Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (26 page)

“Then have a good trip, Steven,” said Florilyn, turning toward him with a smile. “I hope you enjoy London.”

“Is that possible?” he rejoined laughing. “I think I shall be anxious to get back to Wales.”

They shook hands then Steven hastened back to the kitchen.

Florilyn watched him go with a curious expression.

Later that afternoon, as she wandered through the stables and outside, she found herself thinking about the young man whom she had always regarded as little more than a shepherd but in whom her mother had placed so much trust. More and more he carried himself as a young man of breeding, even education, as did Steven’s mother Adela. Besides being thoughtful and considerate, Steven was well spoken and genteel. She wondered if there had been more education in his background than she was aware of.

She and her mother were alone at lunch several hours later.

“Do you and Adela Muir still talk about MacDonald?” Florilyn asked. “Does she still read his books?”

“As avidly as ever,” answered Katherine with a light laugh. “Whenever I get a new one, she usually finishes it before I do.”

“You let her read them first?”

“She is a much faster reader than I. Even with her work, she breezes through them in three or four days. It only makes sense for her to read them first rather than having to wait several weeks for me to finish what is often a five-hundred-page book.”

“Then you discuss them?”

Katherine nodded. “Usually she sees more in the characters and in the spiritual truths MacDonald has woven into their life stories than I do. She is a very perceptive reader.”

“That seems unusual for a domestic.”

“Adela was never a domestic until she came here. She is more educated than most people realize.”

“How do you mean?”

“Her father was a schoolteacher on the peninsula. She grew up in an environment of learning and education, with books everywhere she says.”

“I had no idea. Did you know that when you hired her?”

“Not exactly, though I had an idea there must have been something in her background to account for her love of books and her fluency with the world of ideas after she began to work here. Finally I asked her about it, and she told me the whole story.”

“Which is…?”

“Just what I told you, that she is the daughter of a teacher who was the son of a curate. They were relatively poor, and she was the youngest of five. She had no opportunity to further her education beyond what her father and mother gave her. Her brother, Gwyneth’s father, came to Llanfryniog to work in the slates at a young age, staying with their great-aunt, Mrs. Myfanawy, who was a native of Llanfryniog.” “That’s Grannie?” said Florilyn.

Katherine nodded. “After the parents died,” she went on, “Adela had no place to go. She followed Codnor here and also stayed with Mrs. Myfanawy awhile until she fell in love with Glythvyr Muir and became a shepherd’s wife. But their father and grandfather—the teacher and the curate—were gentlemen and well educated.”

“That would account for Steven, too.”

“Account
for him…? What do you mean?”

“He seems so much more than just a shepherd boy, as if he had more education and gentlemanly training than he would have received at the village school.”

“Adela tried to do as much for his education as she could. She says he was always a great reader and devoured whatever books they could get their hands on. I must say, I have never regretted making him factor. He has as much business sense and skill in managing things as Tilman Heygate ever had.”

“And now he’s off to London on your business. I saw him all dressed up before he left. He looked like a dandy!”

“That was a shock, I have to admit!” laughed Katherine.

It grew silent for a few moments as mother and daughter each finished her soup.

“Will the new house be finished when Courtenay turns twenty-five?” asked Florilyn at length.

“There is little chance of that, I’m afraid,” replied Katherine. “The work will slow considerably once winter sets in.”

“What will we do? Do you really think he will kick us out of the manor?”

Katherine sighed. “I have long since stopped trying to predict what your brother will do. I doubt he will be quite so brazen as that. But he has made abundantly clear that I will not be welcome here. Until the new house is completed, I have assumed that we will go to Edward and Mary’s in Glasgow. They would make us more than welcome. I am going down to the site this afternoon. There are two or three points Steven wanted me to look at. Care to join me?”

“I would like that.”

Later that evening, alone in her room, the conversation with her mother and visit to Mochras Head and the construction site of the new house left Florilyn in an agitated state about the future. Months before, she would have written to Percy and poured out her heart and frustrations and uncertainties. As she sat down at her writing desk to attempt to do so now, however, she suddenly realized that she didn’t even know where he was.

Almost the same moment, the image of Steven, handsome in his suit and with the top hat in his hand, rose into her mind. With the image came a smile, and she found herself wishing that, in Percy’s absence, Steven were here and that she could talk to him. Whenever they chanced to talk, whether about the weather or horses or sometimes when Florilyn had mentioned something she had read, his responses always surprised her. They were calm, deliberate, well thought out. It seemed that whatever she found herself thinking about, Steven had thought about it already himself. Now that she had learned that he was not merely a talented peasant-shepherd but was of educated, even gentlemanly lineage, she would value his responses even more.

F
ORTY
-O
NE

Laragh

M
idway through his second day on the ancient Emerald Isle, Percy rode into the village of Laragh in the single-horse buggy he had rented in Wicklow. He had no idea what he would do here. But Laragh was his only lead. The addresses on the letters confirmed this as the home of his uncle’s first wife.

What he hoped to find so many years later, Percy had no idea. If his uncle had not been able to find his daughter after an absence of only eight years, what could he hope to do after thirty? But perhaps the O’Sullivans had returned. He would try to find the addresses, perhaps inquire at the post for the people his uncle had written to. He would see what he could learn about the names on the envelopes. Surely there was someone here who knew them.

He found the town’s only inn. After seeing to his horse’s lodgings, he was soon comfortably laying out his few things in what would be his own accommodation until his next steps were shown him. Again his grandfather’s words returned to him.
“Listen to the heavenly nudges. As they grow within you, move one step at a time into the light of their leading.”

Percy sat down at the small writing table in the room, took out his uncle’s letters from his satchel, and set them before him. Now that he was here, he needed to read them again, slowly, quietly. He had to see what missing pieces they could provide of his uncle’s story. He withdrew the first and unfolded the yellowed sheet.

Percy refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope then withdrew the next.

Next he read the third, which followed yet a month later.

Finally Percy’s uncle had written to his wife’s sister.

Then had followed another half dozen letters to both Pine Cottage and Dell Bank in the same vein throughout the fall of 1842, after which, Percy assumed, had come his uncle’s ill-fated return to Ireland.

F
ORTY
-T
WO

Market Day

M
arket day in Llanfryniog in the year 1873 had been planned a week earlier than usual. Thus it was that on the Saturday of the last week of June, wagons and carts and carriages began to roll into the small coastal village of North Wales while the morning was early and a chill still hung in the air.

By midmorning, dozens of tables and booths and stands were spread out between the Methodist chapel and the village, displaying a great variety of homegrown and homemade wares. Of the former, because they were in season, strawberries and new potatoes were among the most prominent. They were supplemented by turnips, carrots, floral bouquets, bottles of elderberry and hedgerow wines, cheeses and jams, as well as small trinkets and sweeties for the children. Handcrafts made through the winter and spring months by the women of Llanfryniog rounded out the inventory of stock in trade. And of course all the fisher wives arrived with baskets full of the previous day’s or night’s catch.

Indeed, describing their goods as for
trade
was not far from the truth. As hard as they worked to prepare for it, few actually expected to go home that evening with more money in their pockets than they came with. Everyone saved up their pennies and shillings for market day. But though the collection did not amount to much, spending was as greatly anticipated as selling. Money
circulated
between the villagers, but there was little
accumulation
. This was a day not for profit but for fun. What one received from selling goods was happily spent or traded at a neighbor’s table. All the women knitted wool caps and socks and sweaters and scarves, and everyone grew potatoes and made cheese. They did not
need
to buy from one another—it was simply the accepted means of lubricating commerce in a small farming and fishing community. Where cash was in short supply, barter was as common as coin. It was not the economic profitability of the exercise that everyone looked forward to but the social tradition in the life of the community. If visitors from inland or along the coast north and south added to the general flow of commerce with an influx of cash, perhaps all would go home feeling that the day had been well spent.