He ran toward the cottage as a girl of eleven or twelve came outside to see what the barking was about. Steven spoke with her a minute then returned to Florilyn. “The girl says both her parents are sick in bed. I’m going in to talk to them. Do you want to wait here?”
“No, I’ll go with you,” said Florilyn. She dismounted, and the two walked to the cottage and inside.
They made their way through a large open kitchen into a dim sitting room. From there the girl led into the single small bedroom off the sitting room, which they all shared. There a man and woman lay in a large bed.
“Stevie Muir, so it’s you, is it?” said a voice weakly from the darkness. “Arial said it was you.”
“It’s me, Kynwal,” answered Steven. “She says you’ve been sick.”
“It’s laid us both on our backs,” added a woman’s voice in barely more than a whisper.
“Hello, Lilybet,” said Steven. “I’m sorry to see you after so long under these circumstances.”
“We heard you and your mum’s gone to the manor now,” said Mr. Cnychwr. “We hear that you’ve been made factor. I always said you was meant for bigger things. So it’s Lady Snowdon’s rent you’ll be wanting, I’m thinking.”
“That is why I came,” said Steven. “And to tell you of the change. I wasn’t sure you’d heard.”
“We knew all about it, Stevie. But I’m afraid I’ve nothing to give you. I’ve been down near a month. Then Lilybet come down with the evil thing after me.”
“He’s just got weaker and weaker,” said the woman. “I took care of him as best I could. But then came a day when I couldn’t stand up myself. My legs just wouldn’t hold me. We’d have surely died if Arial hadn’t been here.”
“I didn’t have the strength to shear the sheep,” said Kynwal. “Even if I had, I couldn’t have got the fleece in to market.”
“Don’t you worry about it, Kynwal,” said Steven. “Lady Snowdon will be more concerned for yourselves than your rent. We will see what we can do. What about food—do you have what you need?”
“Isn’t much either of us can eat. No appetite, you see. No strength even to eat. But Arial’s keeping the two cows milked, and there’s always plenty of eggs. This time of year we’ve got apples and a few vegetables.”
“Good. Well then, we will be on our way. We have a long ride back ahead of us. But I will send Dr. Rotherham out to see you as soon as possible.”
“Don’t bother the doctor, Stevie. We’ve got no money to—”
“We need to get you two back on your feet. Don’t you worry about the doctor.”
Seemingly for the first time, Mrs. Cnychwr noticed the figure standing behind Steven in the shadows. She was hardly able to lift her head off the pillow for a better look. “Who’s that you brought with you, Steven?” she asked.
“It’s Lady Florilyn from the manor, Lilybet—Lord and Lady Snowdon’s daughter.”
A gasp of astonishment left the woman’s lips. “The saints preserve us!” she exclaimed. “My Lady Florilyn … I’m sorry for you to see us like this—but welcome to you. If only I could offer you something. You honor our poor cottage.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cnychwr,” said Florilyn, stepping forward to the bedside. She reached out and laid a hand gently on the woman’s arm. “I am sorry you are ill. But Steven is right. We will send the doctor out immediately.”
“You are very kind, my lady.”
“My mother will see to it, and anything else you need.”
Ten minutes later, Florilyn and Steven began the ride back around the mountain and down to the coast.
“What would my father and Mr. Heygate do when someone could not pay the rent?” Florilyn asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Steven. “I’m sure under the circumstances they would have been lenient, as they were with us when my father was ill.”
“Did my father ever evict people for not paying?”
“He did, yes—I knew of a few cases. But your father was an understanding man. In most cases, the people deserved to be evicted, and the town is better off without them.”
“But you knew my mother would not be concerned that the Cnychwrs were unable to pay?”
“Oh, yes … of course. I know your mother’s heart. Besides, there is money and to spare for their rent walking around on the backs of his flock of sheep.”
“But if he cannot shear them …”
Steven chuckled as if her worry was absurd. “His sheep will all be shorn within the week,” he said, “though not quite to the skin as winter is approaching.”
“Who will shear them?”
“Me, of course!” laughed Steven.
They reached the manor, wet but laughing, for one brief dousing from above had nearly drenched them. They separated and went to their respective quarters for dry clothes. Then Steven sought Katherine to apprise her of the situation at the Cnychwr croft.
TEN
A Tempting Offer
The letter that arrived at Westbrooke Manor for Courtenay bore no return address or indication who the sender might be. It therefore aroused no curiosity in Lady Katherine’s mind as her eyes fell upon it along with the rest of the morning’s mail.
Courtenay, however, immediately noticed the London postmark and slit open the envelope with a certain mild interest. Intrigued he withdrew the single sheet.
Mr. Westbrooke, he read,
My deepest condolences at the death of your father. He and I were colleagues in the House of Lords. However, I only recently learned of his passing. I look forward to meeting you as my colleague as well when you become eligible to sit with the Lords, which I understand will be in approximately a year and a half.
Your father and I were involved in discussions involving a business transaction, which I had every reason to believe would have been mutually beneficial to us both, and especially lucrative for your father. Unfortunately the thing did not reach fruition. Our correspondence lagged as other priorities consumed our attentions. Now sadly, just as I was about to contact him again, your father’s untimely death came before we could resume our plans.
I am writing now in hopes that perhaps you might be able to carry forward what your father and I were not able to complete.
My discussions with your father were quite simple: It has been my hope to purchase a small portion of acreage from your father’s estate—your estate now—far on the eastern boundary of the Westbrooke property. The reason is purely a sentimental one. I spent some of the happiest years of my life as a boy romping the walking trails and footpaths of those hills. It has been my desire at the later stages of my life to build a small cottage on a site I was especially fond of that is situated on the slopes of one of Gwynedd’s smaller peaks. The property lies at the boundary of your estate. Your father felt that its remote location among his holdings would represent no great sacrifice to the overall Westbrooke estate and had in principle agreed to the sale.
I can assure you that my plans would in no way encroach on your future privacy as Viscount Lord Snowdon. My access would be gained by a right of way eastward through public lands from the road between Blaenau Ffestiniog and Dolgellau.
I would purchase whatever amount of land you would graciously consent to part with up to a thousand or more acres. However, if a transaction of such size is impossible, I could carry out the plans for my small cottage with as little as twenty. Your father and I had not yet settled on the number of acres of my purchase or a price per acre, though I am prepared to be as generous in an offer to you as I would have been to him.
As you and I will be colleagues and will enjoy a long future together, it strikes me as best under the circumstances if I conduct these arrangements with yourself in confidentiality without involving your mother, whom I understand is at present trustee over your father’s estate. I am hoping you and I might come to some arrangement relatively soon, even perhaps before you officially inherit your father’s title. If we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement, being a wealt
hy man, I can assure you that I would make it worth your while. I would be in a position to forward you a sizeable advance payment as an earnest pledge toward the final purchase price.
If you feel you would be interested in pursuing this matter in your father’s stead, I will put an offer together for your consideration, which, as I say, would include a cash advance to yourself.
I am, Mr. Westbrooke,
Faithfully yours,
Lord Coleraine Litchfield
Courtenay set the letter aside with a sigh filled with emotions it would have been difficult to identify. His first impulse was to set pen to paper immediately. His hand quivered to do so. But he realized it would be foolish. He was no businessman, but he was certainly knowledgeable enough in the ways of the world to know that one could not appear too eager.
He tried to pretend he was spending the following days thinking through the pros and cons of the thing before arriving at a well-reasoned decision. In truth, he was simply waiting for enough time to pass to make the fellow Litchfield, whoever he was, squirm just enough anticipating a reply.
His mother and sister noted the difference in his countenance instantly, the subtle smirk, as if he knew something he was not telling. Katherine suspected him of having something up his sleeve, which he did. But she was the last one to whom he would divulge what he was thinking.
After six days, Courtenay judged that enough time had gone by. He sat down at the writing table in his room and began to write the letter he had been composing in his mind since the moment his eyes had fallen on Litchfield’s words, “cash advance to yourself.”
Lord Coleraine Litchfield, he wrote.
My Lord,
I am in receipt of your letter and have been giving the matter a great deal of thought. Though as you note, I will not be in control of the estate’s affairs for another year and a half, I would be amenable to the idea of setting in motion before that time the preliminaries for a transaction such as you have outlined.
I will entertain any reasonable offer you would make. The size of the acreage I would be willing to sell would entirely depend on the price per acre offered. The total sum would weigh most heavily in the balance as there have been inevitable strains placed upon my finances as a result of my father’s death and my eventual assumption of his title and estate.
I will of course need to know the exact location in question. With that information and some idea of the specifics of the offer you are prepared to make, we will be in a position to speak more definitely about a timetable. Be assured that our discussions and negotiations will remain confidential.
I am,
Yours sincerely,
Courtenay Westbrooke
Five days later, Courtenay received his reply.
Mr. Westbrooke,
I was delighted to receive your letter and hope that this may be the beginning of a rewarding business relationship that will benefit us both.
Enclosed you will see site drawings showing the northeastern portions of your estate boundaries, indicating the area of my interest. I have outlined four potential scenarios, any of which I would be willing to consider—a twenty-acre sale, another of one hundred acres, a third of five hundred, and a fourth of one thousand acres. The price offered per acre would of course be larger for the smaller plots.
My research tells me that such land in Gwynedd has been selling in recent years for approximately five pounds an acre. As a preliminary offer, I would commit to paying you eight pounds an acre for twenty acres, six for one hundred acres, five for five hundred, and four for one thousand acres. Furthermore, I will pay one-fourth immediately upon our signing a binding sales agreement, with the balance forthcoming at the consummation of the sale once you hold legal title to the land.
If you find these terms agreeable, perhaps it might be appropriate for me to plan a trip to North Wales for us to meet in person and finalize the arrangements. We will, of course, devise some plausible explanation for my visit.
I am,
Faithfully yours,
Lord Coleraine Litchfield
ELEVEN
Nugget
Within a week of Florilyn’s and Steven’s visit to the croft at the base of Rhinog Fawr, not only had Katherine and Adela Muir paid the two invalids a visit, so, too, had Dr. Rotherham. He prescribed a medication he was confident would help them begin eating again and get the husband and wife on their way to returning strength.
For several days thereafter, Adela and Steven Muir stayed at the Cnychwr cottage. They nursed the two patients, prepared food, saw to the animals, and gave young Arial a badly needed rest. When they left, mother and son clattered back to town behind the croft’s single horse atop a wagonload of fresh wool, which, it being late in the season and no other wool being sold, Steven was confident would bring Kynwal Cnychwr a good price.
“Do you ever miss living out here, Mother?” Steven asked as they bounced along.
Adela thought a moment. “Being out in the hills like this brings back many memories,” she said at length. “I miss your father, I miss the life we enjoyed, the animals, being so close to nature all the time. But living at the manor is more like I remember from my childhood. Of course, we lived in nothing so lavish—it was a simple home by manor standards. What I mean is … I don’t know how to describe it—the way of life, I suppose … having people about, servants, stables, books, gardens. My mother only had one servant, and she only came to the house three days a week. Still, reading MacDonald’s books brings it all back to me now.”
“In what way?”
“His stories mostly have to do with gentle folk, people of means. It’s just the way he writes about them. We were certainly not wealthy by any standards. But my father and grandfather had roots among the gentility.”
“You didn’t miss that when you married Father?”
“Aspects of it, of course. But there were many children, and times were hard. Even from such a background, one isn’t always able to dictate the future. And love doesn’t always fall according to station in life. I loved your father and wanted to be his wife. And we had a good life together. I regret not a minute of it. However, I do enjoy being at the manor now, especially having access to a library again. My grandfather had a marvelous library. I’ve often wondered what became of all his books. To answer your question, I have no regrets about the past, nor about the present.”
A wonderful warm day dawned toward the end of the first week of November, several days after Steven’s return to the manor. Most of the trees, like the sheep on the surrounding fields, had lost their summer adornment. Their leaves of yellow and red and orange were strewn on the ground everywhere and rapidly turning brown.
The moment Florilyn saw the sun streaming through her bedroom window, she knew it was a day for a long ride. One could never depend on the weather after November. This might be the last such day in North Wales for months.
After breakfast, she dressed in her riding clothes and left the house for the stables. Their aging groom, Hollin Radnor, was nowhere to be seen. From the depths of the darkness, however, Florilyn heard peculiar sounds, scuffling and low snorting, as from a horse in distress. She hurried inside the great barn.
The sounds were coming from Grey Tide’s stall. She was walking about, obviously restless. Her tail was high and her hips distended. As Florilyn approached, she moved about in a circular motion and awkwardly slumped to her side on the floor. Her hind portions were quivering. Snorts and whines of discomfort continued.
She was ready to foal!
Florilyn hurried from the barn. She called out as she ran to the new stables. There was no sign of Radnor or Stuart Wyckham anywhere. At length she bolted for the house. She ran straight to the factor’s office at the end of the ground floor of the west wing then ran inside without knocking.
Steven sat across the room, an open ledger on the desk in front of him. He looked up at the sound of his door crashing open.
“Steven!” cried Florilyn. “It’s Grey Tide. I think
she’s ready! More than ready—I think it’s started! But I couldn’t find Hollin.”
Already Steven was on his feet, sprinting from the room with Florilyn on his heels. By the time she followed him into the barn, Steven was kneeling behind Grey Tide in the stall.
“You’re right,” he said, glancing up as she tentatively entered. “Labor is well under way. But she is in pain. It may be a difficult birth. Something seems wrong.”
Florilyn stood watching wide-eyed with a grimace of mingled disgust and awe as Steven plunged his hand inside Grey Tide and felt for the position of the foal.
“Just as I thought,” he said. “I can’t feel the legs.”
“What does that mean?” asked Florilyn.
“The forelegs and head have to come out together. Otherwise we’ll have real problems … uh, oh, look out—stand back!”
Steven withdrew his hand and leaped back as Grey Tide struggled again to her feet and began shuffling about the stall. She was obviously agitated.
“Easy, Grey Tide … easy, girl,” said Steven softly, walking slowly to her head where he tried to stroke her nose and neck to calm her down. “Don’t be afraid, girl … You’re having a baby. Just relax, Grey Tide.”
“Oh no, ugh … Steven!” exclaimed Florilyn. “Something is happening back here. Oh, ick … Steven!”
“What is it?” said Steven, calmly leaving Grey Tide’s head and returning to where Florilyn stood behind her.
“What’s all that white?”
“Nothing to worry about. That’s the birth sack. It’s called the amnion. The foal is inside … but … yes, it’s as I thought—the head is coming without the legs. The bag’s already broken. Oops—she’s trying to lay down again. Easy, Grey Tide … gently, big girl,” he said, leaning against the mare’s rump as she began to settle again to the floor. “Lady Florilyn!” he cried. “Come over here. We can’t let her crush the foal’s head. Here … push with me!”
Cautiously Florilyn stepped to Steven’s side and shoved, though how much help she was under the circumstances was questionable. She had never witnessed anything like this in her life.
Treasure of the Celtic Triangle Page 5