Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (7 page)

Courtenay set the letter aside with a sigh filled with emotions it would have been difficult to identify. His first impulse was to set pen to paper immediately. His hand quivered to do so. But he realized it would be foolish. He was no businessman, but he was certainly knowledgeable enough in the ways of the world to know that one could not appear
too
eager.

He tried to pretend he was spending the following days thinking through the pros and cons of the thing before arriving at a well-reasoned decision. In truth, he was simply waiting for enough time to pass to make the fellow Litchfield, whoever he was, squirm just enough anticipating a reply.

His mother and sister noted the difference in his countenance instantly, the subtle smirk, as if he knew something he was not telling. Katherine suspected him of having something up his sleeve, which he did. But she was the last one to whom he would divulge what he was thinking.

After six days, Courtenay judged that enough time had gone by. He sat down at the writing table in his room and began to write the letter he had been composing in his mind since the moment his eyes had fallen on Litchfield’s words, “cash advance to yourself.”

Five days later, Courtenay received his reply.

Mr. Westbrooke
,

I was delighted to receive your letter and hope that this may be the beginning of a rewarding business relationship that will benefit us both
.

Enclosed you will see site drawings showing the northeastern portions of your estate boundaries, indicating the area of my interest. I have outlined four potential scenarios, any of which I would be willing to consider—a twenty-acre sale, another of one hundred acres, a third of five hundred, and a fourth of one thousand acres. The price offered per acre would of course be larger for the smaller plots
.

My research tells me that such land in Gwynedd has been selling in recent years for approximately five pounds an acre. As a preliminary offer, I would commit to paying you eight pounds an acre for twenty acres, six for one hundred acres, five for five hundred, and four for one thousand acres. Furthermore, I will pay one-fourth immediately upon our signing a binding sales agreement, with the balance forthcoming at the consummation of the sale once you hold legal title to the land
.

If you find these terms agreeable, perhaps it might be appropriate for me to plan a trip to North Wales for us to meet in person and finalize the arrangements. We will, of course, devise some plausible explanation for my visit
.

I am,
Faithfully yours,
Lord Coleraine Litchfield

E
LEVEN

Nugget

W
ithin a week of Florilyn’s and Steven’s visit to the croft at the base of Rhinog Fawr, not only had Katherine and Adela Muir paid the two invalids a visit, so, too, had Dr. Rotherham. He prescribed a medication he was confident would help them begin eating again and get the husband and wife on their way to returning strength.

For several days thereafter, Adela and Steven Muir stayed at the Cnychwr cottage. They nursed the two patients, prepared food, saw to the animals, and gave young Arial a badly needed rest. When they left, mother and son clattered back to town behind the croft’s single horse atop a wagonload of fresh wool, which, it being late in the season and no other wool being sold, Steven was confident would bring Kynwal Cnychwr a good price.

“Do you ever miss living out here, Mother?” Steven asked as they bounced along.

Adela thought a moment. “Being out in the hills like this brings back many memories,” she said at length. “I miss your father, I miss the life we enjoyed, the animals, being so close to nature all the time. But living at the manor is more like I remember from my childhood. Of course, we lived in nothing so lavish—it was a simple home by manor standards. What I mean is … I don’t know how to describe it—the way of life, I suppose … having people about, servants, stables, books, gardens. My mother only had one servant, and she only came to the house three days a week. Still, reading MacDonald’s books brings it all back to me now.”

“In what way?”

“His stories mostly have to do with gentle folk, people of means. It’s just the way he writes about them. We were certainly not wealthy by any standards. But my father and grandfather had roots among the gentility.”

“You didn’t miss that when you married Father?”

“Aspects of it, of course. But there were many children, and times were hard. Even from such a background, one isn’t always able to dictate the future. And love doesn’t always fall according to station in life. I loved your father and wanted to be his wife. And we had a good life together. I regret not a minute of it. However, I do enjoy being at the manor now, especially having access to a library again. My grandfather had a marvelous library. I’ve often wondered what became of all his books. To answer your question, I have no regrets about the past, nor about the present.”

A wonderful warm day dawned toward the end of the first week of November, several days after Steven’s return to the manor. Most of the trees, like the sheep on the surrounding fields, had lost their summer adornment. Their leaves of yellow and red and orange were strewn on the ground everywhere and rapidly turning brown.

The moment Florilyn saw the sun streaming through her bedroom window, she knew it was a day for a long ride. One could never depend on the weather after November. This might be the last such day in North Wales for months.

After breakfast, she dressed in her riding clothes and left the house for the stables. Their aging groom, Hollin Radnor, was nowhere to be seen. From the depths of the darkness, however, Florilyn heard peculiar sounds, scuffling and low snorting, as from a horse in distress. She hurried inside the great barn.

The sounds were coming from Grey Tide’s stall. She was walking about, obviously restless. Her tail was high and her hips distended. As Florilyn approached, she moved about in a circular motion and awkwardly slumped to her side on the floor. Her hind portions were quivering. Snorts and whines of discomfort continued.

She was ready to foal!

Florilyn hurried from the barn. She called out as she ran to the new stables. There was no sign of Radnor or Stuart Wyckham anywhere. At length she bolted for the house. She ran straight to the factor’s office at the end of the ground floor of the west wing then ran inside without knocking.

Steven sat across the room, an open ledger on the desk in front of him. He looked up at the sound of his door crashing open.

“Steven!” cried Florilyn. “It’s Grey Tide. I think she’s ready! More than ready—I think it’s started! But I couldn’t find Hollin.”

Already Steven was on his feet, sprinting from the room with Florilyn on his heels. By the time she followed him into the barn, Steven was kneeling behind Grey Tide in the stall.

“You’re right,” he said, glancing up as she tentatively entered. “Labor is well under way. But she is in pain. It may be a difficult birth. Something seems wrong.”

Florilyn stood watching wide-eyed with a grimace of mingled disgust and awe as Steven plunged his hand inside Grey Tide and felt for the position of the foal.

“Just as I thought,” he said. “I can’t feel the legs.”

“What does that mean?” asked Florilyn.

“The forelegs and head have to come out together. Otherwise we’ll have real problems … uh, oh, look out—stand back!”

Steven withdrew his hand and leaped back as Grey Tide struggled again to her feet and began shuffling about the stall. She was obviously agitated.

“Easy, Grey Tide … easy, girl,” said Steven softly, walking slowly to her head where he tried to stroke her nose and neck to calm her down. “Don’t be afraid, girl … You’re having a baby. Just relax, Grey Tide.”

“Oh no, ugh … Steven!” exclaimed Florilyn. “Something is happening back here. Oh, ick … Steven!”

“What is it?” said Steven, calmly leaving Grey Tide’s head and returning to where Florilyn stood behind her.

“What’s all that white?”

“Nothing to worry about. That’s the birth sack. It’s called the amnion. The foal is inside … but … yes, it’s as I thought—the head is coming without the legs. The bag’s already broken. Oops—she’s trying to lay down again. Easy, Grey Tide … gently, big girl,” he said, leaning against the mare’s rump as she began to settle again to the floor. “Lady Florilyn!” he cried. “Come over here. We can’t let her crush the foal’s head. Here … push with me!”

Cautiously Florilyn stepped to Steven’s side and shoved, though how much help she was under the circumstances was questionable. She had never witnessed anything like this in her life.

As Grey Tide struggled to ease herself to the ground, Steven pushed with all his might to make sure she came down on her side. Even as she did, the head of the foal was fully visible. The mare’s contractions were coming steady and strong.

“I’ll have to go inside to find the legs,” said Steven when Grey Tide was lying comfortably on the ground. “Lady Florilyn, I’ll need your help. I know this may be unpleasant—but can you be brave and help me?”

“I’ll try, Steven.”

“Kneel down here. Do you see—the head is out. Grasp the little torso just below the head with both your hands. Come—I’ll help you.” Steven took Florilyn’s two hands and set them gently around the white mass. “Here, Lady Florilyn—we must move quickly. You can see the head and neck, can you not?”

“Yes … oh, ugh!”

“Now with your hand like this … Good—now very gently apply a little pressure and try to prevent the foal coming further until I have the legs out … very gently. Can you do that?”

“I think so … Oh, it’s all wet and sticky … ick!”

“Be brave, Lady Florilyn. We have to try to save Grey Tide’s foal. Now I have to go back inside. I must get the forelegs out before the foal tries to get up. The minute she is breathing her instinct will be to stand. If her legs are still inside, she could damage Grey Tide’s insides.”

Again Steven reached inside. He felt along the length of the foal’s slender body, now about half exposed. Gradually he managed to extricate first one tiny hoof and leg, then the other.

“The forelegs are out—good,” he said at length. “Now, Lady Florilyn, very gently … pull. We can let her come the rest of the way.”

Still grimacing but clutching firmly around the tiny form, Florilyn did as Steven said. Almost instantly the foal slid the rest of the way until only her back legs still rested inside.

Kneeling beside Florilyn, Steven set his hands atop Florilyn’s. “Pull again. We must get the other two legs out.”

Within seconds the tiny form lay motionless on the ground before them. The birth was over, but the foal was not breathing.

“Is … is it dead?” asked Florilyn as she gazed down at the wet, bloody mass in front of her.

“I don’t know,” said Steven, jumping to his feet. He grabbed several handfuls of clean straw from across the stall and tossed it in front of Florilyn. “Here, wipe it down with dry straw. Try to get the mouth open if you can.”

“Where are you going?” she asked in sudden panic.

“Just over here,” said Steven as he walked around the large form of the mother lying on her side recovering from the birth. “I need to get Grey Tide on her feet. We’ll need her help to save her foal. While I’m doing that, tickle the foal’s nose with a piece of straw and blow into its mouth and nose.”

Tentatively Florilyn took some of the straw and began wiping at the wet, limp form.

“Oh … Steven—something’s happening. Oh, ick … There’s a lot of blood and icky-looking stuff coming out—ugh. I think Grey Tide’s bleeding!”

“It’s the afterbirth. Nothing to worry about … though it usually takes twenty minutes to an hour. This is fast. Come, Grey Tide … up! Come, girl, you need to help us get your little foal breathing.” Steven pushed and cajoled, but the poor mare was obviously spent. “Any sign of life?” he called out to Florilyn.

“No. I think he’s dead.”

“
Is
it a colt?”