From Across the Ancient Waters (12 page)

Their two offspring—Courtenay, cut from the same cloth as his father, now eighteen, and Florilyn, fifteen—rather than infusing the bloodline with the spiritual tradition brought into it by their mother, appeared to be going to seed along with the former Welsh lineage of their descent.

Gradually the faith of Katherine Westbrooke waned under the constant pressure of her husband’s unbelieving churchgoing religiosity. She held out hope during their early years of providing their two children
some
spiritual grounding. She discovered, however, that weekly church services were a singularly ineffective means of doing so, especially under the shadow of worldliness with which the viscount’s outlook on life infused the home.

Katherine continued to love her husband and made of it a good enough marriage for both. Yearly, however, her grief deepened at the realization that though they continued to attend the Church of England socially as a family every Sunday, her son and daughter were growing into pagans of the first order. What heartache must surely follow, either from the grave or more eternal regions, for those scions of spiritual families who spurn the good soil implanted into them and choose the world’s way instead.

Whatever evils might be laid at the charge of their paternal pedigree, Courtenay and Florilyn Westbrooke at least had the benefit of a maternal rootstalk of godliness to stand them in good stead as they developed. This bloodline, however, both were learning to despise. Their father’s influence had certainly been formative. But scorn of spiritual things is entirely individual. Thus, the downward spiral of character was given most of its energy by the power of their own self-willed choices. None of the three—father, son, daughter—had the slightest notion that the demon called “playing with religion” had nearly entirely taken them over.

Katherine wept in her room for an hour after Florilyn’s ridiculous exchange at the dinner table. How could they do Percy any good, she thought through her tears, with her own children adding to the problems of her brother’s son with such dreadful ideas of unbelief?

What would Edward think of her if word reached him of what faithlessness reigned in Snowdonia!

The Generations

A
cold front blew in off the sea, keeping most of the inhabitants of Westbrooke Manor indoors for the next several days.

As Percy walked up the main staircase, returning to his room at the distant end of the west wing’s second floor, he glanced about him at the paintings on the walls. He realized for the first time that many of these people were in a way related to him, even if distantly and by marriage.

Who were they?
he wondered.

He paused at the landing between the ground and first floors, his attention suddenly arrested by a penetrating look in the eyes of the portrait of one particular woman. She stood as if eternally gazing over the entry hall below with a mysterious expression.

“Having a stroll about the old place, eh, my boy?” came a voice behind him. Percy turned to see the viscount striding toward the base of the staircase.

“Yes, Uncle Roderick,” he replied. “It has been raining so steadily all day I had no choice but to get my exercise indoors.”

“Shrewd thinking,” said his uncle, climbing the stairs toward him. “The rain here can be insufferable. But it always clears, have no fear. What do you think of the old woman, there?” he added, pointing up to the painting in front of his nephew.

“She has an unusual countenance,” answered Percy. “Her stare stopped me cold as I passed. I felt like she was actually looking at me.”

His uncle laughed. “It’s my grandmother,” he said. “Well her eyes
might
stop you in your tracks!”

“Why is that?”

Westbrooke lowered his voice mysteriously and leaned close to his nephew. “They say she possessed the second sight,” he said into Percy’s ear.

An involuntarily shudder swept through Percy’s chest at the words. “What’s that?” he asked.

“A Scotsman like you … never heard of the second sight, my boy? But I forgot, your family’s religion probably disavows the existence of such fancies. It’s the Celtic blood of the ancients that still lives in these hills. Surely you know of our great old Welsh ruler, Rhodri Mawr, and our warrior king who fought the English in the early fifteenth century, Owain Glyndwr.”

“I’ve heard of them, that’s all,” replied Percy.

“Great men if you believe your history,” rejoined Westbrooke. “Legends abound of their mystical powers. It’s a power that lives on, especially here in the north in Gwynedd and Snowdonia. They roamed these very hills, you know—Mawr and Wyddfa. They say it occasionally gets into folks even today, the second sight, I mean. They say it enables them to see things other people can’t see. Some say they can even predict the future. Runs in family lines, they say.”

“Do
you
have it, Uncle Roderick?”

“Me—good heavens, no!” The viscount laughed with a shudder at the thought. “No one around here lays claim to such clairvoyance. Well,” he added with a chuckle, “other than the old hag in the village. But then she’s a different story altogether.” He glanced away briefly, as if something had distracted his train of thought. “It’s mostly all superstition,” he resumed quickly. “Nothing to put stock in. But come,” he added, “let me show you the armory.”

He led the way up the main staircase to the second floor, then to the right and into a part of the house Percy had not yet seen. “Neither Courtenay nor Florilyn have any interest in the family’s history,” he said as they entered the room. “Perhaps I shall be more successful in arousing your fascination.”

Percy glanced about. Every wall was covered with weapons and implements of battle of many diverse kinds—swords, guns, axes, knives, daggers, lances, coats of mail, leather jerkins, two more full suits of armor, ornately carved and painted shields, and a crossbow.

“It was something of a hobby of my grandfather’s,” said the viscount as they strolled leisurely about the room. “He was the husband of the lady downstairs with the probing eyes. Perhaps I have inherited his interest. What do you think?”

“It’s fabulous, Uncle Roderick,” replied Percy, gazing about at the walls.

“It’s one of the largest collections in Wales. Look out here,” he added, walking to the east window of the room. “If you are partial to mountains rather than the sea, this window affords the best view in the house.”

Percy followed his uncle to the window. The two stood side by side, gazing out for a time.

“If I’m going to make a Welshman out of you, you will have to learn to love those hills,” said the viscount at length. “Sometimes, on the clearest of days, I stand here and gaze on Mount Snowdon away up there to the north.”

“Can you really see it from here?” asked Percy.

The viscount nodded. “It’s eighteen miles and requires ideal conditions,” he said. “On most days all you can make out is mist and clouds. It’s then,” he added, laughing, “when you definitely need the second sight!”

He and his uncle chatted easily for another ten or fifteen minutes as they moved about the room.

“Come and have a look about any time, Percy, my boy,” said Lord Snowdon at length. “Feel free to explore the whole place. My house is your house, as they say,” he added, laughing.

“Thank you, Uncle Roderick. You have been very kind to me. I appreciate your generosity. Thank you.”

“However, I am afraid I need to leave you for now. I was on my way to my study when I ran into you on the landing. There is an important letter I need to answer. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not.”

Left alone, Percy wandered about a few minutes more. He then left the armory and drifted along the corridor toward the library. He had only been inside it once since his arrival and was not a great reader. But on a rainy day like this, what else was there to do but find a book to occupy the time?

He had no idea where his cousins were or how they occupied themselves when housebound. He didn’t really care. Neither had shown much interest in him. He had the feeling Florilyn was avoiding him until his anger over the incident with Grey Tide simmered down.

He entered the library. It was deathly quiet. He assumed himself alone. Slowly he wandered through the shelves lined from floor to ceiling with books.

Suddenly a movement startled him. There was his aunt seated in an alcove reading. She laid aside her book and glanced up at his approach.

“Hello, Aunt Katherine,” he said walking toward her.

“Hello, Percy.”

“I didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

“A gloomy day, is it not?”

“I suppose I should be used to it. It rains in Glasgow all the time, too. Still, you’re right, it is rather a depressing sight outside.”

“A perfect book day, that’s what I call days like this.”

“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.

Altercation

L
ord 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.

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.