Colville, meanwhile, seeing no eligible young women near his own age—by their midtwenties, the young women of rural North Wales were either married or such as to be of no interest to him—had wandered toward the gathering of men looking over several horses that Padrig Gwlwlwyd, one of those who did hope to profit from the day’s sales, had brought in for the occasion.
“Looking for a new addition to your father’s stable, young Burrenchobay?” said Gwlwlwyd as Colville approached the gathering. “I have two or three that would do him proud.”
“My father does not buy his horseflesh from village fairs,” rejoined Colville with obvious condescension.
“For yourself, then?”
“Horses are not my game, Gwlwlwyd,” said Colville. He glanced about with humorous disdain. “Neither are cows or pigs. I will leave the animals to you.”
At the far end of the field, shouts and cheers rose from the first shearing contestant—a burly young fifteen-year-old cousin of Chandos Gwarthegydd who displayed every indication of being a future champion. He was followed by Eardley White, Chandos’s best friend of childhood who had filled out in direct opposite proportion to the blacksmith’s son. Chandos could now claim to top sixteen stone, every pebble of it muscle and mostly concentrated in his chest, arms, and shoulders. One look at Eardley, on the other hand, at barely ten stone and over six feet tall, would have greatly interested the mathematician Euclid when devising his theory of what comprised a straight line.
But deft, coordination, and an innate skill in keeping a sheep relaxed under the knife were more necessary to shearing speed than brawn, and Eardley trimmed eleven seconds from Kethtrwm Gwarthegydd’s time. After several more local shepherds had their go, the crowd became frenzied as it cheered on its favorites. That a good deal of modest betting had taken place on the outcome always added to the keen interest in the competition.
Six more contestants came and went. Still Eardley’s time of forty-seven seconds held, though now the margin to second place had dropped to a mere three seconds.
Finally a late entrant who had just arrived stepped forward. A cheer rose, for he was a great favorite with everyone for miles. He had shown great promise as a youth in being the likely heir apparent to his father’s unmatched skill with the razor-sharp shearing scissors. However, he had not entered the contest for two years. His current occupation was one that had not kept him in practice. Yet discussion and new bets were feverish as he readied himself for the contest. The predictions of his chances were mixed.
The new contestant’s dress, indeed his entire bearing, might have led a newcomer to the village to conclude that he was of aristocratic blood, for he carried himself with a stature and authority that belied his humble roots in the foothills of the Snowdonian mountains. But the moment Steven Muir pulled off his shirt, for the day was hot, and turned toward the throng with a grin, they all knew the manor’s young factor to whom they now paid their rent was still their own beloved Stevie.
Few noticed the young woman who had gradually worked her way closer to the front of the noisy commotion. Slowly she squeezed through until she was standing near the front, staring at the sight of his bare chest and rippling shoulders.
“We’ll see what the work of a dandy’s made of you now, Stevie!” shouted a man from amid the crowd.
“I can outshear you with my eyes closed, Dirmyg!” laughed Steven.
“But can you best young White?” said another above the din.
“There’s only one way to find out, Fflergant,” rejoined Steven. “I’m ready,” he added, turning toward the judges. “Bring me the wiggliest one of the batch!”
The crowd quieted as Steven took hold of the sheep between his knees, gripped a fistful of thick wool with his left hand and held the scissors at the ready in his right, and awaited the command from Ehangwen Pugh who held the watch.
“Ready yourself, Stevie!” he shouted. “Five seconds … four … three … two … one … go!”
With lightning agility, Steven’s hand tore into the mass of wool with the scissors with such speed that it seemed impossible to prevent its two sharp points from puncturing the animal’s skin. Instantly the yelling and shouts resumed at a frantic pitch. Within seconds the back was bare. Steven flopped the sheep onto its back, keeping tight hold of the writhing legs.
Amid the din, a young woman’s voice rose above the rest. It was not just who she was that suddenly turned all eyes toward her. She was also the only one in the crowd cheering Stevie on with his formal name. Most of the gathering had never heard it used of Glythvyr Muir’s son in his life. “Go, Steven!” cried Florilyn. “Faster … you can do it—come on, Steven … Steven. Go … go!”
Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Florilyn did not notice that everyone’s eyes were resting on her. That the viscount’s daughter would take such interest in sheepshearing was unusual in itself. That she was so excitedly cheering on her mother’s young factor was enough to spark more than idle curiosity.
With a last great effort, Steven flung the coat of wool in a single piece away from the tiny white body that emerged from beneath. Not a scratch of blood was showing. He turned expectantly toward Ehangwen Pugh.
“Forty-seven seconds!” called out the timekeeper. “It’s a tie with Eardley.”
Another rousing cheer rose, Florilyn’s voice as loud as the rest. As she glanced about with a great smile on her face, Florilyn suddenly realized that everyone was staring at her. Her mouth hung open a moment longer. Her face reddened as she realized what she had done. Unaccountably embarrassed, quickly she turned and ran through the crowd and away from the scene.
Steven, who had heard her cheering voice, saw her go. He had no time to think about it further.
Lanky Eardley White now stepped forward and shook Steven’s hand vigorously. “Well done, Stevie!” he said. “The factoring seems to agree with you. You’ve lost nothing of your touch.”
The two turned together toward the crowd, which applauded them as the apparent victors. After five more contestants, the tie between the two young men still held.
Meanwhile, Florilyn hurried away, doing her best to avoid the stares that followed her. She ran between booths and tables and children and dogs and merrymakers to where she had tied her mount. Unaware from where he had been milling about the horse selling that Colville Burrenchobay had heard the commotion at the sheepshearing and had observed her strange flight, Florilyn mounted Red Rhud and made for the road.
The crowd thinned as she approached the harbor. The tide was low. Reaching the wide expanse of hard-packed wet sand, she encouraged her mount to a brief gallop. Once she was well alone, she reined back and continued on more slowly to the end of the beach.
She was thinking about many new and unexpected things.
FORTY-THREE
Aspirations Personal and Political
Colville Burrenchobay had been tempted to accompany Courtenay to the continent six weeks earlier. But what was to be gained by forever acting the part of a rich ne’er-do-well son? He was a university graduate with nothing else to show for his life. He had little interest in gallivanting about Europe with Courtenay Westbrooke, pretending they were still eighteen-year-olds.
As much as friendship, the relationship between the two best friends had always been one of competition and rivalry. Either would go to any length to best the other. That rivalry now took an unexpected turn in the brain of the MP’s son.
In the year since the tragic accident, the viscount’s death had exercised a strange and subtle effect on Colville Burrenchobay. The knowledge that his friend, younger by a year, was soon to become Viscount Lord Snowdon, occupant of a seat in the House of Lords, and overnight regarded as the most important man in the region, turned Colville’s thoughts toward his own future. He did not like the idea of being suddenly forced to walk in the shadow of one to whom he had always felt superior.
If his reflections did not actually begin to revolve around the thought of “settling down,” as was
the custom for young men in their twenties, something akin to such motions of his brain became more active than before. He had rarely given much thought to his future. He assumed that his inheritance would be more than adequate for whatever life he chose for himself. A better entrée into the world of politics, however, could hardly be imagined than his father’s reputation as a member of the House of Commons of long standing. It was like handing him an engraved invitation to Westminster on a plate with watercress around it. And in this modern age, Commons trumped the Lords in prestige by a mile. A viscount was nothing alongside a member of Commons.
The idea of a stand for parliament himself, whenever his father decided to step aside, thus began to take root in his thoughts. And with these slow-building reflections and shifting priorities, thoughts of marriage also began to intrude into the gray cells of his mind. As they did, the face of the most beautiful and eligible young lady in Snowdonia rose out of the mists of the past. That she would one day be rich besides, for her mother was known to be of independent wealth, was also a fact that did not escape Colville Burrenchobay’s notice. Sight of her in the village during market day a week or two earlier had not left him. He had to admit … the little vixen was more beautiful than he remembered her. She would make heads turn in Westminster. He would be noticed instantly with a woman like that on his arm!
Thus it was, one warm day in mid-July, that Colville Burrenchobay presented himself at the door of Westbrooke Manor. He had come, he said to Broakes, to pay his respects to Lady Florilyn.
Florilyn’s first thought was to turn around and retreat to the safety of her room. But it was a grand day, and Colville’s smile and invitation for a ride seemed genuine enough. She accepted.
By day’s end, she was delightfully surprised at the change that had come over him. He had behaved as a perfect gentleman.
“I must say, Colville,” said Florilyn as they parted, “you have changed since we last rode together.”
“I am a reformed young man,” he said. “My foolish ways are behind me. I may even resume my studies and secure an advanced degree.”
“My, oh my!” exclaimed Florilyn laughing. “Colville Burrenchobay, the scholar and academic.”
“I doubt I would go that far.”
“In any case—I enjoyed myself today. Thank you.”
“The summer appears a fine one. Perhaps we could see one another again.”
Florilyn nodded with a smile, and Colville left her.
Elsewhere on the grounds of Westbrooke Manor, Steven Muir continued his supervision of the construction of Katherine’s new home on the promontory. Stone masons and carpenters had all been employed, some from Chester, others from Shrewsbury, still others from as far away as Cardiff. Their presence was straining the limits of Mistress Chattan’s inn, though some of the workers were also put up in the servants’ quarters at the manor. Huge wagons of stone and mortar and other supplies rumbled past Llanfryniog almost daily from all over England and Wales. The outer walls of granite had begun not merely to rise but to significantly alter the landscape. Slowly but surely the formidable outline of the house moved from drawings to reality.
Steven was at the site every day and reported progress to Katherine. Mistress and factor consulted together almost daily about whatever situations happened to arise. Katherine rode or walked down to the site, sometimes several times a day, as her enthusiasm mounted daily to see her house taking shape before her eyes. Her enthusiasm, however, was bittersweet. She loved the manor, and thoughts of the new house could not fail to be accompanied by reminders of the reason for its necessity.
Thinking little more about the ride with Colville than that two childhood friends had renewed their acquaintance for a day, and certainly anticipating nothing more coming of it, Florilyn was altogether unprepared for the invitation to Burrenchobay Hall for dinner that arrived several days later. Her own reaction surprised her almost as much as the invitation itself.
She showed her mother the letter that had come in the post. “It sounds like fun,” said Florilyn.
“I have never cared for Colville Burrenchobay,” rejoined Katherine. “I don’t like your seeing him, Florilyn, especially after a young man as nice as Percy.”
“Percy’s not here, Mother,” rejoined Florilyn a little testily. “What do you expect me to do, sit around and become a spinster?”
“I thought you and Percy—”
“It’s over between Percy and me, Mother,” said Florilyn. The frustration that had been fermenting in her subconscious that even she was unaware of at last bubbled to the surface. “He stayed all of three days and didn’t even tell me where he was going,” she went on. “That ought to show well enough what he thinks of me.”
“His leaving had nothing to do with you.”
“Maybe, but even when he was here, we hardly saw one another. I’m sure it is a relief to him to be away from me.”
“Florilyn—goodness! What has put such thoughts in your head? You know better than that.”
“Do I, Mother? Do I really know what Percy thinks of me? Sometimes I wonder if I ever did.” She turned and walked away.
Katherine stared perplexed after her.
Alone later, Florilyn regretted her words. She knew well enough that she had broken it off with Percy, not him with her. Why had she taken her own uneasiness over what she had done out on her mother? She had been agitated ever since market day, for reasons she could not identify. For some peculiar reason, Colville’s invitation came almost as a relief. It gave her an excuse to recall the childish attraction she once thought she had for him. Maybe he had changed. At any rate, it gave her something else to think about.
There was no denying that Florilyn had begun to worry about her future. The invitation sent a tingle of renewed hope through her. She would not think for an instant of actually marrying Colville Burrenchobay. But it was nice to have someone show some interest in her.
In the days following, Florilyn anticipated the evening more than she dared let on. When the day came, Colville presented himself in his father’s finest buggy.
Steven watched them go with mixed thoughts of his own. Neither did he, any more than Katherine, like this new trend events were taking.
“So, Florilyn, my dear,” said Sir Armond Burrenchobay as they sat at the exquisitely appointed table in the formal dining room two hours later, “tell me about this cousin of yours. You were engaged for a time, I understand, but now it is off?”
“That’s pretty much it,” replied Florilyn.
“What happened? Did the two of you come to blows?”
“Nothing like that. We just decided, after Daddy’s accident, that perhaps we had rushed into it.”
“Who is the fellow, anyway?”
“You met him right here, at Davina’s birthday party—Percy Drummond.”
“Ah yes, the Scottish chap. Your father seemed inordinately fond of him.”
“Percy and my father were very close.”
“Struck me as a trifle too religious for my blood. Wasn’t his father a priest or some such? A twenty-year-old going about preaching … a bit much, what? Ah well, no harm done. Now you and Colville can get to know one another again, now that you’re no longer children. See what comes of it, eh, Colville, my boy?” he added with a wink to his son. “Someone’s got to start giving us some grandchildren before long, what? Young Davina’s hopeless.”
An awkward silence followed Sir Armond’s candid rambling. Florilyn hoped no one noticed the redness she felt in her neck and face as she glanced down at her plate.
FORTY-FOUR
Dead Ends in Laragh
For more than a week, Percy had been trying to locate the mysterious names to whom his uncle had written in 1842. He had discovered, however, that the name O’Sullivan in eastern Ireland was as common as MacDonald or Gordon or Campbell in his native Scotland. He met several O’Sullivans but none who had heard of Avonmara or Vanora O’Sullivan or their parents who might have lived at Pine Cottage or Dell Bank in
the 1830s or 1840s.
Learning the locations of the two homes from the postmistress, he paid visits to both houses. The current residents knew nothing. The lady at the post told him to expect as much. At least six different families had lived in both places in the last twenty years, she said. To find anyone from three decades or more before was like the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Everyone said the same thing. The potato famine of 1845–48 had altered everything. Most had left. Few remained from the old times. Those who stayed saw faces and families come and go in a blur. All Ireland had been turned upside down. Thousands packed up and left without telling anyone where they were going. Most of the time they didn’t know themselves … for England, for the United States if they were lucky enough to scrape together money for the passage … anywhere they might find work … anywhere there was someone who might take them in.
But 1842 … wasn’t that before the famine, Percy asked several times. Where had these people gone? Why had these letters not been delivered?
The postmistress, a woman in her forties, was too young to remember. She gave Percy the name of her predecessor, one Danny McNeil. Percy paid him a visit.
Yes, he remembered the O’Sullivans, he said. They had a lass who married an Englishman, he thought, or some foreigner.
Treasure of the Celtic Triangle Page 21