Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (23 page)

He sought the shelf where he knew his aunt kept her growing supply of MacDonald books. The collection had indeed grown since he was last here. He stepped closer and examined the spines where the titles stood side by side. Some were familiar. Some he had heard his parents mention. Some were altogether new to him:
Adela Cathcart, Alec Forbes of Howglen, Guild Court, Unspoken Sermons, Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood, Ranald Bannerman’s Boyhood, Robert Falconer, A Seaboard Parish, At the Back of the North Wind, The Princess and the Goblin, The Vicar’s Daughter …

There was the one he was looking for—
David Elginbrod
. Percy removed it from the shelf, found his favorite chair in one of the window alcoves, flipped through the pages toward the end until he found his place, and began reading.

An hour later, as Percy began to get drowsy, the words on the page suddenly arrested his attention.
“He gathered together the few memorials of the old ship gone down in the quiet ocean of time; paid one visit of sorrowful gladness to Margaret’s home …”

It was just like his visit earlier in the day to the cottage on the moor—memorials of the passage of time from his visit to Gwyneth’s former home. Even with the thought, he remembered what Florilyn had said when he was here for Christmas.

“Gwyneth is Margaret in the book, Percy!”
she had said.
“Hugh thought he was in love with Euphra … but all along he was meant to discover his love for Margaret. Don’t you see? In the same way, what if part of your heart still belongs to Gwyneth?”

Wide awake now, Percy continued to read, remembering again how Gwyneth, when he was a “pilgrim” in Wales, had awakened him to nature, to God, to himself. And yet, through it all, it was the face of Gwyneth herself that rose, dawning within him like a crescent moon.

Percy’s hands were nearly trembling by now as he held the book. Florilyn’s words were probing his brain, his heart, his whole being:
“Gwyneth is Margaret in the book, Percy! What if part of your heart still belongs to Gwyneth? You have to find out. You have to discover what is in your heart.”

He continued to read MacDonald’s words about the fictional Hugh and Margaret. But he was no longer reading about Hugh Sutherland. He was reading about himself!

Percy drew in a deep breath, closed the book, then rose and stared out toward the sea in the distance. From the alcove he could also view the sea that Gwyneth loved so much … and to the east the hills where he had first met the nymph of Gwynedd when she was a mere thirteen and he was a sophisticated youth of sixteen.

How little he had known back then! All the wisdom had dwelt in her, not him. But he had had no eyes to see it at their first meeting.

He still stood at the window ten minutes later, absorbed in his thoughts. At length he turned. Taking the book with him, he left the library and returned to his room.

Night slowly closed in upon Westbrooke Manor. Two hours later Percy lay in his bed, awake and full of many thoughts.

Somehow he drifted to sleep. As occupied as his brain had been, he slept surprisingly sound—the gift given to youth—and awoke rested and refreshed with the sun streaming into his room.

Then rushed back upon him the torrent of thoughts from the previous night. Rather than overwhelming him, however, they poured over him as though he were standing beneath the waterfall of a bracing mountain stream, with its icy waters pounding over his head. He would meet the challenge of whatever the new day brought him with vigor.

Yes, he had loved Gwyneth. Oh, how difficult it must have been for Florilyn when she realized it—and how hard for her to tell him!

After breakfast he saddled Red Rhud and set off for the village. But again, his way led him to the Barrie cottage. Something was here, he mused as he rode up, something he was meant to find.

But where … but what?

He dismounted and again entered the cottage. Everything was just as it had been the day before. Yet in his mind’s eye, it now glowed with the luster of the love blossoming in his heart. But alas, the bloom had flowered too late!

God
, he prayed silently,
what do You have for me to see? Why have You led me here? Guide my steps, my thoughts, my eyes
.

Moving slowly through the rooms as he had the day before, a sense of anticipation, of something at hand, filled Percy’s mind.

His thoughts full of Gwyneth and what he had read the night before, he left the cottage. As he prepared to mount Red Rhud, he turned back.

There, several yards to the right of the door, partially obscured by several overgrown rosebushes, stood a small stone sign or monument with words carved into it: M
OR BHAIRNE A
I
NBHEAR
D
É.

What could it mean? It was clearly Gaelic, that much he knew. But the words conveyed no hint of meaning.

He remembered seeing it many times before but had never thought to ask what the Gaelic words might mean or why that particular name had been given to the cottage. He must ask Steven.

With a new mystery added to all the rest, thoughtfully he rode away from the cottage.

T
HIRTY
-S
IX

The Meadow

I
nstead of returning to the village as he had on the previous day, Percy found himself leading Red Rhud east into the hills and toward the peaks of Snowdonia. He hardly knew where he was bound at first. But gradually he knew. Would he be able to find the place without Gwyneth to guide him?

He rode up and inland for an hour, stopping many times to assess his position, often uncertain yet sure he was moving steadily closer to his destination.

At last he began to recognize the granite cliffs and the shape of several peaks. Certain of his bearings now, he led Red Rhud a short time later through the jagged opening to his left where the shoulder of a projecting ridge opened between one hill and the next, then up the rocky incline, round the large cluster of boulders, and finally to the overlook where he was again able to see the tiny lake of blue-green far below.

Its surface shone like glass. Near the water’s edge, several deer were drinking from the lake and nibbling at the surrounding grasses of the meadow.

With a momentary pang of sadness, he realized that he would hear no haunting ethereal melody on this day from the lake creature of Gwynedd. He saw no sign of the wild horses. After a few moments, he urged Red Rhud on.

Soon he was descending steeply through a rocky ravine surrounded on both sides by fir and pine, with granite cliffs looming high above. When he judged he had come near the place beyond which Gwyneth would not let him go, he stopped, dismounted, tied the reins to a tree, and walked on gently and quietly.

In the clearing beyond the wood, a half dozen deer grazed upon the carpet of green while a dozen rabbits scurried among them. Behind lay the shimmering emerald surface.

He stood in silence for ten minutes. Quietness reigned in this place. Gwyneth’s spirit surely hovered over it.

Suddenly a sound disturbed the hush of peace. Within seconds the deer and rabbits disappeared into the surrounding trees. Percy wondered if he had caused their flight.

Then it came again, from high above him on the other side of the valley … metallic noises and the sounds of horses. Then he heard voices … men’s voices.

He looked all about. There they were, three or four men on horseback high above the lake on a projecting ledge on the far side. They were unloading equipment of some kind.

They were too far away to see clearly. But though he could not hear their words distinctly, their voices echoed off the rocks.

As he watched, one of the men now set up a surveyor’s tripod and transit. Another pulled out a sketch pad and began to draw the lake and valley.

With stealthy and careful step, Percy retreated deeper into the safety of the pine and fir wood until he could retrace his steps to Red Rhud. If he had heard them, surely they would soon enough be alerted to his presence as well. He led Red Rhud back the way he had come as slowly and quietly as possible. Once on the high path again, he remounted. For several minutes he took great care to lead Red Rhud quietly, then increased his pace and made for the manor with greater speed than he had ridden up into the hills.

He tied Red Rhud in front of the house and went to find his aunt. “Aunt Katherine,” he said, “do you know that small lake in the mountains to the northeast?”

“There are an abundance of small lakes in Snowdonia, Percy.”

“It’s between here and Burrenchobay Hall, but east and surrounded by high granite cliffs.”

“It could be any of several—I really cannot say that I know for certain the one you are speaking of. Why, Percy?”

“I just came from there. It is a place I ride occasionally. I first heard about it from Florilyn and Courtenay. They said it was the home of a water kelpie.”

Katherine laughed. “I have heard those stories as well. Gwberr-niog I believe he is called.”

“That’s him! I had forgotten the name. But after hearing about the lake, Stuart gave me directions so I could find it for myself. I rode up there again today. I saw some men there with surveying equipment—Englishmen as far as I could tell from their accents, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I wondered if the lake was on Westbrooke property. Are you having surveying done?”

“No,” answered Katherine with an expression of concern. “My surveying for the new house was completed months ago.”

“They definitely had surveying equipment. I saw that much.”

“I don’t know that I like the sound of this,” she said rising. “I will have a talk with Stuart to find out exactly where this lake is and if it is on our land.”

Keenly aware that he had been neglecting Florilyn since his arrival and concerned for her feelings, Percy spent the afternoon with his cousin. They had a long ride and talk together. Percy even dared suggest a race on the beach with their two favorite mounts again, Grey Tide and Red Rhud, and was happy with Florilyn’s acceptance. Her feelings of guilt over the accident involving Gwyneth seemed at last to have faded completely into the past.

The delightful afternoon reminded him why it had been easy to love her. That love had now turned to respect and admiration. He was now more certain than ever that she was right and that he must discover what might be the depths of his other love.

T
HIRTY
-S
EVEN

The Drawer

T
he following morning found Percy again in his uncle’s study. On this occasion he took more care than had been possible with a mere cursory search. He spent the entire morning examining the contents of the desk drawers and cabinet and safe. Most of the papers he found were of little apparent use, many of the files predating his uncle altogether—personal correspondence, business records, journals and ledgers from the various factors who had worked for the estate dating back centuries.

He did, however, locate a brown envelope with the single word L
ITCHFIELD
in ink on the flap. It appeared more recent than the others he had opened. The letters from one Lord Coleraine Litchfield contained no particular significance as he perused them. Yet they clearly concerned the potential sale of estate lands. He knew his aunt should be made aware of them, if she was not already.

Percy found his aunt reading in her private sitting room. “Aunt Katherine,” he said, “I found an envelope containing some letters to Uncle Roderick from a few years ago. You might know all about it, but it seemed important enough to ask you about.” He handed her the envelope.

Katherine removed the letters. As she read one after another, Percy saw her internal temperature beginning to rise. At length she began shaking her head. “I don’t know whether to yell or cry,” she said. “No … I had no idea Roderick was engaged in this correspondence. Apparently he was planning to sell some of the estate’s land. I cannot say I am surprised,” she added with a smile. “He was always short of cash, always trying to talk me into giving him money for one of his schemes. I am sorry to think that money came between us. But the sad fact of the matter is, it did.”