Read Treasure of the Celtic Triangle Online
Authors: Michael Phillips
“Thank you for believing in me, Percy,” she whispered. “I am going to keep coming awake. I will become a growing meadow, Percy.”
“You already are, Rhawn. The flowers of spring are bursting out all over.”
She smiled. “You are too nice to me, Percy! No one has every treated me like you have. And I am going to be better. I am going to keep growing. I will make you proud of me one day.”
“I am already proud of you, Rhawn. Anyone who is growing is deserving of great respect.”
She was blinking hard.
“And I will ask for God’s help about what I should do,” she added in a quivering voice, “like you said I should.”
She stepped back and smiled again. In her moist eyes was the light of hope. She had begun to know that she was truly loved, both by God and by the faithful friends he had given her.
P
ART
T
WO
Ireland
Summer-Fall 1873
T
HIRTY
-N
INE
Across the Ancient Waters
T
wenty-two-year-old Percival Drummond, third in the generations of godly Drummond men and who now prepared to take his place in the man’s work of that lineage, stood at the prow of a passenger ferry plunging through the waters of the ancient Celtic Triangle. He was on a mission whose result he could not possibly foresee.
Not divulging to his aunt and cousin that his destination was Ireland, he had taken the coach north to Blaenau Ffestiniog then to Bangor and finally Holyhead on the island of Anglesey, where he had embarked the next day for Dublin. In the Irish capital, he had dispatched a telegram to his parents informing them briefly of his plans. From Dublin, led only by the newspaper clipping and letters he had found, he took a coach south along the Irish coast to the county seat of Wicklow.
A few days ago, the only possible clues he had to guide him in what his uncle had desired of him he had derived from the deathbed affidavit he had written out for him a year before. The entire thing had been mysterious, and many of his uncle’s words cryptic and puzzling. At the time, he had himself been filled with the youthful emotions of feeling partially responsible for his uncle’s mortal accident. He had been too overwhelmed to absorb what was happening and his role in it.
Now that a year had passed, he realized how ill prepared he was for the task his uncle had set before him. If only he had asked more questions, probed his uncle for more details. But the events of that fateful week had rushed by him like a blistering wind of uncertainty. The death and grief and funeral had consumed all else by their intensity. Now his uncle was gone. He had taken his secrets to the grave with him.
Suddenly, Percy had the newly discovered letters to accompany the affidavit. He still had no idea where they would lead. But at least he had
something
to shed additional light on his uncle’s dying disclosure—the name of the town that had apparently been his first wife’s home, or that of her relatives. It was a place to begin.
The day was fair, the ocean breezes light and fragrant with sea, salt, and sunshine. Percy turned from the bow of the vessel, walked to the passenger deck, and sat down in one of several vacant chairs. From inside his coat he pulled out the affidavit and again read, in his own hand, his uncle’s words.
To whom it may concern, especially to my dear wife Katherine, my family, and to Hamilton Murray, our faithful solicitor of many years:
I make this affidavit on the 27
th
day of June in the year 1872 in the presence of my nephew, Percival Drummond, son of Edward and Mary Drummond of Glasgow, whom, for reasons that will become clear, I have asked to set my final affairs in order. I am of sound mind, but failing body …
Even to read the words brought his uncle’s familiar voice back into Percy’s memory and tears rose in his eyes. Whatever his uncle had been, however he may have failed as a husband and father early in his life, Percy had grown to love him. The remembrance of their brief friendship would always be dear to him.
At sixteen years of age
, Percy continued,
as a spoiled son of what I thought was wealth, I left Wales on a youthful grand tour, as we called it in those days—to see the world and spend money and generally squander my youth on the altar of irresponsibility. It turned out that my father was not the wealthy man I took him for. Before my travels were over, I was nearly out of money. I found myself in Ireland chasing the fleeting dream of riches in the rivers of Wicklow, though what remained to be found was doubtful. There my heart was smitten with a young Irish lass of working, though not peasant stock. Her name was Avonmara O’Sullivan
.
Several months later we were married in a small parish church in County Wicklow. We were both children, she a mere eighteen years of age and myself nineteen. Whether it was wise or ill fated from the beginning, who can say. But it was done, though our brief happiness would not last
.
I can hardly recall what my plans were. The years have faded and my memory with them. I think I assumed that one day we would return to Wales as Lord and Lady Snowdon, after I inherited the title. But I was in no hurry to return after our marriage. The lure of the gold in eastern Ireland still possessed me, though most of the treasure had been unearthed decades earlier. Nor was I anxious to bring a new wife back to Llanfryniog where I would always be looked upon as a spendthrift son who had never amounted to much. Whatever I was, at least in Ireland I could be myself. People knew that I was of aristocratic stock, but they had no preconceptions formed against me. The thought even fleetingly occurred to me that I might find work—though I had never worked in my life—in the shipyards down the coast in Arklow. The husband of my sister-in-law had been involved in that trade before marrying my wife’s sister
.
So we remained in Ireland and the following months were some of the happiest of my life. A daughter was born to us a year later, but my dear Avonmara died in childbirth. I was devastated. I could not even think clearly enough to give her a name. I did not return to the house for days. It was Avonmara’s mother who gave her the name Morvern and took charge of caring for her and saw that she was baptized in the Catholic church
.
As I recovered from the shock of losing my young wife, I knew I was unfit to care for a child. I had married at nineteen and was now a mere twenty and without means. Without Avonmara, Ireland became suddenly desolate. The thought of remaining was odious to me. My life had been shattered. I decided to return at last to Wales, thinking, I suppose, to try to establish myself and prepare for my eventual role as viscount. My father was aging and not in the best of health by this time. Marriage and becoming a father had begun to sober me to my responsibilities but sadly had only begun to do so. I told Mrs. O’Sullivan that I would return for my daughter as soon as I was able and would provide a good life for her and, as my resources enabled me, to help all of the rest of them as well, for times then in Ireland were difficult not only for the poor but for everyone
.
Alas, time went by more quickly than I anticipated. I became involved in two or three questionable business schemes—that was always my Achilles’ heel—and before I knew it, years had passed. I was still a foolish young man. Finally I made plans to go back to Ireland after my father’s death and my assumption to the title. Even then I was young, only twenty-eight, but I assumed on the strength of my new position that I would be capable of providing my daughter the life she deserved. I wrote to Mrs. O’Sullivan, telling her of my plans, but my letters were returned unopened. I wrote several times, then to her sister. But all the letters were returned. I assumed that Avonmara’s family was angry with me for, as they saw it, deserting my child. So I sailed for Ireland myself. But what should I find but that they were all gone from the town where we had lived. The entire family had disappeared
.
It was not perhaps altogether to be wondered at. Those were desperate times in Ireland. The worst of the potato famine was still a year or two away, but it had begun by that time. People were starving and fleeing Ireland in droves. Entire villages were sometimes abandoned. The country was in chaos, and it would get worse. I went to the home where Avonmara and I had lived, where Mrs. O’Sullivan had lived, where her sister, Vanora Maloney, and her family had lived. Two were vacant, the third was occupied by a newcomer who had never heard of either the O’Sullivans or the Maloneys. It crossed my mind to wonder if they had left with the intent of keeping me from my daughter. They must have wondered what kind of father I would make after deserting her for so long. If that were true, I could hardly blame them
.
I returned to Wales, disconsolate all over again. At last I wanted to be a father to my daughter, who would now have been eight. But I had no idea how to find her. I took to travel again, suffering great pangs of conscience and remorse. I met dear Katherine in Glasgow. At first I saw no reason to tell her of my past, but doing so became increasingly difficult with each passing year. We were married in 1847, and gradually my past faded away as a dream and I put the memory of that time behind me. Courtenay was born, then Florilyn, and I managed to convince myself, now that I was a father again, that my sin had not been so very great and tried to excuse it on the basis of youthful folly. For years, whenever I remembered, I was jealous of protecting the estate for Courtenay, my only son. But now I realize that right must be done … whatever it might mean. I must attempt to make my past right by my daughter Morvern. For if she can be found, she is my rightful firstborn and heir …
Percy set the paper down and sighed deeply. Thoughts of Courtenay made him realize again what was at stake. Even if he did find the viscount’s first daughter, Courtenay would surely challenge any threat to his position in the courts. In the hands of the right barrister, he would no doubt have a strong case. Percy knew well enough that a skilled barrister could twist the law into so many knots it could say anything. Sadly, there were many in the legal profession who were motivated by money more than truth or justice.
Not a moment went by that Percy was not aware of the consequences of his uncle’s secret first marriage. He could still hear his uncle’s voice imploring him to help him do what he had never been able to do himself.
“God forgive me, not even Katherine knows of it…. You are a good boy, Percy. Be good to them. They may need you now more than ever. Promise me you will try to find her, Percy my boy …. Everything hinges on whether you are successful or not. I tried to find her, but she was gone, I tell you. Makes repentance dashed difficult, I dare say. Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t come back. But she had disappeared, you see …”
He didn’t like doing this behind his aunt’s back. But he knew the pain such a revelation would cause her. And such had been his uncle’s wish as well, that if at all possible she should be spared that pain.
“I am loath to hurt Katherine,”
his uncle had said.
“If you cannot find her, this need never come out. No one must know about what you have written unless you are successful.”
A year had passed since he had heard those words. Now suddenly everything was changing. His aunt was building a new home, his cousin Courtenay would be the new Lord Snowdon in less than a year, and he was on his way to Ireland to see what he could do to fulfill his uncle’s dying wish to find the daughter he had never seen again.
F
ORTY
The Westbrooke Factor
T
he day after Percy’s departure, Florilyn walked into the kitchen. There she saw Adela Muir, Mrs. Drenwydd, Mrs. Llewellyn, Stuart Wyckham, and Hollin Radnor talking to a man who had his back turned, dressed in an impeccable black suit who was holding a top hat in his hand. She hadn’t known her mother was expecting a guest. This man looked like someone important, though she almost thought she recognized the back of his head and wild shock of light hair. And what was he doing talking among the servants?
Two or three of the heads turned at the sound of her entrance.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Florilyn, “I didn’t know you had a guest. I was looking for—” Her next words died on her lips.
The man in the black suit turned toward the sound of her voice. “Steven!” she said softly, her eyes wide in astonishment. She stared at him another moment then suddenly became aware of the heat that was creeping up the back of her neck. Rarely one at a loss for words, she was unaccountably filled with embarrassment from the eyes resting upon her. She turned and walked quickly from the room.
Steven hurried after her. He came alongside her halfway along the corridor. “Sorry,” he said. “Did I do something to—”
“No,” laughed Florilyn, recovering herself. “The sight of you all dressed up … it just took me by surprise. I didn’t know what to say. Goodness, Steven—you are an aristocratic gentleman!”
Steven laughed. “I had the same reaction when I looked in the mirror this morning,” he said.
“Who’s
that
! I said.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“It’s a suit of my father’s. My mother thought I should wear it if I was to be in London on business for a respected woman like Lady Snowdon. She cleaned and pressed it and dressed me up like I was a boy again!”
“You’re going to London?”
“I leave on the train this afternoon from Dolgellau.”
“What for?”
“On business for your mother,” replied Steven. “There are some papers she wants me to file with the proper agencies concerning the transfer of title on the land, as well as talk to an engineer about the window design on the west-facing walls of the house that look out to sea. She also wants me to find out what I can about a certain fellow in the House of Lords she is interested in.”
“Who is that?”
“You should probably ask your mother,” replied Steven. “She asked me to keep my inquiries confidential. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind your knowing, but she ought to be the one to tell you. But,” he added apologetically as his step slowed, “I have to be off or I will miss my train. I was just saying good-bye to the others and giving Hollin and Stuart some last-minute instructions for the days I will be gone.”