As he lay on his deathbed, after consulting with his solicitor and after a probing talk with Percy about eternal matters and the destiny of his own soul, Lord Snowdon had requested his nephew to go through his files and put in order what he could, take care of anything it might be best that Katherine not see, and then to take down the private affidavit that now occupied Percy’s thoughts.
He withdrew the document from where he kept it among his personal papers. No one, not even his Aunt Katherine nor his father or mother, knew of it. No one else in the world knew of the secrets this affidavit divulged concerning the viscount’s past.
Slowly Percy unfolded the paper and began reading again the words, written in his own hand, that stunned him as much now as they had that day the previous June when he first heard them from his uncle’s mouth.
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 27th day of June, in the year 1872, in the presence of my nephew, Percival Drummond, son of Edward and Mary Drummond of Glasgow. I am of sound mind, but failing body. Those matters I here disclose, I have kept to myself more than thirty years for the sake of you whom I love so dearly. It was never my intention to speak of them. But conscience now compels me to make a clean breast of it. I earnestly pray that doing so will not cause undo pain, especially to you, my dear Katherine. I pray the truth, though painful, will be its own reward. I do not want to die with secrets on my conscience. May God forgive me if it is wrong to divulge what I could never tell another soul. But if truth matters, then may God heal whatever wounds it may cause. He knows better than anyone that I have not always lived by the dictates and demands of truth. It is admittedly a late time to start. But as my nephew reminds me, it is never too late to make a beginning. I hope therefore that I can die having taken a few faltering steps in the direction of becoming a man of truth.
At sixteen years of age, 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 stalk. 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 …
Percy continued on to the conclusion of the sad tale that had been meant for his ears alone.
Not a moment went by that he was not keenly aware of the burden his uncle had placed upon him. On his shoulders alone rested the decision whether Katherine and Courtenay and Florilyn, or anyone else for that matter, would ever know of Roderick Westbrooke’s first marriage. If he judged it best that they never know, then the secret of his past would go to the grave with the former viscount.
His uncle’s words had never left him. “No one must see it unless your search is successful. Otherwise, Katherine need never know.”
Percy had not exactly given his promise. But if he kept it to himself, even out of respect for his uncle, what kind of man of truth did that make him? Would he be justified in keeping the matter secret in order to protect the feelings of his aunt? The demand of truth had borne heavily upon his uncle’s heart at the end of his life. But what was now the demand of truth that he must heed? If a full revelation did no one any discernable good, what would be its purpose? Even truth could injure. Was it right to injure for some abstract commitment to truth, if there was no good to anyone to be gained? Thus far, Percy had arrived at no resolution to the complex conundrum.
After talking the matter over in vague terms with his father, without divulging specifics, Percy’s conclusion had been that the investigation demanded no serious urgency on his part. It could wait until his graduation from the university the following May. Then he would devote the summer to seeing what he could learn. Perhaps by then more clarity might present itself about how to balance the scales between full disclosure and faithfulness to his uncle’s wish that Katherine be protected from pain if his search proved unsuccessful.
Even so, his uncle’s dying words gnawed at him. Percy could not escape the feeling that perhaps the matter of the affidavit was more urgent than he might realize. Yet what could he do … so far away … in Aberdeen? For that matter, what could he do even in Wales? He had no idea how to carry out his uncle’s request. To make any beginning at all would require being at Westbrooke Manor.
Obviously that would have to wait. But the more time that passed, the more uneasy he became.
Even as Percy was reading her father’s words, in Wales Florilyn was engrossed in the novel by Percy’s fellow Scot, George MacDonald.
As she neared the end of the book, she was reminded of its opening where the characters Hugh Sutherland and Margaret Elginbrod first met. She flipped back to the beginning of the volume and read it again.
“It was, of course, quite by accident that Sutherland had met Margaret in the fir-wood. The wind had changed during the night, and swept all the clouds from the face of the sky; and when he looked out in the morning, he saw the fir-tops waving in the sunlight, and heard the sound of a south-west wind sweeping through them with the tune of running waters in its course. Sutherland’s heart began to be joyful at the sight of the genial motions of Nature, telling of warmth and blessedness at hand. He dressed in haste, and went out to meet the Spring. He wandered into the heart of the wood. The wind blew cool, but not cold; and was filled with a delicious odour from the earth, which Sutherland took as a sign that she was coming alive at last. And the Spring he went out to meet, met him. For, first, at the foot of a tree, he spied a tiny primrose, peeping out of its rough, careful leaves. As he passed on with the primrose in his hand, thinking it was almost cruel to pluck it, the Spring met him, as if in her own shape, in the person of Margaret, whom he spied a little way off, leaning against the stem of a Scotch fir. He went up to her with some shyness; for the presence of even a child-maiden was enough to make Sutherland shy. But she, when she heard his footsteps, dropped her eyes slowly from the tree-top, and waited his approach. He said nothing at first, but offered her, instead of speech, the primrose he had just plucked, which she received with a smile of the eyes only, and the sweetest ‘thank you, sir,’ he had ever heard … a lovely girl, with the woman waking in her eyes.”
Florilyn had not been present when Percy and Gwyneth first met on the slopes of the Snowdonian hills, though she had heard about it from both of them. As she read again of this fictional meeting between MacDonald’s two characters, she was suddenly struck with the similarity between the two. Percy’s meeting of Gwyneth that day had also been accidental, prompted, Florilyn hardly needed to be reminded, by her own deceit toward her cousin on their first ride together. Even then, as Percy had described her, he had begun “to be joyful at the sight of the genial motions of Nature.” His meeting with Gwyneth that day had also involved an exchange of flowers, though in their case from the girl to the young man. And could more apt words than MacDonald’s of Margaret be chosen to describe Gwyneth during those years when everyone thought her still a “child-maiden,” but when in fact womanhood was slowly “waking in her eyes”? The similarities between the fictional characters of the novel and Percy’s first summer in Wales were remarkable.
Florilyn set the book aside and drew in a long, reflective sigh. So much had changed since then. Percy had indeed become nature’s friend. Gwyneth had grown from the child-maiden into a woman. She had become their maid for a season at the manor but was now gone from their lives. In Gwyneth’s absen
ce, Florilyn herself had become engaged to Percy. Who could have foreseen any of it five years ago?
With a deep breath, Florilyn returned to her place toward the end of the book and resumed her reading.
FOURTEEN
Contingency Plans
Ever since her daughter’s lighthearted banter about what they would do if Courtenay proved troublesome after acceding to the title, Katherine Westbrooke had been revolving an idea in her mind. The notion of living in a cottage in the hills may have sounded romantic to Florilyn, but it was not Katherine’s idea of an attractive prospect. She needed no luxury—she could be happy even in a humble cottage. But she did not relish the idea of being so isolated and remote as they would be at the former Muir cottage. Especially with Roderick now gone, she needed to stay in contact with people, not only locally but with her brother and Mary in Glasgow. She needed the daily post and the option of easy travel that being near the coach and rail lines afforded.
On a day when she was certain that Courtenay would not learn of her movements, neither mentioning her plans to Florilyn or Steven or Adela, she requested of Steven a ride into the village to meet the northbound coach. She would be back the following day, she explained, when he could meet her again. She only told them that she must pay a visit to someone on the peninsula. She divulged nothing more.
Later that afternoon, she was seated in the office of Hamilton Murray, of Murray, Sidcup, and Murray. She came straight to the point. “I realize that you and I do not know one another extremely well, Mr. Murray,” she began. “You were faithful to my husband, and I know he considered you a friend as well. However, as our son will himself be viscount in eighteen months, I realize that you are in a somewhat delicate position. Technically, for the present you represent me according to the terms of the trusteeship my husband established. In less than two years, however, you will be my son’s solicitor. It may be that my son’s interests and mine are not in harmony. He has, I believe, been to see you about finances.”
“He has,” nodded Murray.
“My question, then,” Katherine went on, “is a simple one. How far may I trust you, Mr. Murray? If my present wishes were at odds with what might be considered my son’s future best interest—or let me say, his most lucrative future interest—where would your loyalties lie?”
“I am the estate’s solicitor,” replied Murray. “At present I represent you. I will be faithful to carry out your wishes in whatever—”
“Please, Mr. Murray,” interrupted Katherine. “I know a little at least about legal obfuscation. I need advice, and I need to know which side of the fence you are standing on. I need to know if I can trust you to give me advice that is in my best interest, despite the fact that doing so may prove awkward for you in the future when you find yourself representing my son. If not, I will seek that advice from an objective third party. I am asking you, as a man of integrity, to tell me candidly if you would be looking to your future professional relations with my son and the estate when he is viscount in how you advised me during this interim.”
Murray took in her statement thoughtfully. The hint of a smile creased his lips. “Your husband knew what he was doing in making you trustee,” he said at length. “You are very plain spoken, and I admire that. So I will be as well. I do not mean to offend you, Lady Snowdon, and please forgive my bluntness … but the fact is, I do not like your son. He may turn out to be wonderfully gracious and selfless, but at present I do not see such qualities manifesting themselves. It would grieve me to see him take actions that would hurt the estate or the people of the surrounding region. It thus behooves me to remain the solicitor for the Westbrooke estate if possible so that I might exert what influence lies open to me to keep that from happening. On the other hand, if I should offend him and should he choose to retain other counsel, I would not grieve overmuch. Though such is not always possible, I prefer to represent individuals whom I respect. I will not intentionally cross your son, but neither will I attempt to curry his favor. I hope my meaning is clear. My loyalties at present are entirely and unequivocally to yourself and your late husband. I would not give a second’s thought to whether your son would approve or disapprove of either your actions or my own.”
“Very well,” rejoined Katherine, “then I will lay out my predicament to you. I think it entirely possible that Courtenay will make life difficult for me once he inherits. It is not for myself alone that I am concerned but also for my daughter, and for my factor, the young man Steven Muir, and his mother, who also recently lost her husband. I have money, of course. Courtenay could do nothing to render me destitute, but he could make my life extremely unpleasant. It is not my desire to leave Westbrooke Manor. But I have to realize that such may become almost an inevitability once he is in control of everything. He is already angry with me at finding himself financially strapped—a condition which he lays at my feet rather than his own. He has essentially demanded money under threat of doing exactly what I said—making my life unbearable in the future. It breaks my heart to be at odds with him. He is my son, after all, and I love him. But I must also be realistic about my own future and make plans for myself should remaining at Westbrooke Manor become impossible.”
“You do not seriously believe that he would throw you out?” said Murray. “I am not certain whether he even could do so legally. I shall have to look into the matter.”
“I doubt he would try anything so drastic,” said Katherine. “But he could make it a miserable place for me to live, especially after Florilyn is married and possibly gone. I could not remain where I was scorned and looked down upon. The awkwardness of it would be extreme.”
“What do you have in mind?” asked the solicitor.
Katherine drew in a long breath. “I have been revolving in my mind a plan about which I would need your counsel and help,” she went on after a moment. “I would like to secure a property, or perhaps several properties, that I could own in my own name, free and unencumbered by the estate. Would this be possible, such that they would be unassailable by Courtenay?”
“You could of course purchase any form of property you like in your own name,” replied Murray.
“But all the land for miles in every direction is owned by the estate?”
“You are, I take it, planning to stay in the Llanfryniog region?”
“Such would be my intention. It is my home. Much, I suppose, would depend on Florilyn’s future. If there were grandchildren, naturally I would want to be near her family. I confess it is my hope that Florilyn and her husband may remain in the area as well. As I said, I am thinking of trying to make provision for us all that will be free from Courtenay’s potential interference.”
“I see. So you are asking me how you might acquire land near your present home?”
Katherine nodded.
“As long as you are in control of the trusteeship, you can sell estate lands.”
“Are you saying that I could sell land or a property owned by the estate … to myself?”
“That would be the simplest way. I see nothing legally that would stop you.”
“And if I purchased a house in the village, say, or bought a parcel of acreage and built a new house upon it, with my own money, Courtenay could do nothing to evict me?”
“Provided we attend to all the proper legalities to be certain the deed is drawn up and registered to you, he would have no power over it whatever. The property would be yours.”
“He would be furious, no doubt. He would see it as my having stolen a portion of his inheritance.”
“There would be nothing he could do about it. And he would benefit from such a transaction. Essentially you would be buying the property from your son. As you know, the estate does not bring in a great income, a fact that was something of a trial for your late husband. Perhaps your son would be grateful.”
Katherine nodded. “Somehow I doubt it,” she said. “In any event, I think you have answered my question, Mr. Murray. I shall begin looking for suitable property whe
re, if worse comes to worst, I may live out my years. You could, I assume, draw up all the necessary legal documents?”
“Certainly. The only stipulation in any such transaction is that you would have to pay the estate a fair market price so that your son could not later contest the sale in court. But that is easily managed. We would bring in an outside appraiser for just such a purpose.”
“Then I will pay more than market price.”
Katherine spent the night at a boardinghouse and returned on the southbound coach the next day. Even as she bounced through Llanfryniog beside Steven Muir on her way back to the manor, Katherine glanced about with new eyes, wondering where among the homes of the region she might make her future.
That same afternoon she went out for a long and thoughtful ride of several hours, through the streets of Llanfryniog and back along the plateau up to Mochras Head before returning inland to Westbrooke Manor. Her mind was full of many things.
FIFTEEN
David Elginbrod
Florilyn was about four-fifths of the way through the novel, David Elginbrod. The title character was now dead. As she read, reminded of the death of her own father, Florilyn felt a fleeting bond with David’s daughter, Margaret Elginbrod. But they were from such different stations. Margaret was a peasant. Try as she would, Florilyn could not quite put herself in Margaret’s shoes.
Suddenly as she began reading the chapter entitled “The Lady’s Maid,” Florilyn realized, if she was going to place herself in the story at all, she was not the character of Margaret; she was Euphra Cameron—the spoiled aristocratic young woman Hugh Sutherland was enchanted with.
The realization was far from pleasant. Fictional though she was, Euphra was mean, self-centered, and petty. Hugh’s fascination with her was one of the mysteries of the story.
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