From Across the Ancient Waters (45 page)

As Percy’s foot reached for the step to climb inside, at the far end of the street between the two churches, the sound of galloping hooves thundered toward them. He paused and looked toward it.

A smile crept over his face as they came into view from out of the mist. It was a horse and rider, hair flying behind her, that he knew well.

Florilyn reined in dangerously and jumped to the ground and ran to him. He turned away from the coach door to meet her as she threw her arms around him.

“Percy, Percy!” she blubbered, beginning to cry all over again. “I am so sorry! I knew it wasn’t true, what they were saying. Can you ever forgive me? I am so sorry!”

Percy returned her embrace and whispered a few words into her ear.

At the opposite end of the street, hurrying past the chapel and church from the harbor, Gwyneth sprinted into view of the inn.

Suddenly her feet came to a stop, and she stared in horror. Through the fog she saw Florilyn stepping back from Percy’s arms. Then she quickly leaned forward again, tiptoed high, and kissed him.

A gasp escaped Gwyneth’s lips. She turned away. The bouquet of a broken heart fell from her hand. Her eyes burned with hot tears as she ran into the nearest lane to keep from being seen. The moment she was out of sight, Gwyneth stopped, crumbled against the stones of a windowless wall, and wept.

When at last she was able to continue on her way, out of sight through the back alleys and lanes of the village to the safety of the moor, the tears continued to flow.

A few minutes later, the coach bounded into motion. His face at the open window, waving back to his aunt, uncle, and Florilyn where they stood together, Percy’s eyes fell on a smattering of color lying in the dirt of the street. It was a small bouquet of flowers … tied with red and blue ribbon!

A pang seized his heart. Frantically he leaned from the window of the coach and hastily turned his head about in every direction. “Gwyneth!” he called. “Gwyneth!”

But his voice was lost in the thundering of hooves along the hard-packed dirt street. The coach clattered past the chapel, turned toward the harbor, and disappeared in the morning mist.

Far behind her as she sped across the grass outside the village, the rumbling of the coach and four receded in the distance as it returned to the main road north of town.

Gwyneth paused in her flight and turned toward it. She could hear it but saw nothing. Her eyes were swimming in a blur of liquid, and the fog still lay thick all about her.

“Good-bye, Percy,” she whispered.

Changes 1872

Changes

A
gain time sped and crawled by, depending on who was looking at the clock.

In Glasgow, the ministry of Edward Drummond thrived, in large measure, though indirectly, because of his son. Estrangement between any of the human family acts like a great dam preventing the rivers of God being able to flow. Reconciliation demolishes those obstructions, and those waters again gush through their channels, and God is able to work.

Meanwhile, the vicar and his wife, Mary, kept careful watch in Glasgow’s bookstores for every new title to land on their shelves by Aberdeenshire native George MacDonald. These they passed back and forth by mail and discussed in letters with Edward’s sister. Of the three MacDonald devotees, however, only Edward had the appetite for the weighty volume entitled
Unspoken Sermons
that was released. The sisters-in-law confessed themselves more fond of the Scotsman’s novels than his theological works.

In Llanfryniog, Kyvwlch Gwarthegydd continued to pound his anvil against religiosity every Sunday morning, while his son Chandos became burlier and wielded the blacksmith’s hammer with increasing authority. In one thing, however, the son did not take after the father. Through a friendship with the man’s son, young Chandos fell under the influence of the new minister of the Methodist chapel at the north end of town. He had in consequence taken to reading with great interest a New Testament the minister had given him.

Mistress Chattan continued to do a brisk trade on the reputation of her ale.

Madame Fleming had
not
made closer approach to the Bible that sat with the books on her bookshelves. She kept it almost as a talisman to insure that no aspect of the spiritual and occult was omitted from her repertoire of hidden knowledge. In truth, she was a little afraid of it. She had not opened it in fifty years. But she was terrified at the thought of discarding it. With every year that passed her soul grew darker.

When things were put back in order, Grannie eventually returned to her cottage in the village. She still sensed that her end was near.

Codnor Barrie made slates and prospered in the greatest commodity of life, his own character.

Rhawn Lorimer, who had
not
paid sufficient attention to the growth of her character, continued to decline. The soil was being tilled, however, in preparation for that greatest of all invisible seed-birthings deep within the human garden. She gave birth to a baby boy. Though speculation ran rampant about whom the father might be, none was man enough to step forward to claim either a wife or a son. She remained under the roof of her parents. The magistrate and his wife were mortified at the disgrace that had befallen them.

At Westbrooke Manor, Roderick Westbrooke, viscount Lord Snowdon, completed his stables but quickly grew restless again. His dream of racing horses withered for lack of funds. His wife remained unwilling to finance the venture. Her tenderness toward her husband grew as she observed many changes that seemed taking place within him, including an increased attentiveness toward the people of the region and a new warmth and affection toward her. Neverheless, she did not feel it right to allow him to squander money on vain pursuits like yachts and race horses. It would do him no good to pamper such indulgences.

She had always known that he was running away from something, that there were memories haunting him from his life before she knew him. She had sensed it even when, as a young woman, she had fallen in love with the sensitive and quiet Welsh aristocrat eight years her senior. His grandiose schemes through the years, she was certain, were but attempts to flee from that past. She hoped that his new awareness and tenderness toward those around him signaled that at last he was finding the peace within himself that had so long eluded him.

Meanwhile, Katherine Westbrooke, like her brother and sister–in–law, continued to read every new book released from the pen of the Scotsman. Her recent readings had included the otherworldly tale
At the Back of the North Wind
and a new fantasy called
The Princess and the Goblin
.

The viscount and his wife took to visiting a few of the villagers. They also rekindled their love of riding together in the hills. On one such ride, the viscount led his wife to the cottage he had visited with Percy and introduced Katherine to Mrs. Muir and young Stevie. A warm and unexpected friendship sprouted between Katherine and Adela Muir, with whom Lady Snowdon began sharing her MacDonald books. The two women found within one another kindred spirits of the heart that completely transcended differences of station.

The viscount also took to walking in the village, visiting with the villagers as he went, even enjoying an occasional pint of Mistress Chattan’s ale. More and more in consequence his wife accompanied him to town and visited the shops and made as many of her purchases for the manor as she was able to from them.

Courtenay Westbrooke returned to Oxford. His studies interested him less and less. He managed to struggle through another year. As he began his fourth year in the fall of 1871, however, knowledgeable parties questioned how much longer he would last.

In the hills, Stevie Muir tended his sheep and other animals, cared for his mother, took seconds in the next two shearing contests, and was touted as the young man to watch in coming years. In consequence of their occasional visits, both Lord and Lady Snowdon took a liking and developed a great fondness for Stevie’s gentle spirit. The viscount was especially taken with his skill with animals. The result was the offer of a job at the manor—for two days a week only owing to the distance he had to travel and the extra work required in the matter of his own animals—as an assistant and apprentice to Hollin Radnor, whose step had begun to slow.

At Burrenchobay Hall, unable to land the Scot of her dreams, young Davina Burrenchobay was now engaged to the eldest son of Baronet Rasmussen of Blaenau Ffestiniog, a devilishly good-looking youth of twenty-two years, rich and as full of himself as Davina was of herself and destined for triumphant mediocrity in all things to which he set his hand.

Not much was heard about Colville Burrenchobay. He was still unmarried, though rumors about his entanglements continued. He returned to university, graduated without distinction, and had taken to traveling a good deal.

Young Ainsworth Burrenchobay took his brother’s place in the gossip registers, was reportedly even better with a gun and with young women than his brother, and was preparing to enter Cambridge. To what purpose, however, would have been interesting to inquire.

Rupert Wilkes, the occasional visitor to Mistress Chattan’s inn, was still no nearer the discovery of the treasure of Dolau Cothi.

And on the moor rising behind the village, Gwyneth Barrie took care of her father, Grannie, and her animals, in that order, while continuing to work three days a week at Westbrooke Manor. Her outward growth continued, albeit slowly. If she would never attain the stature of her peers, her late start had the advantage of keeping her adding an inch a year long after most of them had reached their final height. In that far more important kind of growth, that of
inner
stature, the life of grace and quiet peace within her continued to deepen and expand, adding not mere inches but cubits to her character.

Walking in Llanfryniog one day, the viscount saw approaching him a young woman of indeterminate age. She was short enough to be a child, but her countenance and the features of her face were those of a woman. He was arrested by the sight.

He grew more transfixed as she came closer. His steps came to a halt. He continued to stare at the face and snowy white hair as she walked toward him.

Slowly his face went pale. It was almost as if … but it could not be … not here! He shook his head, as if trying to wake from a dream as she stopped in front of him.

“Good morning, Lord Snowdon,” she said sweetly.

The voice brought him once more awake to the present. But the smile that accompanied it nearly undid what little equanimity remained in the man’s carriage. “Yes, uh … hello, er … what are, I mean … “He fumbled, as if he were the stutterer and she some princess that had stepped out of his dreams—as well she might be. “You, uh … I believe … that is, I know you, don’t I? Your face is unaccountably familiar.”

“Yes, sir,” smiled Gwyneth. “I work for you, at the manor, Lord Snowdon. For your wife and daughter, that is.”

“Ah, yes, of course … that explains it,” he said. His voice revealed profound relief. “For a moment my brain was playing tricks on me. I knew there had to be some reason why … that is—but it is not important. So how are you this fine day?”

“Well, sir … very well.”

“You are not working today?”

“No, sir. I work three days a week.”

“Ah, right … I see … very good, then. What is your name, young lady?”

“Gwyneth Barrie, Lord Snowdon.”

“Barrie … ah, right. Capital! Barrie, is it, then?” he replied. Again he appeared relieved. “Well then, Miss Barrie, good day to you.” The two parted, though the viscount glanced back a time or two as he continued down the street.

Gwyneth stood staring after him for a few moments. She had found the interview almost as strange as he found it unnerving.

For days after, the incident haunted Roderick Westbrooke.

From his factor he discovered what he could about the name and learned all he could about Codnor Barrie, the girl’s father. Barrie was a local man who had gone to Ireland seeking work as a young man. No one knew other than that when he returned to his native Snowdonia some years later, he had a daughter with him. It was rumored that the girl’s mother had been tragically lost at sea, but no one knew more than that. There had at one time been suspicions about the girl, Heygate added, associating her with nature’s darker side, rumors that had possibly originated with an old woman in the village, Barrie’s great-aunt. They had largely died down in recent years, the factor said. No one had any charge to bring against any of the three.