Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (3 page)
Read Treasure of the Celtic Triangle Online
Authors: Michael Phillips
“I am afraid that is the situation as it stands … yes,” replied Murray.
The office fell quiet as Courtenay sat shaking his head in annoyance. He was doing his best to keep from exploding. But only with difficulty. “At whose behest was this so-called trusteeship drawn up?” Courtenay asked at length.
“Your father’s, Mr. Westbrooke,” replied Murray. “It was several days before his death. I took it down myself.”
“Where was I?”
“I really couldn’t say, Mr. Westbrooke.”
“My father did not ask for me?”
“No, sir.”
“And my mother was there?”
“That is correct.”
“You are positive there was no coercion?”
“Of course not. Your father may have been weak, but he had all his mental faculties. This was how he wanted it.”
“And you, as the family solicitor, did not intercede on my behalf?”
“That would not have been my place, Mr. Westbrooke. I represented your father, not you.”
“Well you represent me now. It might have behooved you to think of that sooner. From where I sit, it appears that you have betrayed my interests.”
“I am sorry you should see it like that.”
Courtenay thought a moment. “I could contest it in court,” he said at length.
“You would not prevail,” replied Murray. “I fail to see what advantage you would hope to gain.”
“To invalidate the trusteeship of my mother over me.”
“It is not a trusteeship over
you
, Mr. Westbrooke. It is over the estate. Your father simply felt—”
“Don’t split hairs with me, Murray,” Courtenay shot back. “This effectively puts me under my mother’s thumb for the next year and a half. I have no intention of allowing such a state of affairs to persist.”
“Even if the trusteeship were somehow invalidated, you would still not inherit until your twenty-fifth birthday. The terms of inheritance of the viscountcy and estate are clear and irrevocable—the eldest child of the viscount or viscountess, or their issue, regardless of gender, succeeds to the title and inherits the property on his or her twenty-fifth birthday.”
“Provision would yet be made for my financial needs.”
“That is true. In that case the court would act as trustee. However, you would not have unfettered access to estate funds. Perhaps there would be a stipend, but other than that—”
“That would be an improvement upon my current predicament,” rejoined Courtenay testily. “So what recourse do I have? How do I access my own funds?”
“As I say, Mr. Westbrooke, those funds are not yet yours. At present your mother controls everything. Have you spoken with her about it?”
A snort sounded from Courtenay’s mouth. “My mother is a woman. Do you really expect her to be reasonable about it? I am sure she is enjoying her little power grab.”
“I have found Lady Snowdon to be an intelligent and thoughtful woman.”
“Yes, well you are entitled to your opinion. But unless you can come up with some way around it, once I do become viscount, I will be engaging a new solicitor to handle my affairs. I doubt the Westbrooke retainer is one you would be eager to lose, Mr. Murray, so I suggest you think of something.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Westbrooke, but legally my hands are tied. I must abide by the terms of the trusteeship. At this point, I represent your mother.”
Courtenay’s long ride back to Llanfryniog was filled with smoldering anger and venomous thoughts.
The stark reality began to dawn on him that he was dependent upon his mother for everything. The same eye-opening reality had long been a thorn in the side of the marriage between Roderick and Katherine Westbrooke. The late viscount had been a man of dreams and schemes. But his wife, who with her brother Edward Drummond of Glasgow had inherited half a small fortune from Courtenay’s grandfather, was of a more prudent temperament. With what little cash remained to accompany the title and property beyond what meager rents the homes and cottages of the nearby village of Llanfryniog provided, the viscount found himself in the humiliating position of having to rely on his wife for anything that might be considered of a speculative nature.
Now the viscount’s son, still some months away from his twenty-fourth birthday, realized that he had no job, no prospects, no money. Having failed to complete his studies at Oxford, he found himself at loose ends. What was he to do until he was twenty-five?
It was a good thing Courtenay saw no one, and that the manor had mostly retired for the night before he left Mistress Chattan’s pub, where he had moodily partaken of what passed for a supper and far more ale than was good for him.
The only conclusion the stringy beef, hard potatoes, and brussels sprouts that resembled rocks had left him with was that he had no intention of going cap in hand to his mother to beg for money. What a humiliating prospect!
F
OUR
Letter to Aberdeen
I
n the two rooms he occupied on the top floor of the Aberdeen boarding house, Percival Drummond, in his fourth year at the university in the great northern city of Scotland, eased into the comfortable overstuffed chair in his room with a cup of tea. His day’s studies were done. In his hand he held a sealed letter that had been waiting for him when he arrived home.
He took a satisfying swallow, then set the cup down on the table beside him, slit open the envelope, and removed two blue handwritten sheets from inside it.
Dear Percy
, he read in the familiar feminine hand.
At last it has happened. Mother and I were surprised two days ago when Courtenay appeared without warning. He has hardly said a word to either of us since returning home. We don’t know where he has been. I thought he was distant and aloof before. But, goodness! It is terrible now. I can’t imagine that he and I used to be close. But like you and I have talked about so many times, we have all changed since your first summer with us in Wales five years ago
.
What I cannot understand about Courtenay is why he is so irritable. He’s twenty-three. Shouldn’t he be acting more like a man? He seems angry at the whole world. Whatever he had hoped to accomplish during his three months away after Daddy’s death, it certainly has not improved his disposition
.
But on to more cheerful topics! I’m sorry for beginning this letter with my dreary news!
I hope all is well and that your studies are not too demanding. I think of you constantly and cannot wait until we see one another again. But I know it is wise for you to graduate before we think of the future. Only I miss you so dreadfully!
Percy set the letter aside a moment with a smile. He missed her, too. He could almost hear her voice as if she were speaking rather than writing to him. He picked up his cup of tea with his free hand and resumed.
I told you, I think, about the gorgeous new horse Mother bought, an Anglo-Arabian stallion we have named Snowdonia. He is the most exquisite blend of white and gray. The instant we saw him, mother and I immediately thought of the snow on the gray mountains of Gwynedd. He almost seemed to name himself. Steven has been training him and thinks he will soon be comfortable with a saddle. He hopes to ride him in another few weeks. Steven has a way with horses that reminds me of Gwyneth. Maybe it runs in families! There is still no word of her. Her disappearance remains a mystery
.
Steven is such a dear. He is the most gracious and considerate young man I have ever met—except for you, of course! He is so nice to everyone, and everyone loves him—other than Courtenay. Mother has not once regretted her decision to make him factor when Mr. Heygate left. Everything is running as smoothly as before, even with Daddy and Mr. Heygate gone. I can tell that Mother misses Daddy terribly. She doesn’t talk about it, but I can tell. I miss him, too. Daddy was gruff and distant sometimes. But he loved us and we knew it
.
Speaking of Steven—I can’t think of him as Stevie anymore. Mother calls him Steven, and now that he walks about so confidently and in charge of the estate for Mother, he seems so different. Mother and Mrs. Muir have become such good friends, especially with them both losing their husbands. And with Steven now living and working at the manor, Mother asked Mrs. Muir if she would like to work for her, too, as sort of a second housekeeper. Mrs. Llewellyn is not a young woman, and she had confessed to my mother that going up and down the stairs was becoming more difficult for her. She is relieved and happy to have Mrs. Muir’s help. So now both Steven and Mrs. Muir are living at the manor and working for us. Steven is selling his flock and all their animals, though it’s been difficult for him to arrange everything. Some of them he is giving to the poor families of the region. Mother says she will make up any losses. I don’t know what is going to happen to their cottage in the hills. But his mother seems very happy here
.
I have been trying to follow in your father’s and mother’s footsteps, and my mother’s, too, and read some of Mr. MacDonald’s books. I have to admit, they are very long and sometimes difficult. The Scottish dialect is hard to understand. Maybe not for you because you are Scottish. I could read them more easily if someone translated the Scots for me. But I am going slow and trying to absorb what I read. I am reading one of his novels called
David Elginbrod,
which Mother says is his first realistic novel. She says before that he wrote poetry and fantasies and short stories. It is a story about three young people called Hugh and Margaret and Euphra. (What a funny name!) I am not too far into it yet
.
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.
F
IVE
Brother and Sister
D
ear 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.
