Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (29 page)

“As you have your secrets, Mother, perhaps I have mine.”

“Are you planning to sell land to Lord Litchfield?”

“If I were, what business would it be of yours?”

“It is my business until next March. I do not like the idea of men trespassing on the estate. I want to know what business you have with Lord Litchfield.”

“It is for the good of the estate that I invited Lord Litchfield to come,” replied Courtenay, not directly addressing his mother’s question. “I will not spend my life as a landed pauper like Father did. My means are none of your concern.”

“I am trustee of the estate. All estate business is my concern.”

“Nothing will be finalized until I am twenty-five. My business affairs at that point will be of no interest to you.”

“Are you planning to sell him estate lands?” asked Katherine bluntly.

“I am considering it.”

“I will not allow it. I will not allow you to tear up this land for coal, if that is the nature of whatever scheme you are hatching.”

“Coal has nothing to do with it, Mother.”

“I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”

“Believe what you like, Mother.”

“Then why was Lord Litchfield here? Certainly not merely to welcome you to the House of Lords. Come, Courtenay, he is well known for his mining investments.”

Able to contain himself no longer, Courtenay burst out in a laugh of derision. “There is really nothing so pitiful as a woman trying to exert power when she has none. You are pathetic, Mother. There is nothing you can do to prevent me doing whatever I like. All this will be mine in March. If I choose to sell a portion of land to Litchfield, I will do so. You can do nothing to stop me.”

Courtenay turned and walked from the room, leaving his mother in tears.

F
ORTY
-S
IX

The Parish Church

A
ll Percy’s attempts to locate the apparent relations of his uncle’s first wife had turned up nothing. Whether Mrs. O’Sullivan was even still alive was doubtful. She would probably be in her seventies or eighties by now. His uncle’s affidavit stated that Avonmara had been eighteen at the time of their marriage. Forty years had passed since.

Besides the old postmaster, Percy knew that the person he most needed to speak with was the parish priest, and if possible examine the parish record books. Visiting the ancient Catholic church was not an easy task, however. Day after day he found it locked up like a drum, and the rectory behind it dark and to all appearances uninhabited.

On his fifth day to visit the place, an elderly woman saw him turning to leave, yet again, unsuccessfully. She ambled across the street. “Is it something you’ll be wanting in the church, laddie?” she said to him.

“Yes, actually—I had hoped to speak with the priest,” replied Percy. “But every day it is locked, and the place seems vacant.”

“Aye, Father Halliday is down in Cork, you see. Won’t be back till next week.”

“He is coming back, then?”

“Oh, aye. But if it’s mass you’re wanting, the priest from Wicklow will be here tomorrow.”

“No, I need to see your own priest. What was his name you said?”

“Father Halliday.”

“Father Halliday—right. When do you think he will be back?”

“Tuesday or Wednesday is likely.”

“Good—thank you very much.”

“Where are you from, laddie?”

“Scotland.”

“Oh, aye,” said the woman, nodding knowingly, then walked off toward the center of the village.

The following Tuesday afternoon, at last Percy found the church and rectory occupied. His knock on the rectory door was answered by a man wearing a priest’s robe who appeared in his midforties. Percy explained that he had been trying to see him and told him the reason for his visit. Father Halliday, like many Percy had spoken with, was too young to remember the events of the 1830s and 1840s. But he agreed to give Percy access to the record books of the church.

He led Percy from the rectory into the church and to the vestry. “Here we are,” he said at length, opening the record of marriages. What was the year you said you were interested in?”

“The early 1830s, I believe,” replied Percy. “My uncle was nineteen at the time. He died last year. I believe he was fifty-seven or fifty-eight. So that would be thirty-nine or forty years ago.”

“I see,” replied the priest. “Here are the listings for 1832. There were apparently nine marriages performed that year. What did you say was your uncle’s name?”

“Westbrooke … Roderick Westbrooke.”

Father Halliday scanned down the list of entries. “None here by that name.” He turned over the large leaf of the book to the following year. “1833 …” he said, tracing down the list with his finger. “Ah, yes … It would appear that you are right. Here is a marriage listed on April 11 between one Roderick Westbrook and Avonmara O’Sullivan.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Percy. “So my uncle
was
married here, just like he said. Right here in this church. Is there any further information?”

“Only that the marriage was performed by my predecessor, Father O’Leary.”

“Is he still living?”

“Yes, but he is very old.”

“Is he still in Laragh?”

“He is. He lives in a small cottage provided him by the church.”

“I would like to talk to him. What about the record of births?”

“That would be in another book. It should be over here …” said Father Halliday, closing the marriage book and taking down another from the shelf.

“What year?”

“A year later…1834.”

“I see … all right,” he said, laying the large book open on the desk and flipping through the pages. “There would seem to have been quite a number of births that year … scanning down … it would have to have been after, let me see … sometime after January … Here we are, January … February … March … ah yes, March 18—the birth of a daughter, Morvern, to Roderick and Avonmara Westbrooke. She was baptized one week later. Oh, but this is odd—the father does not appear to have been present.”

“She is the woman I am looking for!” said Percy excitedly. “Morvern Westbrooke … although it is likely that she might be known as Morvern O’Sullivan … and of course, she would no doubt be married now. That would make her now, let me see, thirty-nine years old.”

“Why would she be called O’Sullivan?”

“I don’t know that,” replied Percy. “But she was raised by her grandmother, Mrs. O’Sullivan. My uncle returned to Wales. When he came back for her, Mrs. O’Sullivan and his daughter were gone. He never saw them again.”

“As you say, she would probably be married now.”

“Do you think I would be able to speak with the priest who married them?” asked Percy. “You say he is still in the village?”

“Yes, but how much help he will be, I cannot say. He is elderly, and the past is fading from his mind. But I will take you to him. We can ask if he has the information you seek.”

They left the church. After a five-minute walk through the village, Percy found himself following the priest toward the rear of a small stone cottage into a small but obviously well-kept garden.

“If the sun is shining,” said Father Halliday, “we will be sure to find Father O’Leary in his garden … and indeed, there he is. Father Bernard!” he said approaching with outstretched hand. “I have a young man here who would like to meet you.”

An aging man, still wearing the black robe of his profession, turned from the rosebush that had been commanding his attention, clippers in hand, to meet them.

“This is Percival Drummond, Father Bernard,” said the priest. “He has come from Wales searching for a long-lost relation.”

“Not exactly a relation of mine—not directly at least,” said Percy, shaking the older man’s hand. “I am looking for a daughter of my uncle. I am his nephew by his second marriage. My uncle died last year. He lost track of his daughter shortly after her birth. I promised him I would try to find her.”

The old priest appeared confused as Percy related his brief story. “I see. How may I help you then?” said Father O’Leary.

“We managed to locate the marriage and the girl’s birth in the parish books,” said Father Halliday. “The girl was born Morvern Westbrooke in 1834. It is likely, however, that she was raised by her maternal grandmother, Mrs. O’Sullivan.”

“O’Sullivan … O’Sullivan … yes, I remember—the mother died in childbirth. Not altogether uncommon, yet a tragedy nevertheless.”

“Do you remember what happened to the family … especially to the baby?” asked Percy.

“O’Sullivan you say the name was?”

Percy nodded.

“I cannot say. I lost track of them, I think. I believe they left some time later. Times became hard when the blight hit. It was impossible to remember them all.”

“What about the relatives? Avonmara had a sister?”

“Avonmara … Who is Avonmara?”

“Avonmara O’Sullivan … my uncle’s wife, the mother of the child.”

“A sister, you say? What was her name?”

“Vanora. Her married name was Maloney, I believe.”

“I really could not say. Hmm, Maloney … Maloney … It does seem that I remember … but no, it’s gone now. Everyone was leaving, you see. They had to follow the work as best they could. Not that there was much work to be found. Some went to Arklow, as I recall.”

“Is that where they went, do you think?”

“I am sorry, young man—I really cannot say. My memory, you see … it is not what it once was.”

F
ORTY
-S
EVEN

A Promise Kept and a Promise Scorned

D
uring Percy’s absence, Colville Burrenchobay was busy. For the next few weeks of the summer, he and Florilyn were nearly inseparable.

Katherine was beside herself over where it might lead. She saw the look in Colville’s eye. It was not an expression she liked.

Suddenly Florilyn was reverting to her old ways. But what could a mother do? Daily she prayed for Percy’s return. He had always had a good influence on Florilyn.

Meanwhile, Colville had so skillfully worked his magic that Florilyn was completely seduced by his charms. They rode together nearly every day—at the shore, in the mountains, to the nearby towns and villages for lunch or tea. Florilyn spent as much time at Burrenchobay Hall as at the manor. Sir Armond and Lady Burrenchobay had gone so far as to make up a special room for her use to stay over when she and Colville were together late in the evenings.

The changes in Florilyn had not gone unnoticed by Steven Muir. He saw his mistress’s concern and shared it.

Hoping to revive something of the former friendship that had blossomed between them, one day he seized the opportunity he had been waiting for. Seeing Florilyn walking toward the stables, he hurried after her. “Good morning, Florilyn,” he said.

She glanced toward him, seemingly affronted now by the familiar address that had once passed between them as easily as if they were brother and sister. She kept on without a reply.

“Little Nugget misses you,” said Steven. “You spend little time with him now, unlike you did after he was born. I have been thinking of training him with the saddle. Would you like to help? You might like to ride him and teach him to know your seat and the commands of your voice.”

“I don’t think so, Steven,” replied Florilyn. “Colville says I need a powerful mount beneath me.”

“I do not like to see you spending so much time with him, Florilyn.”

She spun around and shot him a piercing look.

“You may address me as
Lady
Florilyn, if you please!” she said.

“Forgive me, Lady Florilyn,” said Steven calmly. “I still do not like to see you so much with Colville Burrenchobay.”

“And why not, pray tell?” she shot back haughtily.

“Because he is not worthy of you. I have known him all my life.”

“So have I.”

“I do not trust him.”

“He has changed.”

“I doubt that, my lady. The expression in his eye when he looks at you is one of opportunism, not love.”

“You presume to know the difference?” said Florilyn with disdain.

“I believe I do.”

“And what gives you the right to interfere in my affairs?” she retorted angrily.

“The right of one who cares about you, my lady, who wants only the best for you, and who promised to protect you from harm.”

“
Promised …
What makes you think I need your protection? Whom did you promise?”

“In a manner of speaking, your father.”

“My father is dead. I do not recall his placing me in
your
charge.” “I promised one to whom he did entrust your well-being.” “Ah, my mother you mean. And you somehow assume that being her factor gives you the right—”

“I meant Percy, Lady Florilyn,” said Steven.

“
Percy!
What does he have to do with me now?” “I promised him that I would look after you, for his sake as well as my own.”

“Percy can keep his nose out of my business! If he doesn’t want to marry me, then he has nothing to say about it. He never liked Colville. He is just jealous.”

“Percy knows nothing about Colville. I am merely telling you what I think he would say if he were here, that Colville Burrenchobay is not worthy of you.”

“Well, you can tell Percy, when you happen to see him again, that I care not a straw for what he may think, and that if Colville proposes to me, I intend to accept him.”

She turned and walked away, leaving Steven staring after her, heartbroken at how quickly her former teenage conceit had returned in the form of aristocratic womanly hauteur.

F
ORTY
-E
IGHT

A Delicate Communiqué

B
y early August, Percy realized there was nothing left for him to do in Ireland.

He had confirmed his uncle’s marriage to Avonmara O’Sullivan and the birth of their daughter, Morvern, and that the O’Sullivans were gone by the time of the viscount’s return to Wales. Beyond those sketchy facts, he had come to a dead end. What point was there in trying to continue? He hadn’t learned anything that his uncle didn’t know. He shrank from returning to Westbrooke Manor just now, with nothing definite to tell anyone, nothing to account for his absence, no resolution to his future with Florilyn. Knowing nothing of the danger in which Florilyn stood, nor did he feel any urgency to do so. It would be best now to begin thinking through his own prospects in Glasgow.