“Come in, please … You must have had a long ride. I just sat down to lunch, and my housekeeper prepared enough for an army. You can join me. The teapot is still steaming.”
The three went inside and were soon sitting at the table.
“After your letter, Robert,” said Father Abban, “last Sunday I tentatively spoke to Mrs. Maloney. I broached the subject of whether a girl had accompanied them from Laragh when they left with Mrs. O’Sullivan. She nodded and said that it was her sister’s daughter. They had helped her mother care for the girl after her sister’s unexpected death.”
“Then she must be the girl I am looking for!” said Percy with obvious enthusiasm.
“You are assuming that they are the same people.” “The coincidences seem too remarkable to be otherwise. What else did you learn?”
“Nothing really. Daibheid walked up then, the woman’s husband. He told her to say nothing more. He seemed agitated. I probed a bit and asked if my sermon had somehow upset him. He is a tempestuous man. I have had to confront him about his temper on several occasions. He said he did not want people asking about a past they were trying to forget. I glanced at Vanora. She gave me a helpless look that said she would tell me more if she could.”
“What is it all about, John?” now asked Father Halliday.
“I really don’t know,” replied Father Abban. “There are things from the past he does not want talked about. I think they must concern their niece.”
“Do you think Mrs. Maloney would talk to me?” asked Percy.
“If she was alone … perhaps. If her husband found out, he could be furious. I would have to think long and hard before I allowed myself to be party to going behind his back. Is the matter truly of such importance?”
“I believe that the girl, the Maloneys’ niece, may be the rightful heir to a sizeable estate, as well as a title, in North Wales,” replied Percy. “The task of finding his daughter was entrusted to me by the late viscount, Lord Snowdon, shortly before his death.”
“What is your personal interest?”
“Lord Snowdon was my uncle. For reasons of his own, he entrusted to me the facts of his first marriage, and the birth of a daughter, to one Avonmara O’Sullivan of Laragh, who died in childbirth. He told no one else of these things before he died. He asked me to do what I could to find his daughter.”
“And if progeny could be proven, she would inherit … as a woman?”
“As far as I understand it, yes,” replied Percy. “The terms of the original viscountcy were established such that the eldest, or his or her offspring or their issue, would inherit both estate and title irrespective of gender.”
Both priests pondered his words a moment.
“I see,” nodded Father Abban at length. “Your quest is based on no idle curiosity. Much indeed is at stake.” He paused and drew in a thoughtful breath. “Under the circumstances,” he nodded after a moment, “it would seem that we have no alternative but to see what we can learn further. I will arrange a visit with Vanora Maloney when her husband is at work. If the facts seem to warrant it, we will of course have to confide the nature of our inquiry to him as well.”
54
A Family Grief
Percy and Father Halliday waited at the church while Father Abban paid a visit to the Maloney home. He returned within the hour to say that his request had been crowned with success—Vanora Maloney agreed to meet with Percy. Only they must be gone well before evening when her husband returned from work.
“What are we waiting for!” said Percy, jumping to his feet. “After your long journey, I thought you might find it best to wait a day and rest?”
“I need to find the girl as soon as possible.”
The two priests and their new young Welsh friend left the rectory by foot a short time later. Ten minutes later they approached a stone house set in the middle of a long row of attached dwellings. Father Abban led the way to the door. The other two stepped back as he knocked.
Moments later the door opened, revealing a woman who appeared in her middle to late fifties. Percy’s eyes immediately went to her head of bright orange hair in which was mingled evidence of the approach of white.
“Hello again, Vanora,” said Father Abban. “As you can see, we decided to come soon. We thought it best to get this behind us.”
The woman smiled, though nervously as she glanced behind her own priest toward Percy and Father Halliday, then opened the door and gestured for them to enter. She led them inside. They sat down in a small but comfortable sitting room.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Vanora,” began Father Abban. “I realize this is awkward as long as Daibheid does not want these things talked about. But Mr. Drummond here has convinced me that the matter is of great importance. When the time comes, I will speak with Daibheid. He will know that you only agreed upon my urging.”
Mrs. Maloney nodded, again glancing uneasily toward the other two.
“So let me introduce my two friends,” he said. “This is Father Halliday, priest in Laragh, where you were born I believe, isn’t that correct?”
She nodded.
“Father, this is Vanora Maloney.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Maloney,” said Father Halliday.
“Is Father O’Leary still living?” she asked.
“Yes, he is,” replied Father Halliday.
“If you see him,” said Mrs. Maloney, attempting another smile, “would you give him my greeting. We should have told him where we were going and why we were leaving.”
“I will indeed. I am certain it will make him happy to know that you remember him.”
“And this young man is Mr. Percival Drummond,” Father Abban added, now turning toward Percy. “He is from Wales and came to Ireland last year hoping to locate your sister’s daughter. At last finding where you are living, with Father Halliday’s help, he hopes that you will not mind answering his questions. Mr. Drummond believes that he is the nephew of your sister’s husband.”
“Hello, Mrs. Maloney,” said Percy, rising from his chair and extending his hand. “I very much appreciate your agreeing to see me.”
She nodded, again forcing a nervous smile.
Percy resumed his seat.
“I don’t know what I can tell you,” said Mrs. Maloney. “It’s been years since we left Laragh.”
“The first thing is simply to confirm that your sister was indeed Avonmara O’Sullivan?” asked Percy.
Mrs. Maloney nodded.
“The same Avonmara O’Sullivan who married Roderick Westbrooke?”
“I believe that was the man’s name.”
“And they had a daughter?”
Again she nodded. “Her name was Morvern,” she said. “But whatever happiness there might have been at her birth was short lived. My mother and I both knew, for we were at her side through the birthing, that Avonmara was weak. She had never been strong, you see. All her life she was not sickly exactly, but not strong. Though she was two years older, I was bigger and taller and stronger and faster from the time we were wee lassies. We both had bright carroty hair just like our mum, though mine’s starting to fade, you see,” she added, running a hand over her head. “All the O’Sullivan women had bright red crops, you see. But Avonmara was a beauty. Even frail like she was, there was a mystery about her. She was a quiet girl. When she looked at you, and smiled her mysterious smile, her eyes went straight through you. When the young Welshman came, he was smitten with her. And she was taken with his good looks and flair. She was too young to marry. Mother warned her. But Avonmara was in love, and she said that when love comes, you couldn’t wait. You couldn’t think that love would come again if you didn’t take it when you had the chance.
“Those were hard times in Ireland. Our family wasn’t poor, you see. We weren’t of peasant stock, but times were hard for everyone. I don’t know what the man told her about himself or if he thought he would take her away somewhere, but we all thought he had money and he told her tha
t she would never want for a thing. So she didn’t listen to anyone’s cautions. She married the man, though she was but eighteen. He didn’t take her away, and we were happy about that. They stayed there in Laragh, though I don’t know what he did. He never seemed to work, but they had all they needed. When Avonmara knew that she was to be a mother, she was so happy. For a year she was happier than we’d ever seen her. Mother and Father began to think perhaps they had misjudged the man. He seemed to be a good enough husband. But then as her time drew near, I knew she was weakening. Her face was pale, and she did not put on the weight she should. Her face and cheeks were thin. I knew Mother was worried, too. She never spoke about it, but I could see it in her face. Then little Morvern was born, with a healthy crop of O’Sullivan orange hair, but within a day poor Avonmara was gone.” Mrs. Maloney took a deep breath and looked down. She blinked hard, and her hand went to her eyes.
The three men waited.
“It didn’t take long for us to know that Mum had been right about her husband,” she went on after a moment. “For all his dash and good looks and all the rest, he fell apart. He hardly kept control of himself at the funeral. Maybe it showed how much he loved her, but he wasn’t much of a man about it. Naturally Mum and I took care of the baby. That went without saying. She was Mum’s granddaughter and my own niece, and Avonmara’s husband was just a boy of twenty himself. What could he do to take care of a child? He didn’t even give her her name, didn’t attend the christening at the church. We would not see him for days at a time. Then came a day when he came to the house and told my mum that he was leaving Ireland, that he had to go home to see about his father. He promised to return when he was able to take care of the baby. But we never saw him again. That was the last time any of us ever saw him.” Again she stopped, her hands folded and her eyes in her lap. Reliving the grief from the past had clearly not been easy.
“I am very sorry for the pain you and your family suffered,” said Percy after a moment. “As Father Abban told you, Roderick Westbrooke was my uncle. He died a year ago. Among his last thoughts were reminders of your sister, his first wife, Avonmara—”
“So he remarried, did he?”
“Yes, ma’am,” nodded Percy. “I am his nephew by his second marriage.”
“What is his wife’s name … his second wife?”
“Katherine, Mrs. Maloney. She is my aunt. But as I say, he was thinking, too, of your sister, for she was the love of his youth. He asked me to try to find her family—you and your mother, though I understand she is now gone, and of course his daughter. He hoped I would be able to convey something of his sorrow at having deserted you all after Avonmara’s death. He was full of remorse for leaving as he did. I realize that is small consolation, but he wanted you to know. He also wanted you to know that he eventually returned to Laragh and made considerable effort to locate his daughter. But he could not find where you had gone.” Percy pulled from his pocket the envelopes addressed in his uncle’s hand both to her mother, Mrs. O’Sullivan, as well as to herself. He handed them to her.
Slowly she looked at them one by one then smiled sadly. “So he came back after all, did he?” she said. “I am surprised … but maybe not altogether surprised. He did love her—that much was plain. But it came too late to do his daughter much good. She never saw her father in her life.”
“I know, Mrs. Maloney,” said Percy. “I feel the sadness with you. But perhaps it is not completely too late for him to be a father to her … in a manner of speaking. I don’t know how much of my uncle’s background your family knew. I don’t know what he told Avonmara and your parents. But my uncle was an important man. There is not a great deal of money involved. But more than money is at stake. Your niece Morvern, if we can prove that she was indeed his daughter, would be my uncle’s firstborn. The terms of the inheritance are independent of gender. A daughter can inherit as well as a son. That is why I must find her. She is in all likelihood the heir of my uncle’s estate.”
Mrs. Maloney stared back at Percy with a blank expression.
“That is why I urged Father Abban to ask you to allow me to speak with you. So where is the girl now?” asked Percy. “I realize by now that she is a grown woman. Does she live around here?”
“Mr. Drummond … I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“I am afraid Morvern is dead.”
55
A Bargain Struck
Early that same morning, Courtenay Westbrooke saddled his mount and set off on the northern road to meet his future colleague and business associate at a small hotel in Bronaber on the north-south inland road through the region of Gwynedd. It was a ride of fifteen to eighteen miles. Though Bronaber was a small and out-of-the-way village, Litchfield had wanted to stay in close proximity to his upcoming acquisition.
In two weeks, thought Courtenay with satisfaction, he would finally and officially be known as the Viscount Lord Snowdon. There was no need to pretend any longer or play what petty games had been necessary to keep his plans from his mother. His sale of the land to Lord Litchfield would be finalized the day following his birthday. He had therefore given Litchfield leave to begin moving equipment into the area in order to begin constructing the road into his new property. His mother could do nothing to stop them now.
Thus it was, as Percy Drummond sat in the home of Vanora Maloney in the shipbuilding center of Arklow on the eastern coast of Ireland, that on a remote corner of his late uncle’s estate in North Wales, his cousin and the mining entrepreneur, Lord Coleraine Litchfield, along with several assembled experts from near London, made their way through the remote hills of Snowdonia. Courtenay still had no idea of Litchfield’s ultimate ambitions. Litchfield merely identified his colleagues as construction consultants.
It was the prior-arranged responsibility of Litchfield’s assistant, Palmer Sutcliffe, to engage Courtenay sufficiently in conversation, drawing him away from the rest, that Litchfield and his “consultants” might confer more easily with the scruffy man beside him, most of whose teeth were gone and who had apparently made no acquaintance with a razor or a bar of soap in a good while. As they went, Litchfield made pretext of looking about as though with nostalgic thoughts of his boyhood while considering the best potential location for a home in the Snowdonian mountains. He was not, however, thinking of the scenery but rather about the fortune that lay beneath it.
As yet, young Westbrooke had no idea of the exact location where his surveyors had been seen several months before. He preferred to keep it that way. The less the young fool knew, the better.
Coming into the grassy valley that lay in the hollows of the ridge adjacent to the lake, which was his object of interest, Litchfield reined in and dismounted. The others of the party followed his lead.
“Ah, yes,” he exclaimed, “it is just as I remember it!” He began walking about, to all appearances considering the most suitable options for a building site.
In the distance, the sudden sound of many hooves interrupted the tranquility of the scene. They turned to see a dozen or fifteen horses galloping up the far ridge and out of sight.
“What are those?” exclaimed Litchfield.
“There are wild horses all throughout Snowdonia,” replied Courtenay.
“Who do they belong to? They were magnificent!”
“Don’t get any ideas,” rejoined Courtenay. “The horses on any of this land are mine. They roam everywhere, but that gives you no rights if they come onto your thousand acres.”
“Whatever you say,” laughed Litchfield. “Horses are not my business.”
“Mr. Westbrooke,” said Sutcliffe, walking up to Courtenay’s side, “I realize you were interested in seeing the proposed site for Lord Litchfield’s mountain retreat. However, might I propose that you and I now return to the hotel and go over the final documents together?”
“I thought the documents were finalized,” said Courtenay.
“To be sure … yes, mostly they are. There remain just one or tw
o details to be ironed out.”
“Can’t they wait until the final transfer is to take effect?”
“I fear not, Mr. Westbrooke,” said Sutcliffe. “Everything must be in perfect order so that the transfer occurs the day after your assumption of the title. There is also,” he added, “the matter of an additional payment.”
“What additional payment?” asked Courtenay.
“Since we are so close to the final date of closing the transaction, Lord Litchfield thought that he might advance you an additional payment toward the agreed-upon sum. I have a check for one thousand pounds made out to you at the hotel.”
“I see … Well, in that case,” said Courtenay enthusiastically, “I suggest we get back and iron out those details you mentioned … and perhaps add a clause that excludes rights of horseflesh.”
Litchfield smiled to himself as the two returned to their mounts. There were times, he mused, when Palmer Sutcliffe was worth every penny he paid him!
The moment they were out of sight, he walked back to his own horse. “All right,” he shouted. “Let’s get on with it.”
Twenty minutes later, the party of four men arrived at the high overlook. Below them the waters of a small green mountain lake glistened in the sunlight.
“All right, Bagge,” said Litchfield, inching his mount beside his scruffy crony, “it’s time for you to keep up your half of the bargain. I want to know exactly where that gold came from that you showed us in Cardiff.”
“There was some mention in our recent negotiations,” said Bagge in a gravelly voice, “of two hundred pounds.”
Litchfield smiled. “You are a sly one, Bagge. What? Don’t you trust me?”
“I trust nobody. Would you pay me if you knew what I know without needing me no more?”
“Of course, Bagge. I am a man of my word.”
“That may be, or not—I don’t really care. But you get nothing more from me until I see the two hundred pounds.”
The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales Page 25