Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (17 page)

Florilyn stared at him, wondering if she had heard him correctly.

“I would have struck him to protect you,” Steven went on, “but not to defend myself. I am twice as strong as your brother. And I was
very
angry. That’s why I was trying hard to remain calm. Anger and strength—the two do not go well together. I might have hurt him very badly. That would have done him no good at all.”

“Steven,” now said Katherine, “you must tell me what this was all about. Courtenay is my son, and you are my factor. If there are differences so serious as this, I must know of them. Why do you say it was your fault?”

“There was a dispute about one of your tenants, Lady Katherine,” replied Steven. “You remember the Naughties, from the village—Jock Naughtie is the fisherman who broke his arm rather badly in that January storm?”

“I remember.”

“I found out today that Jamie, that’s Jock’s wife, encountered Courtenay a few weeks ago. Courtenay learned that we had forgiven their rents until Jock was back at the fishing. Courtenay told them they must pay all back rents or quit.”

“He didn’t!”

“I fear so, my lady,” said Steven. “I learned of it when I was in the village just now. Jamie and Jock were packing their belongings to leave.”

“We must stop them. I won’t have Courtenay meddling while the estate remains in my hands. Especially I am not about to allow him to evict them!”

“I told them to do nothing more,” said Steven.

“I will go see them myself. I want to apologize personally. Will you take me to them, Steven?”

“Of course, Lady Katherine.”

“After we get you cleaned and bandaged, that is,” said Katherine. “And Florilyn,” she added, turning again to her daughter, “are you badly hurt?”

“No, Mother. I will be sore. But I am more furious than hurt.”

“Then let us go inside and see to Steven’s injuries.”

With the help of Steven’s mother, who seemed less concerned about a few scrapes and bruises and cuts than the two Westbrooke women, Steven’s two or three bleeding wounds were cleaned and bandaged. With a fresh shirt, he was soon himself again, though he, too, would be sore for a week.

Within the hour, he and Katherine set out for the village in one of the manor’s small buggies. When they knocked and were admitted to the Naughtie cottage, with the cart still sitting in the street half full of a miscellany of possessions, the humble fisherman and his wife were beside themselves to show what hospitality they were capable of to the former viscount’s wife. As hospitality is a matter of the heart more than luxury of provision, Katherine felt as welcomed as she would have in any castle in Wales. Probably more so. The good man and his wife were profuse in their gratitude. Jamie cried. Steven added as a final condition that they must tell no one of the altercation with Courtenay or what he had tried to do. He
would
be viscount one day. They must all give him the chance to become a caring landlord to his people. Toward this end, they must prejudice no one against him.

Katherine, however, moved as she was by Steven’s simple speech of forgiveness, returned to the manor determined to prevent any recurrence of the incident or any further interference from her son. She was waiting for him when he returned from his ride. She met him at the foot of the stairs. “I would like to talk to you, Courtenay,” she said without preamble. “Would you please meet me in your father’s study in five minutes?”

“Perhaps I am not inclined to talk to you, Mother,” he retorted. “After the way you took that Stevie Muir’s side earlier, I have nothing to say to you.”

“It may be I who have something to say to you. If you will not come to the study, then I will say it here for the whole household to hear.”

Courtenay returned his mother a look of daggers then continued up the stairs.

Katherine tried to compose herself. She walked calmly to her late husband’s study, sat down in the chair behind his desk, and waited. This was not an interview she was looking forward to.

Courtenay walked in ten minutes later without knocking. If his behavior from earlier or his lengthy ride had subdued or shamed him in his own estimation, he displayed no sign of it. His eyes glowed with the fire of indignation. His was not a character easily humbled. It was doubtful he had ever felt the twinge of self-mortification in his life.

“Please sit down,” said Katherine matter-of-factly.

“I prefer to stand,” rejoined Courtenay. It was not true. But in his present frame of mind, he would have countered
any
request or command from his mother for no reason other than to set himself against her will.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “What I have to say will not take long. I have been apprised of your interference in my affairs in the matter of one of our tenants in the village by the name of Naughtie. You apparently gave them notice to quit unless they paid all their back rents, directly contradicting what my factor had told them.”

Courtenay burst out laughing with disdain. “Your
factor
! Ha, ha! You continue to play this ridiculous charade with the clodhopper Muir. Ha, ha, ha!”

“He
is
my factor,” said Katherine firmly. “And he is in charge of my affairs at present, not you. Fortunately he and I have been able to undo the mischief you caused the poor people. But I will thank you not to interfere with my tenants again.”

The laughter on Courtenay’s face died out as quickly as it had come. “
Your
tenants?” he said.

“For the present, yes.”

“You haven’t forgotten whose tenants they will be in a year’s time?”

“You are not likely to let me forget, are you? But though I cannot control what you will do then, I can prevent your interfering now. And if you again threaten or so much as lay a hand on Steven Muir—”

“The fool deserved the thrashing I gave him.”

“Nevertheless, if you lay a hand on him, or on your sister, I will take steps—”

“You will take
steps
!” Courtenay spat back. “Pray, what kind of steps would you take against me, Mother!”

“A man who strikes a woman, a brother who strikes his sister, is a rogue and a villain, and I will not have such in my house. If I have to, I will take steps to have you removed to keep you from such an attack again.”

“Have me
removed
!” cried Courtenay, his rage mounting. “
Your
house! You forget yourself, Mother. This is
my
house. The entire Westbrooke estate is
mine
. You are a mere temporary trustee. But none of it belongs to you or ever will. So do not threaten me. You cannot have me removed. I will not have you make me look like a weak child in the eyes of my tenants. If you persist with such threats, you will leave me no alternative but to have
you
removed.”

“You would not dare evict a former viscountess in full view of all of North Wales. Your father may be dead, but I am still Lady Snowdon. Even London would be rocked by the scandal you would bring upon yourself. Do not think too highly of yourself, Courtenay. You would be despised for such arrogance.”

But Courtenay was nowise cowed. He did not know what it was to recognize that he had gone too far and back down. “In that case,” he said, “I give you formal notice here and now, Mother, that neither you nor your daughter will be welcome to call this your home after next March. You will receive written notification of your eviction in due course.”

He turned and strode from the study, leaving Katherine staring after him in horrified silence. Slowly her eyes filled. How could her own son have come to this? Her mother’s heart broke at the thought of what he had become.

T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

Summer Plans

N
o more incidents or outbursts marred the slow dawning of spring in the gardens of Westbrooke Manor. After the high words they had exchanged in her husband’s study, Katherine had not so much as spoken another word to Courtenay again. Nor had she had the opportunity. She scarcely saw him. If Courtenay had kept out of the way of the household before, he was now little more than a ghost whose occasional presence was assumed but whom no one had actually
seen
.

He came and went by one of the seldom-used back stairways, and his footsteps were heard but now and then. The echo of horses’ hooves from the stables also gave evidence of his movements and his daily comings and goings. The only one of the staff who maintained regular contact with the late viscount’s son was Mrs. Drenwydd. Somehow Courtenay contrived to make his wishes known. For a month she had been delivering his tea and meals, on schedule, to his private apartment of two rooms. Adela kept his quarters clean, the bed made and supplied with fresh linens, but rarely saw its occupant. Sometimes, she reported, the bed was not slept in for days at a time. At such times, the cook was not notified in advance, only learning that the young master, as they still called him, had not touched his food when she came to take away the tray. But she continued to bring tea and cakes and the next meal at their appointed times, for one never knew when he might be in residence again, and she was terrified of angering him. How he occupied his time was a mystery.

He was certainly not missed. Absent though he was, however, the bitter argument between Katherine and Courtenay cast an ongoing pall over Westbrooke Manor. Though Katherine did not divulge the specifics of their exchange, the heated shouts had been heard by Florilyn in her room and Adela Muir in hers, as well as two or three of the staff.

Katherine had not been herself since. There was no doubt what was the cause of her gloom. Her own future did not concern her. She grieved for what her son had become. She did, however, accelerate her plans for Mochras Head. She wrote to solicitor Murray with the request that he discreetly retain a suitable architect and arrange a meeting at the manor to begin the process of designing what she was now confident would be her new home. It was already too late to hope to complete construction before Courtenay’s birthday. But she and Florilyn could spend a month, even a year if need be, with Edward and Mary in Glasgow. She had no intention of waiting for the ignominy of being cast adrift by her son. She and Florilyn would be packed and gone the day before Courtenay acquired the title. She still had not resolved how best to care for Adela and Steven and the rest of her staff. Those who wanted to remain in Courtenay’s employ, if he chose to keep them, could certainly remain. Those he did not plan to keep, she would employ at the new house. What to do in the interim, however, before construction was complete, weighed upon her as an unknown yet to be resolved.

Courtenay, meanwhile, bided his time with useless and vain distractions—traveling, eating, visiting, drinking, hunting. While Lord Litchfield in London was busily engaged in making plans for his new acquisition in Wales, the sale could not have been further from Courtenay’s mind. With Litchfield’s money in the bank, he felt again the exuberant freedom of wealth. The only hint that he planned to sail for the continent for the summer and possibly longer were a few words to Mrs. Drenwydd around the first of May, telling her that he would be traveling abroad and would not require meals for some time, adding that he would apprise her further when his plans became definite.

He and Colville Burrenchobay were returning from a pheasant hunt one afternoon, on their way through Llanfryniog from the north, where they intended to slack their thirst with however many tankards of Mistress Chattan’s ale it took to accomplish the job. Courtenay had been trying to persuade his friend to accompany him to France in two weeks.

The figure of a woman came toward them along the walkway beside the street, a boy of two to three years at her side.

“Is that … by the saints—is that Rhawn Lorimer?” exclaimed Courtenay in a low voice.

“I can hardly tell,” chuckled Colville. “I haven’t seen her in years.”

“She must have put on two stone. To think that I once fancied that!”

Rhawn saw them as they approached. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced from one to the other.

As they rode by, both young men nodded slightly. No words were exchanged.

“If looks could kill, eh?” said Courtenay softly.

“That expression she cast you was the look of a woman spurned, old man,” said Colville. “When are you going to own up to being the father of her brat there?”

“What are you talking about?” Courtenay shot back irritably.

“Everyone knows it.”

“Don’t talk rubbish. They know no such thing.”

“If not you, who else could the father be?”

“Some might think it was you.”

“Bah. I wasn’t even around at the time. I heard she met several no-goods when she was in London. You know the English! None of them would own up to it. With the reputation she had, I doubt she even knows who the father is.”

Both burst out laughing. Their speculations went no further as they reined up in front of the inn, dismounted, and went inside.

Further to the north, Edward and Mary Drummond sat in a second-class coach of the Aberdeen Express, bound for the great northern seaport and the graduation of their son from Aberdeen University. Their enthusiasm for the trip had been heightened two days before by a letter from Edward’s cousin Henry in Stirling with the news that he and his son of the same name, Percy’s junior by six months, had decided to accept their invitation to Percy’s graduation. That same afternoon, they would take the train north from Edinburgh, where young Henry was studying for the ministry of the Free Church at New College. They would meet them at their boardinghouse after their arrival.