“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.
44
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.
“Do you remember her marriage?” Percy asked enthusiastically.
“Now that you mention it, I recollect something about it. She was too young to be marrying, folks said, a mere child herself, they said. But the laddie from England, or wherever it was, swept her off her feet, folks said. Then she had a child but died giving birth.”
“After that, they left Laragh? And the baby with them?”
“Must have, now that you bring my mind back to it. Wasn’t long after—can’t remember exactly—that they were gone.”
“Do you remember these?” said Percy, showing him the envelopes of his uncle’s letters.
McNeil looked them over and shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. But aye, that’s my stamp.”
“You have no idea where they went?”
“I wouldn’t have stamped it ‘Unknown’ if I’d known where they were, would I now, laddie?”
“I suppose not. Do you remember who lived in these two cottages after Mrs. O’Sullivan and Avonmara’s sister Vanora left?”
“Can’t say I do. People come and people go. Even a postmaster can’t keep track of them all, laddie. They were terrible times. They lasted three years … five years, in some places eight or ten. The potato crops gradually came back and life went on. But by then all Ireland had been changed, decimated some would say—so many people gone and dead. The whole country had to start over.”
“Was there work to be had?”
“Aye, in time. There was always the shipbuilding down in Arklow if a man was willing to work hard. Decent pay in the shipyards, too, they say, though I was happy enough in the post and never did that kind of work myself.”
McNeil paused a moment. “Now that you get my mind thinking on those times,” he went on, “seems I recall that some of the men from here went down to the shipyards when the famine hit. It was a way to keep their families alive. Men would do anything for that.”
45
Dubious Scion
Ever since Percy had seen the men in the mountains northeast of the manor, Katherine had been silently pondering the matter. Her disquiet had grown. Lord Litchfield’s visit to Wales also preyed upon her mind. She could not prevent the foreboding sense that somehow the two events were related. She had done some investigating of her own since Percy’s departure and had discovered more about Lord Litchfield than that he had been her husband’s colleague in the House of Lords. He was also one of England’s leading mining magnates. It was no secret that Wales contained some of the richest mineral deposits in all Britain—not slate merely, but also coal and gold.
She had retrieved the letters from Litchfield to her husband that Percy had discovered in the files in the study and perused them several times. But without seeing her husband’s half of the correspondence, she could tell nothing definite. Yet more importantly, how had Courtenay’s recent contact with the man begun … and for what purpose? One thing was clear—there had been discussions about the sale of estate lands.
As if materializing out of her thoughts, Courtenay Westbrooke returned from the continent no worse for wear and with less than £500 left in his account at Porthmadog. The dramatic shrinkage of his funds was in part explained by the fact that he was leading two one-year-old thoroughbreds and a two-year-old for which he had paid at least twice what they were worth. He had transported them by train across France, by ship across the channel, and by train the rest of the way, then led them himself overland for the final ten miles of their journey. He w
as in high spirits and well confident that the three speedsters would make him rich within five years.
His optimism over the future was short lived. As he passed along the main road south of Llanfryniog on his way to the manor, he observed more to alarm him than mere surveying on his land—a full-fledged building project of massive scale was under way on Mochras Head! Walls of stone had grown ten feet high. He had no idea his mother was planning anything so preposterously enormous. And there was the imbecile Muir walking about with papers in his hand as if he was in charge of the thing.
Courtenay reached home in a white fury and saw his prize new purchases into their new quarters. Though his father’s aging groom knew more about horses than anyone in Gwynedd other than Padrig Gwlwlwyd, Courtenay would never trust his expensive new acquisitions with one like Hollin Radnor.
The moment the three horses were safely in their new stalls and provided with oats and water, he went angrily in search of his mother. He burst into the ground-floor sitting room like an enraged bull. “What is the meaning of this, Mother?” he demanded without word of greeting.
“It is nice to see you again, too, Courtenay,” she said, not without a little bite in her tone.
“I want to know what is going on over on Mochras Head!”
“You told me that I would no longer be welcome at the manor after you inherit. You left me no alternative but to build a new home for myself.”
“But it is on my land!”
“Not yet yours, Courtenay.”
“It will be soon enough. I can evict you from there just as well as from the manor.”
“I fear not, Courtenay. The parcel where my home is being constructed is no longer part of the estate.”
“What are you talking about? Of course it is.”
“That portion of land has been sold.”
“Sold! To whom?”
“To me. I purchased it from the estate in my own name. You can be assured that it is perfectly legal. Hamilton Murray has seen to that.”
“I will stop you. I will have the sale invalidated.”
“I’m afraid there is nothing you can do, Courtenay. It has been finalized for months. Before you complain too highly, I paid the estate more than market value for the land. Those funds will be yours once you are viscount. The whole thing will actually prove profitable to you. And while we are on the subject of land sales, I want to know what is going on between you and Lord Litchfield.”
“That is none of your affair,” answered Courtenay testily.
“It is my affair until you are twenty-five. Some men I suspect as being in his employ were seen in the mountains at the northeast of the estate. I want to know what they were doing there.”
“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.
46
The Parish Church
All 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.
The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales Page 22