The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  When and how to do what she must eventually do, she didn’t know. This was uncharted ground. Was it shyness? Was it fear? Was it uncertainty over how she would be received? Hilary shrank from the very weakness all these questions suggested. Now more than ever she would have to be strong.

  Yet as she stood at the woman’s graveside, watching the stream of strangers file by—friends, and the people who were now supposed to be her family—any nerve she might have been able to summon quickly vanished. I must say something to someone, she thought. Yet as the black-garbed crowd slowly and silently disbursed, leaving her standing there alone in the countryside of an unfamiliar Scottish setting, no one seemed to pay her much notice, and her mouth was far too dry to speak. She couldn’t just . . . just walk up and . . . and—and what?

  It wasn’t difficult for Hilary to convince herself of the utter foolhardiness of her marching up to these strangers and declaring herself their missing daughter. At best they would think her a crackpot. At worst, a bold-faced fraud hoping to catch them at their moment of weakness in order to get her clutches on a piece of the dead woman’s estate. They would never believe her.

  With such a conflicting set of thoughts in her brain, and an even more frenetic jumble of emotions in her heart, Hilary—timid, disappointed, and feeling every inch a coward—let them all pass silently out of sight, then made her own way back to her car, drove to the Inn to pick up her things, began the return drive to Aberdeen, and thence back to London.

  If she had hoped to find inner peace in the frenzy and anonymity of the city, she was to be disappointed on that front as well. In a matter of a few short days after her return came the Whitehall interview where Logan Macintyre unexpectedly turned up. Why he didn’t seem to recognize her, she never knew. Was it a hidden longing to have her secret discovered without she herself having to boldly step forward that impelled her to confront the M.P.’s as she had, rather than cowering down into her seat in silence, hoping he wouldn’t see her? And then on the heels of that came the nightmare that had spurred this late-night reflection.

  The ancient Greeks would say that the Fates were willing her toward her destiny. She knew better, of course. But the truth of Romans 8:28 was hardly more comforting at this point. It still meant she was being guided by a hand stronger than her own, toward a destiny, a plan, a purpose she couldn’t see and over which she had no control. Many years ago, as a teenager, she had entrusted her life to God. As she had matured, she had learned to recognize His guidance in her life. She had even tried to explain the phenomenon to Murry. But never had anything of this magnitude confronted her.

  If this were indeed His doing, why hadn’t He given her the courage and resolve to do the right thing?

  “Lord, what do you want me to do?” she prayed aloud.

  The only answer she received was the still quiet of her apartment.

  She knew she needed to be more patient where things of the Spirit were concerned. But sitting back and waiting had never been her forte.

  “Oh, Lord,” she sighed, “I want to be the person you want me to be . . . I’m just not sure who that is.” Then she added in barely more than a whisper, “Give me the strength . . . yes, and the boldness to do what you show me.”

  Hilary glanced around, sighed tiredly, then shivered, realizing for the first time how chilly her flat was at that hour. She looked up at the clock over the television. Two a.m. She pulled a blanket up over her shoulders, not really intending to sleep there on the sofa, yet hardly relishing the idea of even the short walk back to bed. In five minutes she was asleep; her last thoughts before dozing off were a vague determination to spend some time in prayer, and an even vaguer anxiety that her nightmare might return if she fell asleep.

  11

  The Parcel

  The three-block walk to the Underground station helped clear Hilary’s head, still functioning obediently after only four hours’ sleep. By the time she reached her office at 7:30 a.m., she was—assisted by the growing effect of three hastily gulped cups of strong coffee—fully alert and ready to meet a vigorous day.

  Her morning was consumed with meetings—an hour with the people in graphics, another with the budget department, a lengthy and somewhat heated discussion with the printer over increased rates, and finally several individual conferences with members of the editorial staff. When she returned to her private office at 11:30, it was for the first time since she had hung up her jacket and purse four hours earlier. Betty followed her in with the morning mail, which consisted of a stack of letters and one parcel. She barely had begun to glance through them when Murry Fitts knocked on her door. She looked up, then beckoned him in.

  “We still going out to the East End?” he asked, poking his head in. “Maybe have a look at that fire site?”

  “I hadn’t forgotten,” Hilary replied. “I even dressed for it.” She waved a hand in front of her to indicate her casual clothing—khaki trousers, peach polo shirt, and brown leather oxfords. “Are you free now?”

  “Yes, I kept the afternoon clear.”

  “Great. Then let’s go,” said Hilary, jumping up, glad for the diversion of continued activity. “If we get out of here now, we might even be able to grab a bit of lunch.”

  A short while later they were seated in the back of a black Austin. As the taxi snaked its way through London’s congested noon-hour traffic, Murry filled Hilary in on his activities during the hours since they had last met. He had spent the morning poring through the Fire Brigade records and had the bleary eyes to prove it. He had also spoken to a building official regarding the permitting process for the various redevelopment projects in the area.

  “Hmm. That is interesting,” mused Hilary when Murry took a break in his enthusiastic monologue. The contrast, however, between her indifferent tone and her words was not lost on her companion.

  When he was through, Hilary turned her attention to the passing view outside the taxi window. They were approaching their destination, and she marveled that despite all the post-war reconstruction in the area, the East End had retained its look of dingy squalor. This section of London had received the worst of the Luftwaffe attacks, probably in part because Hitler had hoped that it would incite the poverty-stricken inhabitants to revolt against their government. It had produced quite the opposite effect, however, among the stalwart residents. Most East-enders liked their little corner of London, despite the fact that some labeled it a “slum.”

  Hilary remembered the friendly neighborhood in Whitechapel where she had grown up. It may not have been pretty, but she had always felt secure there. Beyond her own mum, there were always at least five other motherly matrons looking out for her and the other youngsters roaming the streets. She recalled the kindly missionary lady who would set up her little wooden archway on a street corner where any child with a farthing, and not too tall to pass under the arch, could receive a precious packet of small toys.

  And there were the street games invented by children who thought nothing of trash-strewn alleys or wartime rubble as a playground offering as many mysteries and delights as any more rural setting. All of it was set against the musical twang of the bawdy Cockney tongue; unfortunately, years of education had obliterated all but a trace of the dialect from Hilary’s speech.

  The sense of nostalgia came upon her so suddenly she hardly had time to brace herself against the quickly following surge of renewed inner turmoil. The ties of a girl named Hilary Edwards to her home of so many years went deep, and she wondered if she could ever make room in that same heart for a stranger named Joanna Hilary Macintyre.

  Murry’s down-to-earth voice broke into her thoughts, rescuing her—for the moment at least—from further having to ponder her fate.

  “There it is,” he said, pointing ahead to where the burned-out skeleton of an apartment building stood eerily against the gray overcast sky. The premises were all cordoned off well back of the debris.

  The cab pulled to a stop across the street. Hilary climbed out and paid the cabb
ie while Murry gathered up his camera bag and followed. They waited for the cab to pull away, then crossed. Hilary shivered involuntarily.

  “You okay?” asked Murry with genuine concern. “You seemed pretty quiet in the cab.”

  “I’m fine. Just got some things on my mind, that’s all. And there’s something depressing about a burned-out building. It’s such a waste. I’ve never much liked fires. Come on, let’s walk around a bit.”

  While Murry snapped pictures, Hilary gradually made her way about the perimeter of the building; and by the time Murry caught up with her again, she was deeply involved in an impassioned discussion with two residents of an adjoining tenement.

  ———

  They did not get back to the office till after five.

  “How about grabbing a bite of dinner?” asked Fitts as they walked inside.

  “Thanks, Murry, but I . . .”

  She paused, then added, “Yes, that sounds great. I will.”

  “I’ve got to drop this film off at the lab, and then make a call or two.”

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” laughed Hilary. “I’ve got a dozen things to check on! But I’ll try to have it wrapped up by 6:15 or 6:30. That be okay? I doubt if I’ll even have the chance to look at my mail.”

  “Six-thirty’s fine. If we make it, that will be the earliest you’ve left here within memory!”

  In reality they did not get away until 7:10—still a record. But the extra forty minutes had still not gotten Hilary anywhere close to her day’s mail. As they drove the four miles to Murry’s modest two-bedroom home in his aging Renault, Hilary chose not to mention that part of her reason for accepting his invitation was the thought that it might provide just the sort of escape she needed from her tormented emotions—something she had been trying to accomplish the entire day. She knew she would have to make a decision regarding Lady MacNeil’s revelation, and soon. But until something solid presented itself, or at least some appropriate course of action became clear, she had to go on with her own life. And she certainly didn’t relish an evening alone in her flat. She had been praying, and an answer would come. But until that time there was no reason to beat herself with anxiety. Or so she told herself. But the only way she could keep the unpleasant thoughts at bay seemed to be with continuous activity.

  By the time she arrived back home, it was 10:30 and the previous night’s lack of sleep had finally caught up with her. She fell into bed and slept soundly and dreamlessly until morning.

  The next day was like the previous one; though the people and topics and situations were different, Hilary managed to pack as much into the day after deadline as she had the day before it.

  The Common Market vote had been taken the previous night in Parliament. Though she tended to oppose the move, she was not so much upset by the resounding victory of assent as she was by the morning’s television reports of the event, which included several shots and two brief interviews with Logan Macintyre.

  Seeing his face had been more disconcerting than any political event! Over and over in her mind kept tumbling the incredible words: “That man is my father!”

  The very thought had tied her stomach in knots, all the more so in the knowledge that her silence was doing him a great injustice. She had attempted to counter that realization by rationalizing to herself that she was not that great a catch as a daughter—maybe the Macintyres would just as soon never know.

  She knew that could never be true, and it hardly helped pacify her uneasiness about keeping silent. Always Lady MacNeil’s face would intrude upon her attempts at pragmatism, and then Hilary would feel more deeply than ever her own deceit at keeping her startling revelation to herself.

  She had made a gallant effort to bury herself in her work, in unending calls and interviews, and even attempts to pick up her article where she had left it several days earlier. But by late afternoon she had to admit to herself that the effort had not been successful. She could not hide from it.

  She grabbed her coat and left the building—for what destination, she had no idea. She couldn’t go home. She turned up the sidewalk and began to walk. Unconsciously she went wherever her feet chanced to lead her. Three hours later she was still walking, still thinking, oblivious to pangs of hunger. She had been the length and breadth of Hyde Park, through Kensington Gardens, then past Buckingham Palace and finally the Houses of Parliament and back to the office. By the time she returned, it was 8:30, and the place was deserted. She had a stack of work she convinced herself she ought to take home. She’d get it, then grab a taxi back to the flat.

  Hilary unlocked the door and walked through the darkened and empty pressroom directly to her office. There she switched on her light and stood gazing about. Her desk was a cluttered mess. She had been so caught up in activity lately that she had been neglectful of daily office business. It was clear Betty had done what was possible to keep it orderly, but there were two or three days of unopened mail and correspondence sitting in a stack that seemed at least eight inches high!

  The sight made her realize more clearly than ever that she had to get her life back in order.

  She opened her briefcase, thumbed through the files on her desk, laying the most pressing articles inside. She could probably make some headway this evening in the quietness of her apartment. She wanted to work yesterday’s interview with those people across from the fire into the article. Good thing she didn’t require eight hours’ sleep every night.

  She picked up what was at least two days’ worth of mail and gave it a quick scan through to see what was the most urgent. It was not until she picked up several manila-envelope-sized pieces that she noticed the parcel at the bottom of the stack. Now she remembered; it had come yesterday.

  It was nearly as large as a ream of paper, and quite as heavy. It was no ordinary packet, for it appeared to have traveled a great many miles, judging from its battered condition and many official stamps.

  Closer inspection revealed no return address, but one of the postmarks had originated in Scotland and she could find none from any farther away. Another postmark read Leeds, dated several days after the one from Aberdeen. Whatever the package was, and wherever it had come from, it had certainly taken a circuitous route in finally winding up at The Berkshire Review. The earliest date stamped on the package was from some two and a half weeks earlier.

  Hilary pushed aside her other mail and, sensing the rising tide of some unforeseen emotion within her, tore open the brown paper wrapping.

  Inside, her hands clutched a box. Slowly she lifted off its lid, and her eyes fell upon what could not have been a more unexpected sight. Hilary found herself gazing upon a thick, handwritten manuscript bearing the name: Joanna Matheson MacNeil.

  The title beneath the name simply read Stonewycke Journal. Under those profoundly significant words, centered in the page, was a single sentence of scripture from Psalm 102:

  Let this be written for a future generation, that a people not yet created may praise the Lord.

  Tucked between the first two pages was a small folded sheet of light blue stationery. Hilary picked it up and read:

  Dear Hilary,

  I believe I can somewhat understand many of your present confusions and hesitancies. It is a difficult upheaval in your life you are faced with, and one, I know, which came to you unsought. Although I would never ask you to relinquish or in any way alter your attachments to your adoptive family, it is a reality we cannot change that you now have another family as well. I hope and pray that in time you will feel some affection for us. Thus it came to me the other day that it might help you to perceive our family better if you could understand some of the heritage that is now yours—should you choose to have us. When we met I told you that I hoped I would one day have the opportunity to tell you my story. It would seem that now, perhaps, that moment has come.

  So, after much consideration, I have decided to send you this manuscript. It is a journal I have kept over the years chronicling as much of the history of the
Stonewycke heritage and the lives of its people as I have been able to learn myself. As you will see, I too came to this family as a stranger. But as I learned of my predecessors, this heritage took me into itself and made me one with it, as I have no doubt it will do to you as well. This is by no means polished or professional by the standards you are surely accustomed to. But I entreat you to read it, and perhaps through it find your own place within the family that is, for better or worse, a part of you.

  With deepest affection,

  Joanna MacNeil

  With silent tears streaming from her eyes, Hilary sank down into her chair, still grasping the precious letter. The note was dated the day before Lady Joanna’s death, and Hilary could not help but sense that these were her last words to her granddaughter as surely as if Hilary had been called to the dear woman’s deathbed.

  Again a great sadness swept over Hilary. She was struck once more, as she had been the day she learned of the lady’s—her own grandmother’s—death—with the terrible emptiness of “what might have been.”

  She looked down at Lady Joanna’s journal, and with trembling fingers turned to the first page.

  I came to Scotland a stranger, it read, with no past to speak of, and an uncertain future. My quest was a vague one, and never would I have presumed to think that it would radically change my whole life. For my journey led, indeed, to life—full and complete life in the Spirit of Christ. And with this, God added to me an intensely fulfilling past, and a future brimming with promise. He gave me people to love, and people who loved me. He gave me a family, a heritage that will always demonstrate to me God’s unwavering presence with His faithful ones. And this is what gives meaning to the story of the Stonewycke legacy.