The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales

by Michael Phillips

  “And who are you to be giving such an order?”

  “I own this land, you fool. I am the future viscount, Lord Snowdon.”

  “Ah yes, we were specifically told about you, that you might be troublesome.”

  “What were you told?”

  “That you might try to throw your weight around, but that you had no legal standing in the matter. We were told to ignore whatever you might say.”

  In a white fury, Courtenay stared back at the plainspoken man a moment, then wheeled his mount around and made for home. He burst in upon his mother, making no attempt to hide his anger. “Mother, what is going on down at the promontory? There are surveyors everywhere. Are you behind it?”

  “I am.”

  “I demand to know what it is all about.”

  “Just a little project of mine.”

  “What kind of project?”

  “Nothing you need worry about. I am having some of the estate boundary lines looked into.”

  “There are no boundaries down there. Our land extends for miles along the coast and inland to the north-south road. I demand to know what’s going on.”

  “That tone will get nowhere with me, Courtenay.”

  “Do you refuse to tell me what it is about?”

  “I have told you, I am having some boundary lines looked into. That is all I intend to divulge about it.”

  Far from satisfied, Courtenay left the room more determined than ever to accelerate his own plans. He did not like this new tone of determination he had noticed in his mother of late. She was becoming too independent for her own good.

  24

  Visitor from England

  Lord Coleraine Litchfield stepped gingerly from the tipsy dinghy that had brought him from the anchored yacht out in the bay and onto the concrete pier. He glanced up the street and at the poor-looking stone buildings comprising the Welsh village of Llanfryniog. He did his best not to grimace at the thought of where he would be forced to spend the next several days. Only one thing could bring him this far away from civilization. That was the thought of making money. For that he would endure it with as much good humor as was possible under the circumstances.

  Several more communications had gone back and forth between Westbrooke Manor and London, leading eventually to an invitation to the north. Commitments in London and the horrible winter’s weather had delayed his meeting with the young scion of the Westbrooke estate until early March. But he was in Wales at last.

  Before the Englishman could speculate further on the locale or his own personal fortunes, a lanky and well-dressed, though obviously rustic man approached. “Lord Litchfield,” he said with an accent so unintelligibly thick the Englishman scarcely recognized his own name, “I am Deakin Trenchard, former footman at Westbrooke Manor. I am retired now and living in the village, but Mr. Courtenay asked me to meet you and take you to the manor, where he is awaiting you.”

  “Ah, yes … uh, Trenchard. Lead on, then,” replied Litchfield.

  The man turned, and the newcomer followed him from the pier to a waiting carriage. Fifteen minutes later they were winding their way up the tree-lined drive where Lord Litchfield beheld his first sight of the estate known as Westbrooke Manor.

  A tolerable looking sort of place, he thought to himself—interesting mixture of brick and stone, although it was a bit severe to his taste. It will no doubt be a dreary time of it, but—

  Further reflections were cut short. As the carriage slowed to a crunching stop on the gravel drive, his host came from the wide front doors and bounded ebulliently toward his guest.

  “Lord Litchfield,” he said, “I am Courtenay Westbrooke. I am happy you have been able to come.”

  “I am pleased to meet you at last, young Westbrooke,” rejoined Litchfield, shaking the other’s hand as he stepped down.

  “Come in. We shall have tea,” said Courtenay. “You have had a pleasant voyage I trust?”

  “I am not altogether a man of the sea,” replied Litchfield. “But we enjoyed calm seas and clear skies. Actually,” he added, “I prefer the train, but a passing fancy of nostalgia turned my thoughts to the ancient mode of transport. It was not so bad as I expected. I may buy the yacht when I return to Bristol.”

  As they entered the house, Litchfield was still speaking. “Tell me,” he was saying, “is the property—”

  A quick glance from his host, accompanied by an imperceptible movement of finger to lips, communicated its message well enough. He fell silent as a stately lady who appeared about fifty approached.

  Courtenay presented his mother. Lord Litchfield greeted Katherine with a smile and extended his hand. She returned the greeting with a hint of question in her eyes. Katherine was certain this visit was more than a mere social call. But she had not been able to discover what her son was up to.

  Litchfield detected caution in the touch of her palm as she allowed him to shake it.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Snowdon,” he said. “And my belated condolences at the loss of your husband.”

  “Thank you. You knew my husband then?”

  “We were acquaintances in the House of Lords.”

  Katherine nodded. “And now you have business with my son?”

  “As he will be filling your husband’s seat himself in a matter of months, I wanted to take the opportunity of seeing how I might be able to be of service to him.”

  “I see. Well, if there is anything you need during your stay, do not hesitate to make it known.”

  “Thank you, Lady Snowdon. You are most kind.”

  Courtenay led his guest upstairs to his room. He left him to refresh himself, adding that he would join him downstairs in the drawing room for tea at his convenience.

  Descending the stairway a few minutes later, Litchfield saw an attractive girl whom he judged in her early twenties watching him from the end of the corridor. He nodded, but neither spoke. She, too, like the woman he had just met, appeared on her guard. He wondered what kind of place he had stepped into.

  After stiff conversation with son and mother at tea, during which the purpose of his visit did not arise, Courtenay invited his guest for a stroll about the grounds. Alone they would be able more freely to discuss the matter that had brought the Englishman here.

  “To answer the question you began to pose earlier,” said Courtenay after they had left the house behind them, “yes, we shall have the opportunity to view the property. I beg your patience, however. Let us wait a day or two. Then we shall have a ride into the hills. We must be prudent and not discuss the matter around my mother or sister.”

  “Your sister?”

  “She is younger than myself by two years. She would be no more favorably inclined toward my plans than my mother.”

  “I believe I saw her in the corridor a short time ago. She looked as if she were eyeing me cautiously.”

  “That’s her.”

  “Your mother does not favor the sale?” said Litchfield.

  “That is precisely the case. Of course, she knows nothing about it, which is why we have to be prudent in what we say.”

  “Why does it matter? We cannot finalize the transaction until you become viscount anyway.”

  “Technically, I don’t suppose it does matter. And it certainly won’t after I come of age. But I would rather not upset her unnecessarily. Unfortunately until that time she still controls the estate’s finances, and thus my own. I have the feeling that she may be attempting to sell off a portion of estate lands behind my back. Whatever she is up to, I do not want her meddling in our agreement. There would be no telling what trouble she might cause us.”

  “I was led to understand—”

  “I assure you,” interrupted Courtenay, “there will be no problem. I simply want us to keep my mother out of it. She has strange notions about money. Her brother is a priest, you see, and the family, though wealthy, has passed down to its present scions—my mother and uncle—an inordinate fear of what they call mammon.”

 
; Two days passed. Lord Litchfield had done his best, without success, to amuse himself with cards, boring walks, even more boring conversation, and two or three visits to the village, ostensibly to see to the yacht that had brought him here but in reality merely for something to do.

  On the third day, Courtenay suggested a ride. He gave orders for Radnor to saddle his two favorite mounts now that the stallion Demon was gone, a four-year-old gelding of extremely dark gray, though not dapple, with patches of pure black, and a rich chestnut stallion with white mane and tail. They were known as Night Fire and Cymru Gold.

  The two men set out for the hills northeast of the estate within the hour. From the window of the second-floor library, Katherine watched them go. Their gay mood when they returned four hours later confirmed what she had been thinking since the day of Litchfield’s arrival—Courtenay was definitely up to something.

  25

  High Words

  Courtenay Westbrooke left Llanfryniog, riding north to meet the main road on his way to Porthmadog. He was in jubilant spirits. In the pocket of his coat was a check, signed by Lord Coleraine Litchfield, for the unbelievable sum of £4,400. It had come in this morning’s post. Litchfield had not quite delivered it into his hands during his visit of a month earlier as promised. But that hardly mattered now! Courtenay intended to waste no time depositing it into his account. His money problems were over at last!

  He could take ten trips to the continent between today and his twenty-fifth birthday and hardly make a dent in his suddenly acquired fortune. And double this would be waiting for him when the transaction was consummated eleven months from now. His ordeal under his mother’s thumb was over! He would buy the most expensive bottle of brandy Porthmadog had to offer then stop by Burrenchobay Hall on his return and allow his friend to share in his good fortune.

  As he passed the Methodist Chapel, a woman emerged from one of the fishermen’s cottages alongside the road and began walking toward the center of town. When she saw who was approaching along the road, her face brightened. She stepped into the street to meet him.

  “Mr. Courtenay, my lord,” she said, curtseying slightly and smiling nervously.

  Courtenay reined in the gray-black gelding and stared down at her.

  “I want to thank you, sir,” she added, “in the matter of the rent.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Courtenay brusquely.

  “The rent, sir … your forgiving our rent until my man is able to work again.”

  “Forgiving your rent?” repeated Courtenay. “You mean to tell me you are paying no rent?”

  “My man, sir—he broke his arm from a fall in the boat during that big storm back in January, sir. Dr. Rotherham fixed him up real good, but he ain’t been able to work all this time.”

  “What’s that got to do with your rent?” asked Courtenay.

  “Your man, your factor, Stevie Muir, my lord,” replied the woman with growing trepidation, “he said he forgave our rent till my man was back to work.”

  “He did not talk to me about it,” rejoined Courtenay. “But he will soon enough! As for your rent, you will pay up everything you owe or you will be evicted within the month. What is your name?”

  “Naughtie, my lord,” said the woman, trembling from Courtenay’s sudden outburst.

  With a vicious yank of the reins, Courtenay wheeled his mount away from the woman and galloped out of town as she stared after him in tears. The poor horse beneath him paid a dear price for Steven Muir’s gesture of kindness. The creature was in a lather of exhaustion before Courtenay was halfway to Porthmadog, its hindquarters nearly raw from the whip.

  “You can’t give these people too much,” he said to himself as he rode. “They will get the idea you are weak. They will take advantage at every turn.” They had to know he intended to rule firmly. How much more damage was that lout of a so-called factor going to do before he was able to get rid of him! He didn’t know whether to be angrier at his mother or Muir.

  By the time he reached the bank, his fury had receded. He was once again aglow in the knowledge that he was in possession of more money than he had ever had in his life. When his fortune was safely deposited in his account, he lunched at the Lleyn Arms while his horse was fed and watered then purchased his brandy and started for home.

  Three weeks later, toward the end of April, Steven Muir was at the harbor unloading a shipment of provisions that had come for Lady Snowdon from London. When his wagon was full, he made the rounds of the harbor visiting what fishermen were present, with the result that by the time he started back for the manor he had purchased several nice cod to deliver to Mrs. Llewellyn.

  He climbed up, flicked the reins, and urged the aging but faithful cob into motion. As he left the harbor behind and approached the chapel, he saw a cart in the street ahead of him being loaded with what appeared to be household possessions. He came nearer, drew rein, and jumped down.

  “Let me give you a hand with that, Jamie,” he said to the woman beside the cart who was attempting to hoist a chair up into it. He took hold of the chair himself and swung it high into the air and onto the flat bed of the cart. “Where are you bound with all this?”

  “Just to my sister’s down in Barmouth, Stevie.”

  “Is she so sorely in need that you must empty your own house to help furnish hers?”

  “She’s in no need, Stevie. ’Tis she that’s taking us in. We’re going to ‘bide with her.”

  Mr. Naughtie, his arm still in a sling, now emerged from the stone cottage.

  Steven looked back and forth between the man and his wife in confusion. “But why?” he asked. “You’ll surely be back to the fishing in another month, Jock. If it’s food you’re needing, I’ll have a sack of oats and a bushel of potatoes on your doorstep within an hour.”

  “It’s no food, Stevie,” said Jock Naughtie as he walked toward them. “’Tis money we’re in need of … for the rent, you know. We got none.”

  “I told you, Jock, you’ll be paying no more rent till you’re healthy and strong and you’re back to work on McKinnon’s boat.”

  The man looked down to the ground but said nothing.

  Steven looked toward his wife.

  An embarrassed expression came over her face. “Meaning no disrespect to yourself, Stevie,” she said. “We know you meant well. But you’re not the laird, you know.”

  “Of course not. But I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The laird, the young viscount, Stevie—he said we must pay all the rent we owe or quit.”

  “What?” exclaimed Steven. “When did this happen?”

  “About three weeks ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We ain’t seen you since.”

  “Why didn’t you come find me at the manor?”

  “The likes of us couldn’t well show ourselves at the big house. We didn’t want to anger the young viscount.”

  “He’s not the viscount yet,” replied Steven. “And he’s got no right to pretend to be. His mother still sets the rents and collects them, and I work for her not Courtenay.” Steven was brimming with anger like a pot rising to a slow boil. He stood thinking for a moment. “Jock, Jamie … the two of you go back inside and have a cup of tea,” he said. “Don’t take another thing from your house until I get back. Lady Snowdon will know of this. I can promise you that she will not hear of your leaving unless that is your wish. But it will not be over money.” He turned, jumped back onto his wagon, and sent old Dusty up the street in front of his burden with as much speed as the aging cob could muster.

  Steven arrived at the manor twenty or twenty-five minutes later, his anger with Courtenay’s presumption greater than ever. He jumped from the wagon and strode toward the front door, intending to seek an immediate interview with his mistress. Halfway across the gravel entry, a movement caught his eye.

  Courtenay had just left the house by a side entrance and was striding toward the new stables.

  Steven turn
ed and hurried after him. He rounded the wall of the barn just as Courtenay, whip in hand, was leading Cymru Gold, already saddled, out onto the grass. “A moment of your time, your lordship,” said Steven with emphasis, “if you please.”

  Courtenay detected challenge in the tone. He turned haughtily to face him as Steven came forward. One look at the young shepherd’s face brought all the latent anger in his own soul immediately to the surface. Courtenay’s eyes flashed dangerously.

  Steven stopped ten feet away. He did not want to get too close, not for fear of Courtenay but in respect of his own strength and what he might do if aroused. “I have just come from town,” he said. “There I was informed by Jock and Jamie Naughtie that you gave them notice to pay their back rents or quit.”

  “I don’t keep track of the names of the village peasantry. But yes, I spoke to a woman some time back who told me you had taken the liberty of forgiving their rents. I set her straight soon enough.”

  “You had no right to interfere,” said Steven, forcing himself to speak softly.

  “I had no right to interfere!” sneered Courtenay. “Just whose tenants do you suppose those people are?”

  “At present they are your mother’s. She has given me responsibility over their well-being.”

  “Their well-being! What about the well-being of the estate?”

  “They are one and the same.”

  “Perhaps in the eyes of a fool. A businessman would see it differently.”

  “Fortunately, I am no businessman. I am the Westbrooke Manor factor.”

  “Yes, and a notable farce you have made the office. But you won’t be for long. You would be advised to begin making plans for your future, Muir. You will rent no cottage or house from me anywhere within miles of here. I won’t have these blackguards taking their problems to you and thinking me a cad because I don’t have the heart of an old woman like you.”

  “Only a cad would throw a man and woman out of their home at the very time fortune turns against them.”