncle Roderick, must rest with you.”

  Percy turned and left him. Even as he walked down the corridor to the stairway, hoping he would encounter no one before reaching the sanctuary of his own room, his eyes filled. How many people would be hurt before this was over he could not begin to imagine. He hoped it could be kept from his parents. He had hurt them enough already. He also prayed the ugliness would not reach Gwyneth. Yet he saw no way she could not be drawn into a knowledge of it.

  In his study, Lord Snowdon rose and walked to the window and stared out at the turbulent gray sky, alone with his thoughts. The young fool was made of stern stuff, he thought. Better stuff than his own son, he sighed wistfully. The boy had courage—courage to confront an ugly rumor calmly like a man … and courage as well to confront him to his face about his treatment of his tenants.

  By jove if the young son of a minister wasn’t right. He did avoid his tenants. He couldn’t help it. Poverty made him uncomfortable.

  If only he could find a young man like that to marry his daughter! That is, if the thing wasn’t true. Young men like Percy Drummond didn’t grow on trees, thought the viscount as he continued to reflect on the interview that had just taken place.

  Already Percy’s silence in the face of the accusation was beginning to accomplish its work. In his heart of hearts, Roderick Westbrooke was all but convinced of the falsehood of it.

  By day’s end, almost as a judgment against all of North Wales for the ease with which its gossipmongers were able to spread a lie, and the readiness of its inhabitants to believe it, a tremendous storm broke over the region. The wind battered the coastline. Rain poured down in sheets. No one who did not have business outside ventured into it.

  SIXTY-ONE

  The Power of Mistress Chattan’s Brew

  The fishermen of North Wales were an independent breed who kept both friendships and compliments close to the vest. Young Percival Drummond had cultivated an association with several of the more liberal-minded among them. Whether he would even now be considered a friend, however, was doubtful. That he had come closer to it in a shorter time than any other visitor to Llanfryniog in memory, especially one so young, was certain. As far as compliments went, about the best that could be hoped for was a nod of the head as he walked away from the harbor and a mumbled aside, “Not a bad sort … for a Scots laddie.”

  They made their living in the hardest of all possible ways—at sea. They did not give the hand of friendship to one who was not worthy of the honor.

  There was one consumable item of commerce, however, capable of lubricating geniality and accelerating the bonds, if not of true friendship at least of the laughter and free-flowing conversation that often passed for it among men who knew no better. That one thing was Mistress Chattan’s ale. Everyone knew that she did not brew it herself. Yet to a man, the male inhabitants of Llanfryniog swore that it was unlike any beer in the world—light or dark, Irish or English, lager or ale.

  And thus when a man such as Rupert Wilkes stood beers at Mistress Chattan’s, he was a man granted unusual privileges of access and conversation. None of the locals knew anything about him or where he came from. He appeared periodically, was generous to one and all at the inn, and always seemed particularly interested in the old times. He was most curious about those who had been alive before the turn of the present century. His questions always got around eventually to old Sean Drindod and his friends who might have known one another in those bygone days.

  After Drindod’s death, the fellow had disappeared for a long while. The fishermen of Llanfryniog began to think they had seen the last of him. Then he began showing up again and gradually with increasing regularity. From Drindod he had heard the mysterious name “Bryn.” Since that time, Mistress Chattan’s ale had not sufficiently loosened the tongues of the village’s oldest citizens to reveal more. Whether anyone knew who it was, he had not been able to discover. And he had to make his inquiries with care.

  It took three years. But at last the drunken tongue of an old fisherman, long retired, who rarely frequented Mistress Chattan’s establishment, divulged a name—Branwenn Myfanawy, as she was known as a child.

  Wilkes took in the name with greater interest than he allowed himself to show, bought the man another pint, and continued to shrewdly ply him with questions that eventually led him to a description of the location of Grannie’s cottage. Whether she was the same woman, he didn’t know. But he would search the place and find out. If the old woman caused him trouble, she could join her friend Drindod.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Grannie’s Tale

  Mortified about what was being said about him, Percy kept to himself. He found the writings of MacDonald a great solace in his trouble. But his aunt and uncle were distant. The servants avoided him. He did not see Florilyn for an entire day. She did not appear at dinner. The greatest humiliation, however, was having to imagine what Gwyneth must think.

  Gwyneth had indeed heard the rumors. She could scarcely avoid it among the other servants. Gwyneth Barrie had rarely known anger in her life. But what she heard filled her with righteous indignation. She kept her thoughts to herself but went about her duties with smoke coming out her ears. She may have been small, but this was enough to ignite the fire of indignation in her young heart. It would not have gone well for the magistrate’s daughter had she dared pay a visit to the manor and encountered the righteous wrath of Codnor Barrie’s daughter.

  Gwyneth saw Percy from a distance two or three times. She could tell from the way he walked that he was downcast. She knew he was avoiding her. He was avoiding everyone. And she knew the reason. As furious as she was at the snake Rhawn Lorimer, she knew that Percy’s pain must be far deeper to be falsely accused of something so disgusting.

  She was burdened for Grannie, too. The old woman had not been herself since Glythvyr Muir’s death. She had been talking to herself and behaving strangely ever since the simple funeral, which had been attended by less than a dozen people. Percy had been one of them, though he left quickly afterward. Gwyneth’s heart was sore for her two best friends in the world besides her papa.

  She asked her father if they could invite Percy and Grannie for supper at their cottage the next evening. It would be a good-bye supper for Percy. Maybe it would make Grannie feel better as well.

  And so it was arranged. As she did not have to work, she spent the whole next day in preparations. She bundled up tightly and went out that morning in the driving rain. Her first visit was to the manor, where she left a brief note of invitation for Percy. Then she walked to Grannie’s in town, telling her that her father would come for her with their cart after work. At last she went home, chilled to the bone, changed out of her wet clothes, added new coal to the fire, and got busy with preparations for the evening’s meal.

  Percy was delighted for a reason to miss another silent meal at the manor. He was eager to get away, storm or no storm.

  Thankfully, the rain temporarily spent itself by midafternoon.
Percy left the manor, bundled against the wind but not thinking that the rain might resume by the time he was on his way home. When he arrived at the Barrie Cottage about six o’clock that evening, Grannie and Codnor were just clattering up the lane. Above them the sky was black and menacing. Percy and Codnor helped Grannie to the ground, and they hurried inside amid a tumultuous wind.

  “You will be leaving soon, Percy,” said Gwyneth as the three walked in.

  “Yes, tomorrow is my last day,” he replied. He was relieved to find no one any different toward him. In truth, the rumors had not come within hearing of either Grannie or Codnor Barrie.

  “My little girl will miss you, Percy,” said Gwyneth’s father, helping Grannie to a chair at the table.

  “I know,” sighed Percy. “I will miss everyone here, too. I almost feel that this is my home now.”

  The conversation between the four friends flowed freely. For the first time in two days, Percy managed to forget the weight hanging over him.

  When supper was over and they retired to the sitting room, Grannie seemed to grow quiet.

  “How is Mrs. Muir?” asked Percy, addressing them all. “And Stevie?”

  “I have seen them only once since the funeral,” said Gwyneth. “They are sad but relieved. The house seems empty without Uncle Glythvyr. But they know he is in a better place.”

  The reminder of Glythvyr Muir’s death plunged Grannie deep into thought. “It is the way of all flesh,” she said, leaning back in the rocking chair where she sat. “My own time is not far off, I’m thinking.”

  “What are you talking about, Grannie?” asked Gwyneth.

  “The good man’s passing has made me thoughtful, Gwyneth, dear. I am old. I cannot wait longer to tell what I know. The Lord could take me any time. I must tell my tale to them I can trust.”

  “What tale, Grannie?”

  “Get your tea and sit with me. You, Gwyneth child … you, my dear Codnor. And you, too, Percy, for you are a good young man, and Grannie knows she can trust you.”