Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (11 page)
Read Treasure of the Celtic Triangle Online
Authors: Michael Phillips
“I don’t always know
what
you are thinking,” rejoined Florilyn. “But I can tell when you are downcast.”
“It’s about your brother,” said Katherine. “He’s much changed since your father’s death.”
“I know it only too well. I used to think we were friends. He’s too snooty and full of himself to bother with the likes of me now. I hate the way he treats you, Mother.”
“It’s obvious he resents not being able to lord it over us. He thinks he should have been made viscount immediately. He also blames me for his present financial straits.”
“It’s not your fault that Daddy’s not here to indulge him.”
“He thinks it is my duty to continue doing so. The anger that is stewing inside him is worrisome to me. Honestly, Florilyn, I am very concerned for our future. You, of course, will be married. But I fear Courtenay may make my life so intolerable here that I may have no alternative but to find another place to live. We spoke about it almost jokingly before. I now fear it may be more likely than we thought. Leaving the manor may become a practical necessity.”
“But the manor is
yours
, Mother.”
“It won’t be once Courtenay turns twenty-five.”
“Where would you go?”
“I have been reflecting on what you said before, about us living in a cottage in the hills.”
“I was just thinking out loud, Mother!” laughed Florilyn. “I didn’t
really
think you would leave the manor.”
“What if I have to? What would you think if I built a new house that would not be under Courtenay’s control?”
Florilyn stared back at her mother without expression. “You mean … Where, Mother … on the grounds somewhere?” she said at length.
“I don’t know … somewhere near the village, yet far enough from the manor where we could live our own lives.”
Florilyn rose and wandered to her window. She stood with her back to her mother, looking out toward the hills of Snowdonia to the east and the plateau overlooking the waters of Tremadog Bay to the west. “You said
we
,” she said at length.
“I know you will be married,” rejoined Katherine. “But that may not take place before Courtenay’s twenty-fifth birthday … I don’t know what your plans are. But do
you
relish the idea of being here after that?”
“We could live our own lives, Mother.”
“What if he took it into his head to charge you rent?”
Florilyn spun around from the window. “He wouldn’t dare!” she said.
“He might not be able to evict me because of my position, but I doubt there would be any restrictions on what he could do to you.”
The two women were quiet for several moments.
“Then let’s go for a ride, Mother,” said Florilyn at length. “We shall look for a perfect place for your new home!”
An hour later, mother and daughter set out from Westbrooke Manor on Red Rhud and Crimson Son. They rode east, up the rising slope to the top of the inland ridge, then bore northward. From the height they had gained, the entire plateau below, stretching down to the village of Llanfryniog, and the blue waters of Tremadog Bay were visible, with their own Westbrooke Manor and its grounds and gardens below and to their left.
“What a beautiful site this would be for a home!” exclaimed Katherine as they rode, with the sea and coastline all spread out below.
“You would have to build a road all the way up here, Mother.”
“A road would be more easily managed than building a house! If it were to be
your
home, Florilyn—and who is to say that it wouldn’t be one day—and if you could live anywhere in the entire region, where would
you
choose?”
Florilyn reined in and gazed all about. “That is a hard question, Mother,” she said. “But … let me see … I do love the mountains. But then there is snow in the winter when you get too far inland. And the sight of the sea is spectacular. Just think what it would be to have all your windows overlooking the ocean.”
Florilyn’s thoughts drifted back to an hour earlier when she and her mother had been talking in her room, and the view as she was standing at the window. “Probably down there, Mother,” she said after a minute. She pointed from their high vantage point to the plateau of Mochras Head. “On the headland overlooking the sea.”
Katherine followed her daughter’s outstretched arm. Slowly she began to nod. “Yes, I see … it would be a spectacular site for a home. Closer to the manor,” she added, “but also near to the village and main road. Shall we go have a closer look? I may like your idea.”
She turned Crimson Son down the slope in the direction of the sea, and Florilyn followed.
S
EVENTEEN
The Revelation of the Fir Wood
F
lorilyn reached the last chapter of her book. As she began reading, her eyes grew wide.
It wasn’t only that two girls both loved Hugh Sutherland. Hugh had to discover which of the two
he
really loved … and had loved all along.
A sudden pang seized Florilyn’s heart. It was
not
the aristocratic Euphra that in the end took possession of Hugh’s heart, but the peasant girl Margaret!
“She was the angel herself
,” she read on the page.
Percy often called Gwyneth an angel.
Hugh at length discovered that he had loved Margaret from the first day in the fir wood. Was her own fate, Florilyn mused, destined to be the same as Euphra’s? Loving … would she, too, have to let him go?
“It was with a mingling of strange emotions that Hugh approached the scene of those not very old, and yet, to his feeling, quite early memories. The dusk was beginning to gather. The hoar-frost lay thick on the ground. The pine-trees stood up in the cold
.
Here and there amongst them, rose the Titans of the little forest—the huge, old, contorted, wizard-like, yet benevolent beings—the Scotch firs. Towards one of these he bent his way. It was the one under which he had seen Margaret, when he met her first in the wood. To think that the young girl to whom he had given the primrose he had just found should now be the queen of his heart! Her childish dream of the angel haunting the wood had been true, only she was the angel herself. He drew near the place. How well he knew it! He seated himself, cold as it was in the February of Scotland, at the foot of the blessed tree
.
While he sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, a light rustle in the fallen leaves made him raise them suddenly. It was all winter and fallen leaves about him; but he lifted his eyes, and in his soul it was summer: Margaret stood before him. She looked just the same—at home everywhere; most at home in Nature’s secret chamber
.
She came nearer
.
‘Margaret!’ he murmured
.
She came close to him. He rose, trembling
.
‘Margaret, dare I love you?’ he faltered
.
She looked at him with wide-open eyes
.
‘Me?’ exclaimed Margaret, and her eyes did not move from his. A slight rose-flush bloomed out on her motionless face
.
She looked at him with parted lips
.
‘Do you remember this?’ she said, taking from her pocket a little book, and from the book a withered flower
.
Hugh saw that it was like a primrose, and hoped against hope that it was the one which he had given to her, on the spring morning in the fir-wood
.
‘Why did you keep that?’ he said
.
‘Because I loved you.’
‘Loved me?’
‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’
‘Why did you say, then, that you didn’t care if—if—?’
‘Because love is enough, Hugh.—That was why.’”
Tears flooded Florilyn’s eyes. The deepest love had not come as Hugh had expected it. He
thought
he had loved Euphra. But his heart had belonged to Margaret all along. In the same way, Percy
thought
he was in love with her.
But from the beginning … since his first days in Wales … had his heart always belonged—?
Florilyn burst into sobs. She could not complete the thought. She closed the book, rose, and went to her window. She stood for several minutes but could not stop the flow of tears.
At length she left her room and walked down the corridor away from the main staircase, seeking the back stairs and door to the outside that Percy had himself used many times. The cool air felt good on her hot face. But it could not still the turmoil in her heart.
With the weather turning increasingly cold and damp, for the next several weeks Florilyn made the approaching winter her companion in melancholy. For hours she walked along the Mochras promontory staring down at the gray sea below or along the chilly misty beach beneath the headland or in the gardens of the manor or woods nearer home. Daily she visited little Nugget, who recognized her voice and came scampering at her call.
Not having been a great reader, Florilyn had never before experienced the power of a book to move the human heart so deeply. But this story, and the interwoven lives of its two young women loving the same young man, along with the fictional fir wood, which in her mind had become the fields and hills of North Wales, pressed heavily upon her heart.
At length she knew what she had to do.
She must let Percy discover his own fir wood … and who was the angel awaiting him there.
E
IGHTEEN
Wales Again
A
s Percy and his mother and father sat clattering south in the train from Glasgow, Percy could not escape the feeling that something beyond a festive Christmas celebration awaited him in Wales. It would be going too far to call it a sense of impending doom. Yet perhaps something a little like it.
“You’re uncommonly quiet, Percy,” said his mother on the afternoon of their first day of the journey.
“Sorry, Mother,” smiled Percy. “A lot on my mind I suppose.”
“School?”
“No, not really. It’s going well, though I am anticipating graduating in May with more than a little eagerness.”
“You still haven’t said what you will do after you and Florilyn are married—go to work for Mr. Snyder or begin law school.”
“That’s because I haven’t decided myself. Actually, I may do neither. There’s something … I have to take care of—a personal matter. I don’t know how long it will take.”
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Drummond.
“I can’t say, Mother,” answered Percy. He glanced toward his father. “I told Dad about it last summer and said the same thing—that I couldn’t tell him the specifics. It’s something I promised Uncle Roderick I would look into before he died. I have no idea what will be involved or how long it will take. Beyond that, I can say nothing. I promised it would remain between him and me.”
It was quiet a few minutes. Percy stared out the window at the passing countryside and at last let out a long sigh. “But it’s more than that,” he said, turning again toward his mother. “Something seems to have changed with Florilyn in recent weeks.”
“How do you mean, Percy?” asked Mary.
“I don’t know. It’s hard to put my finger on. Her letters have just been … different—distant, detached, almost formal in a way. We were writing back and forth regularly, sharing about everything—it was like talking with each other in person. We’ve both been reading the same MacDonald novel—I told you about that—and discussing it in our letters. All of a sudden last month I didn’t hear from her for two weeks. When at last another letter came, like I said, it was different. It’s been that way ever since. She’s not mentioned the book again. She says almost nothing personal. It’s altogether strange.”
“She is probably just nervous about getting married.”
“Why would she be, Mother? I thought all young women longed to be married.”
Mary laughed. “You are probably right. I was just trying to find a logical explanation.”
“I know it’s pointless to worry about it,” said Percy. “I’m sure it will all come clear soon enough. She says she has something important to talk to me about. Whatever it is, I know she will tell me in her own way. But the change in her letters has been disconcerting.”
The three Christmas travelers in the southbound coach bounded to a stop in front of Mistress Chattan’s inn on the following day. The main street through Llayfryniog lay in mud from one side to the other. A chill wind swept up from the sea, bending the smoke from every chimney in the village horizontal toward the inland mountains, by now all covered with snow.
Percy’s previous visits to Snowdonia had come in summer, when the land and air were rich and full of warmth and growth and life. As he stepped out of the coach onto the muddy street and glanced about, a drearier prospect could hardly be imagined. As a Scot, he knew well enough what winter could be like. He had left Aberdeen four days earlier with snowdrifts piled three feet high along the sides of the streets. He had somehow hoped, this far south, that it might be warmer. One look up and down the familiar street, however, told him instantly how wrong he had been. Even snowdrifts would be preferable to mud.
A two-seat carriage from the manor sat just up the street waiting for them. Inside, bundled in coats and hats and scarves and blankets, sat Katherine and Florilyn.
As Edward climbed down from one side of the coach, and Percy emerged out the door of the other, Steven Muir ran along the walkway beside the inn to meet them.
“Stevie!” exclaimed Percy as the two shook hands.
“Welcome back to Wales, Percy,” said Steven. “And to you, Mr. Drummond,” he added to Edward.
“It is good to see you once again, Steven,” said Edward. “I understand congratulations are in order for your new position at the manor.”
“Thank you,” replied Steven. “Your sister has been very kind to me. Hello, Mrs. Drummond,” he added as Edward helped Percy’s mother to the ground. “Lady Katherine and Lady Florilyn are there in the carriage,” he said, pointing ahead. “I told them to stay bundled up. You may go get settled with them if you like. We brought extra blankets. I will see to your bags.”
The three made their way along the walkway to the waiting carriage. As they approached, the two women set aside the blankets that had been spread over their knees and stepped to the ground.
