By her choice, Adela Muir continued in the role of staff manager at the manor for the rest of her life. As Florilyn’s mother-in-law and aunt of the viscountess, her status in the home was as a family member. But she had to work, she said. It was the natural order of things. She could never be happy living a life of leisure. She and Katherine read every new MacDonald book they could get their hands on. Indeed, the Scottish bard and seer from Huntly continued to produce best-selling books at such a rate that the MacDonald shelf in the manor library grew to encompass nearly three shelves full of many editions and several thumb-worn copies of each title.
Codnor Barrie never worked in the slate mine again. With his nephew Steven, he developed a breed of sheep especially suited to the climate of north Wales. Their flocks roamed the hills of Snowdonia, and their wool was highly prized throughout Britain.
Lord Coleraine Litchfield was censured by the House of Lords when it was discovered that he had entered into a contract to purchase a tract of land on the Lleyn Peninsula under false pretenses. The ensuing scandal made all the papers, sullying Litchfield’s reputation with charges of embezzlement and fraud. Whether formal criminal charges would be brought remained in doubt. His secretarial assistant, Palmer Sutcliffe, fled the country and was last reported to be somewhere in France. Bagge, Litchfield, and Sutcliffe all went to their graves, in that order, never seeing the gold they had so lusted after, and the secret of what lay under the lake died with them.
No one ever knew about the gold under the emerald Snowdonian lake until years later. After a long and serious summer’s draught, one of Percy’s and Gwyneth’s adventurous grandchildren was exploring in the hills and came across the long-hidden cave. Hurriedly he rode back excitedly to the new house to tell his grandmother, the viscountess, of his discovery.
Steven and Florilyn had four children—three boys and a girl. Only one of the boys took after Steven. He grew into a burly youngster who loved the out-of-doors. By the age of twelve, he was already being touted as a future sheepshearing champion.
An altogether unexpected visitor appeared one day at the new house on Mochras Head. The girl who answered the door was new to the area and did not recognize the plump figure standing before her in the finest dress and hat she owned.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” said the woman, obviously nervous, “but would your mistress, the viscountess, I mean … is she at home, miss? If I could just have a word with her, you see.”
The girl disappeared into the house. Gwyneth appeared a minute later dressed in a working frock, wiping her hands with a kitchen towel. Even on her usually placid countenance, the surprise was instantly visible.
“Hello, Mistress Chattan,” she said. “It is nice to see you. Won’t you come in?”
“No, Miss … I mean, begging your pardon—Lady Gwyneth, that is. I’ll just stay here and say my piece.”
“How can I be of service to you, Mistress Chattan?” asked Gwyneth.
From somewhere in the folds of her expansive dress, the innkeeper pulled a dry, faded cluster of what appeared to be dead wildflowers and grasses.
“Do you know this?” she asked, showing it to Gwyneth.
Gwyneth smiled. “Is it one of mine?” she said.
“You left it on my back door one day many years ago. I had been rude to you that day, you see. But like you always did, you returned me kindness for it. I’m sorry to say, I cursed you that day and threw this on the floor. But something made me pick it up the next day, and I can’t say why, but I saved it all this time. I wanted you to know that I’m sorry for the times I was rude to you. You were a good girl, and you’ve become a fine lady, and I’m hoping you’ll forgive me for whatever unkind words I spoke to you.”
Gwyneth’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Mistress Chattan, of course you are forgiven. You are a dear for saving one of my little forgiveness bouquets all this time!” She stepped forward and stretched her arms around the great bulk of the woman who was more than twice her size.
Mistress Chattan had not cried in years. Nor did she cry now. But she came dangerously close.
“Please …” said Gwyneth as she stepped back, “won’t you come in and have tea with me. I would enjoy it very much. I would like to show you the beautiful view of the sea from our sitting room.”
With a nervous but appreciative smile, feeling greatly lightened from the release of her long-carried burden of conscience, Mistress Chattan nodded then followed Gwyneth inside.
Chandos Gwarthegydd married Mistress Chattan’s niece from Dolgellau. The innkeeper’s personal life had always been so shrouded in mystery that no one really knew where she had come from or whether she had living relatives at all. The identity of Chandos’s bride was greeted with many questions. Little was learned, however, beyond the fact that she was the daughter of Mistress Chattan’s brother. A beautifully incongruous relationship developed between the hulking young blacksmith and the aging aunt of his wife. The two young people took care of her during her final years with the most tender kindness imaginable. When the Keeper of the Ale died at the age of seventy-three, a handwritten will was found in her cash box, which Percy confirmed as legal and binding. It left the inn and all its contents to Chandos’s wife. The building that housed the inn and pub was one of the few in the village that was privately owned and not the property of the viscount or viscountess of Snowdon.
Chandos continued blacksmithing with his father. An increasing amount of his time, however, was spent on his wife’s new enterprise. They upgraded, restored, and added several rooms, turning it into a seacoast hotel of some repute. Many of those bound for the village on the north- or southbound coaches got out at the hotel and remained in Llanfryniog for several days. The pub of the newly renamed Chattan Arms continued to serve the best ale in Snowdonia.
Percy and Gwyneth had five children, three boys and two girls.
As Katherine’s hair gradually turned a silvery white, her countenance took on more and more the radiance of that quiet, humble, peaceful, wise daughterhood that only lifelong attentiveness to the commands of Christ can produce in God’s women. She continued to read and reread the works of the Scotsman, along with her brother’s writings. With every passing year, she became more deeply convinced that the answers to life’s quandaries were to be found in uncomplicated, practical obedience to the words of Jesus. All her grandchildren adored her and took every opportunity to scamper into her lap, where they felt at home, content, and at peace.
One morning in early summer, bright and warm, as Percy sat at the breakfast table with his tea, a girl of six and a boy of three walked into the room, rubbing their eyes and looking about.
“Daddy, where’s mummy?” asked the girl.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” replied Percy. “I haven’t seen her this morning. Would you like something to eat?”
“Yes, please, Daddy.”
After Percy had the two situated at the table, with glasses of milk and a plate of oatcakes in front of them, he left the house. A glance north and south along the promontory revealed nothing. He continued around the north wing of the house until his gaze opened toward the hills of Snowdonia eastward from the coastline.
On a green hillside in the distance he saw a simply dressed figure walking through the grass as it sloped up toward the inland ridge that overlooked Tremadog Bay. The light hair bathed in sunlight was unmistakable.
He smiled as he saw her stoop to the ground. He knew what she was doing. She was plucking wildflowers.
Gwyneth would always be Gwyneth, thought Percy with a full heart. Deep inside, she would never really be a viscountess, whatever people might call her. She would always be the mysterious daughter of the Snowdonian hills whose childlike nature spread life and goodness wherever she went.
A FEW NOTES OF INTEREST FROM MICHAEL PHILLIPS
The account of D. L. Moody’s first British mission in 1873 and 1874, though brief, is recounted as accurately as possible from the historical records. In that mission, twenty-five
-year-old Henry Drummond took leave from his divinity studies in order to join the mission as a volunteer. He formed a great friendship with Moody that lasted for the rest of their lives. The draft of the manuscript on love that he had begun working on that same year, 1873, was not finally published until 1880, seven years later. The Greatest Thing in the World became an international best seller and has been profoundly influencing Christians toward Christlikeness ever since.
After bidding farewell to Scotland in September of 1874, Moody sailed to Ireland. There for over three months he held meetings in Belfast and Ireland. When at length he returned to England, reports of the earlier revival in Scotland sparked greater interest than had been present earlier. At last the English were ready to listen enthusiastically to D. L. Moody. For the next ten months, huge crowds in Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, and London flocked to hear the evangelist. The number of converts was beyond counting. Moody’s comments about Drummond’s farmhouse talk on love during his visit to England a few years later is quoted directly from Moody’s own reminiscences.
Henry Drummond died in 1897 at the young age of 47, but his vision of “the greatest thing” lives on through this work for which he continues to be revered in the annals of Christian writers.
The mountain Lugnaquilla is the thirteenth highest peak in Ireland at 925 meters and the country’s highest mountain outside Kerry. There are a number of routes up to the flat peak, known as “Percy’s Table,” which is often shrouded in mist, though when clear it affords distant and spectacular views. However there are also several treacherous ridges, cliffs, bouldery outcroppings, and severe slopes, making good weather or expert navigation a necessity for the hiker unfamiliar with Lugnaquilla’s many secrets.
Some may perhaps have found it unusual for one fiction book to play such a key role in another. I employed the works of George MacDonald in this way to highlight a point that most fiction readers know so well—the power of fictional characters, if they are truly drawn and real to life, by their struggles and failings and triumphs, to profoundly affect our lives. My desire was not merely to dedicate this volume to George MacDonald, but to convey something of the unique power of his writing. I am certain many of you are already well acquainted with his books. If you are not, you may learn more at the website www.FatherOfTheInklings.com.
For the MacDonald readers among you, I must confess to one stretching of historical verisimilitude. The quote in chapter 57 discovered by Steven in the library was taken from MacDonald’s book Donal Grant, which was in actual fact not yet published at the time. It was published in 1882, eight years later. I hope purists will forgive my use of this one of MacDonald’s central themes for the sake of the story. This quote, too, as well as several of the others, has been slightly paraphrased for brevity. All the other of MacDonald’s books that are mentioned and quoted from were available at the times where they appeared in the story and were indeed being read avidly throughout England, Scotland, and Wales.
The gold rush in County Wicklow, Ireland, during the end of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, took place substantially as described. There was also substantial gold mining in the Snowdonian region of North Wales.
A Look at: Dream of Freedom (American Dreams 1)
Best-selling author Michael Phillips transports readers to the South, as the seeds of Civil War are sown—and those against slavery take a stand.
In the antebellum South, Richmond and Carolyn Davidson live lives of ease as wealthy plantation owners. But even though their prosperity and livelihood depend on slave ownership, their Christian consciences speak against the practice.
When the Davidsons decide to follow their own moral conviction and God’s will by freeing their slaves, they face consequences they never could have anticipated. Risking their lives as an important link in the Underground Railroad, helping runaway slaves escape to the northern states, the Davidsons must rely on their wits—and God’s protection—to stay alive.
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Thank you.
Michael Phillips
About the Author
Michael Phillips is one of the most versatile and beloved authors of our time. His widely diverse novels and fiction series are set in Scotland, England, Wales, Germany, and Russia, as well as the United States. Though primarily known for his sweeping historical sagas, he has also written many contemporary novels, four fantasies, and even one murder mystery.
In addition to his reputation as a best-selling novelist, he has penned many devotional and theological titles that illuminate biblical and personal themes with insight, clarity, and wisdom. He describes his life’s vision as the desire to use the genres of both fiction and non-fiction to help readers toward greater intimacy with their Creator through a deeper understanding of God’s nature, character, and forgiving Fatherhood. Commenting on one of his books, Bishop William Frey wrote: “Michael Phillips offers a much-needed corrective to…superficial descriptions of the Christian life. He dares us to abandon all candy-coated versions of the gospel.” About another, Eugene Peterson adds, “Michael Phillips skillfully immerses our imaginations…he takes us on an end run around the usual polarizing clichés.”
Phillips is also known as one of those who helped rescue Victorian Scotsman George MacDonald from obscurity in the 1980s with his new publications of MacDonald’s works. He has produced more than eighty new editions of MacDonald’s books which have introduced thousands the world over to MacDonald’s transformative writings. He is recognized as possessing deep insight into MacDonald’s heart and spiritual vision, and his efforts continue to contribute to a worldwide renewal of interest in the man C.S. Lewis called his master.
Michael Phillips’ corpus of more than a hundred titles is praised across a wide spectrum of readership. The impact of his writing is perhaps best summed up by Paul Young, author of The Shack, who wrote, “When I read…Phillips, I walk away wanting to be more than I already am, more consistent and true, a more authentic human being.”
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