The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  It is so clearly exemplified in the life of dear Maggie Duncan—my own grandmother—who will always be the matriarch of matriarchs. Her pilgrimage of faith perhaps began that day—if such a moment can ever be sharply defined—when as a child of thirteen she went into her beloved stables to find that her father had sold her dear horse, Cinder. Ah, how I remember the day she told me the story of Cinder, how the tears of mingled pain and joy and thankfulness spilled down her old cheeks at the memory which was then almost sixty years old, and how her eyes came alive when she began to reflect aloud on the depth of love and judgment passed to her from her own personal childhood sage, the groom who took care of the family stables. . . .

  Suddenly the lights in the pressroom flashed on. Hilary’s whole body jerked with a start as if she’d been awakened from a trance. She looked up with a dull expression. The janitor had wheeled his cleaning cart into the big room and, looking up to see Hilary still in her office, he waved a greeting and ambled to her door.

  “Workin’ late tonight, eh, Miss Edwards?” he said, poking his head into the doorway.

  “Yes . . . I suppose so.”

  “I can wait to do these rooms if you like.”

  “No,” said Hilary, gradually coming to herself. “I only have to gather up a few things; then I’m off. You go on with your work.”

  “Thank you, miss. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll do just that.”

  Hilary watched him shuffle away, then stood, laying the journal in her briefcase on top of the other work. As she snapped the clasp closed, however, she doubted she’d get anything else done tonight. She had tried so hard to fill her life with diversions lately, but this uncanny arrival of the journal—many, many days after it should have gotten to her, served as a powerful and unavoidable reminder that she could not run forever from the destiny that awaited her. The thing she had tried to hide from was now too tangible and present to elude. It was as real as the papers she had just held in her hand, as real as had been the kind, noble countenance—and now, as she recalled the face, she realized it had contained another expression as well, an expression of nothing more, nothing less than a deep and personal love—of Lady Joanna MacNeil, her namesake . . . and her own grandmother.

  By the time Hilary had reached her flat, all thought of work had vanished. Her mind and heart—indeed, her entire being—was focused on one sole object—a place called Stonewycke, and the life’s blood that had been coursing through the inhabitants of its stone walls for over four hundred years.

  Before she nodded off to sleep that night some time after two a.m., Hilary had become familiar with names she would never have dreamed could move her so—names which, in the distinctive and significant hand of Joanna MacNeil, took on character and personality and meaning far beyond the actual words printed on the page. In the very handwriting of her grandmother, they seemed to come to life, filling Hilary with a sense of mingled longing and fullness which her intellect could find no possible way to describe. She felt herself gradually being caught up into something far beyond the confines of her own little world.

  Here were Atlanta and Maggie, with whom she suddenly felt intimate, and a rebellious young nobleman they called Ian, and a wise old groom named Digory—her own great uncle by several generations past—who, through the miracle of after-years, had been grafted into the family line to an even more significant degree than his master and nemesis, James Duncan. And most poignant of all to Hilary as she read was the touching story of Joanna’s own arrival in Scotland, a stranger in a foreign land, whose uncertain future and perplexity of heart certainly outweighed anything Hilary herself had yet had to face.

  As Hilary read and read, she began to see more than a mere recounting of events. She gradually realized that the most vital thread which wove through the fabric of the Stonewycke story was the ever-present hand of God moving in the lives of these people—her own ancestors.

  This was her family! And it was no ordinary one. God had been active among its people for years. And He was moving still!

  12

  Hilary’s Resolve

  When Hilary awoke at 7:30 in the morning, it was all as fresh in her mind as if only moments and not hours of sleep had intervened.

  The events of the previous night had been imprinted forever on her heart—they had penetrated into the very depths of her soul. No more could she run or hide from the destiny that was pursuing her. No more could she deny who she was or turn her back on this family from which she had sprung.

  With the reflections that came with morning’s light, she knew as clearly as if she were standing gazing into a clean Highland loch that she must, before anything else, face the two new scions of that family—her own parents, Logan and Allison Macintyre.

  Hilary knew what she must do.

  Though she dressed with particular care that morning, she did so hastily, and with fingers perspiring and cold. She skipped breakfast. She could not have eaten even if she were willing to spend the extra time on it. What she must do she wanted to do quickly—not just to get it over with, but because she was suddenly eager to do so.

  She caught a cab a block from her building in a surprisingly short time, and it was only as the cabby asked, “Where to, mum?” that she realized she did not have any idea where the Macintyres lived. It was a silly detail to have forgotten, especially since she had had more than two weeks to look it up, and even drive by if she had wanted. But she had never wanted to before this moment. And now she didn’t want to waste the time trying to find the home address. Therefore she answered the cabby with the single word:

  “Whitehall.”

  This would probably be the best way after all, she reasoned with herself. A man could be so much more stoic and level-headed in matters such as this. So, by approaching her father first, she thought, they might be able to avoid an emotional scene. Though why she was worried about that now she didn’t know; her emotions were already such a jumble! But hopefully she’d be able to get through it without making a goose of herself. After she spoke with Mr. Macintyre, he could call his wife and prepare for a later meeting. Yes, this was just the thing.

  By the time the taxi pulled up at her destination around 8:50, she once again felt collected and, if not exactly confident, at least prepared for what lay ahead.

  She located Logan Macintyre’s office in the Parliamentary administrative buildings, walked inside, and stepped into the lift as she had done many times before, as if this were no more than an interview with a politician. But this interview would be more—far more—than that. This would be like no interview she had ever had in her life! Before the lift came to a stop, a dreadful fluttering had crept into her stomach, driving out all traces of the composure she had felt earlier.

  She stepped outside and began slowly walking down the corridor, aware that her knees had begun to tremble. As she lifted her hand to turn the latch and open the door and walk into Mr. Macintyre’s suite of offices, she found it was shaking.

  Hilary paused a moment, took a deep breath as if to regain her equilibrium, but instead her head began to swim airily and she had to grab the door latch all the more firmly. What was wrong? She had never felt such sensations before! The thought occurred to turn and flee, except at that very moment she heard the sound of voices approaching behind her in the corridor. Feeling suddenly foolish standing there leaning against the door, she opened it the rest of the way and walked inside.

  It was a small miracle she could even speak. Though at that moment her voice was small and sounded thin and hollow.

  “May I help you?” asked the receptionist.

  “Yes, I’d like . . . I’d like to see Mr. Macintyre.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No—no, I don’t . . . I came rather . . . suddenly.”

  “Well, you see, today is Saturday and Mr. Macintyre doesn’t usually come in, and besides—”

  “Oh—” interrupted Hilary almost in a daze. For the first time the day of the week dawned on her. No wond
er it had been so easy to get a cab! She hadn’t even noticed the quiet streets.

  “Perhaps I can reach him at home,” she said, regaining her resolve. She had come too far to be easily turned aside.

  “It would be of no avail anyway, miss. As I was about to say, Mr. Macintyre has returned north to Scotland.”

  “Scotland?” A deflated sense of despair was evident in Hilary’s tone.

  “Yes, to his home.”

  “How long will he be gone?”

  “It is difficult to say. There has been a recent death in the family, and he had only returned to London long enough to participate in the EEC vote.”

  “Mrs. Macintyre is in Scotland too?”

  “That’s right, miss.”

  Without another word, Hilary turned and exited the office. She felt as though an icy hand had clamped itself over her resolve. What could she do now?

  As she wandered out of the building onto the sidewalk, she felt a great emptiness inside. If I came here on a kind of impulse, she thought, it was no mere whim. There was a purpose to it, a purpose I cannot ignore. Despite this momentary setback, her course was set. There could be no turning back now. She must follow wherever it led. She must fulfill her promise to Lady Joanna!

  Sensing a sudden new resolve, Hilary hailed another taxi. This time she instructed the man to take her home. There, she told him to wait while she went inside. In less than fifteen minutes she emerged carrying a small suitcase and an overnight bag. She raced down the few steps, across the sidewalk, and jumped back inside while the cabby put in her bags.

  “Driver,” she said, her voice as intense as the light in her eyes, “take me to Euston Station!”

  13

  North Toward Destiny

  She was nearly to Northampton before the import of her sudden decision finally dawned on Hilary.

  She was returning to Scotland, to the land of her heritage.

  What an impulsive thing to do, she thought to herself, grab the first train out of London to Edinburgh! But the call of her past had beckoned with compelling urgency, and this was no time to be dictated to by a railway schedule.

  As Hilary pondered the implications of her decision, she wondered what it would be like to face her parents. That was the question which burned in her brain more continuously than any other. That would be the one thrilling, terrifying moment. Would they open their arms . . . or wish she’d never come?

  Of course, once Lady Joanna made her “discovery” of Hilary’s identity, the encounter was inevitable. Why had she fought it so long? The exhilaration she felt at having finally surrendered to the destiny set before her—in spite of the dreadful uncertainty—was invigorating. At long last she allowed her mind to explore the possibilities.

  What would these people be like? What would it be like to be a part of their family—her family now? She thought of her adoptive mother; what would her reaction be? She imagined Christmas dinner with the daughter of the elegant and aristocratic Lady MacNeil sitting beside Hilary’s simple, earthy, working-class mother. She had no doubt the wise and solid Mrs. Edwards would be able to hold her own in such company once she overcame her initial awe.

  What would her parents’ reaction be? Surely the daughter of such a woman as Lady Joanna could harbor no snobbery or prejudice. Then for the first time it dawned on Hilary that Logan Macintyre came from a working-class background himself. Had he traveled too far from his roots to remember, and to feel with such decent and simple people?

  With that a more fearsome thought formed in Hilary’s mind.

  Would they be able to accept her? Not only because of her upbringing, but also because she was now a grown woman, with personality and character and values and attitudes already set? They certainly wouldn’t agree with many of her social and political views. It did not necessarily follow that just because she was their daughter, they would automatically like her. She might not even like them.

  She thought of all the chances she had taken over the years—the pursuit of an education against financial and social odds; taking over the management of The Berkshire Review despite its precarious position. Not to mention the many causes she had been quick to espouse—the more unlikely her chances for success, it sometimes seemed, the more determined she was to fight on the side of the apparent underdog. Yes, she had tackled many difficult obstacles in her life, yet this simple act now before her of meeting her parents loomed as by far the most formidable.

  At that moment a train steward approached her seat. She pulled herself from her reverie and glanced up.

  “Ma’am,” he said with a smile, “the dining car will be opened only fifteen more minutes if you wish luncheon.”

  “Thank you,” replied Hilary, her voice distracted and as far away as were her thoughts of food. “I’m fine for now. I’ll wait for dinner.”

  He nodded and moved on down the aisle. Her eyes followed him disinterestedly for a moment. She had to change trains later in the afternoon. Maybe she’d get off and have something to eat in Yorkshire before the night train to Scotland.

  Slowly Hilary turned her gaze out the window. The countryside rushed past in a blur of fields and farmhouses, country roads, and telephone lines. She wondered if this was the same route her grandmother and she had taken that fateful day thirty years ago. For the first time Hilary reflected back on those earlier events as something she had actually been part of. Her dream would seem to indicate that, in her own way, she remembered the terrible holocaust of death and explosion as vividly as did Lady Joanna. Perhaps it might not have been too far from where they now were, and the realization sent a shudder down Hilary’s spine.

  Had her grandmother on that day been looking out on this same tranquil scene, perhaps anticipating her return home, made even more joyful by the presence of her little granddaughter? What mysterious necessity had kept Allison behind in London, leaving her daughter to go off without her? Wartime had certainly forced the change of many priorities. Yet what could have been so important for a mother to send off a young child on such a long trip at such a precarious time?

  Unconsciously Hilary’s gaze fell to the box on her lap. Perhaps the answers were in Lady Joanna’s manuscript. She lifted the lid and almost reverently took out the bound pages. Last evening, after skimming through various parts at random, Hilary had begun to read through it continuously, wanting to gain the full impact of the story as it unfolded historically. And now, as she sat on the train, she resisted the urge to skip ahead to whatever parts might concern her more directly, and instead opened the pages to where she had left off in the small hours of the previous night.

  She had read of Lady Margaret’s reminiscences of her childhood, of her love for the Strathy Valley, her love of riding. She had read of old Digory and his tender, compassionate fondness for the young girl. She had read of Maggie’s stormy relationship with her father James, and of the caring, yet almost solemn, unspoken love between Maggie and the fascinating yet mysterious and impenetrable Atlanta—a woman who seemed in many ways to hearken back to the lost peoples, lost times, and faded memories of Scotland’s silent past.

  She read, too, of that fateful day when Maggie left her home, neither herself nor her mother realizing what poignant grief the memory of that parting would later bring to each. Hilary could feel the emotion even as she read the words her grandmother had written.

  Then Atlanta, holding the envelope she had prepared, gave it to her daughter. Lady Margaret would never forget her mother’s words on that, the last day they would ever see one another: “Maggie,” she said, “I want you to take this with you. You need not open it now; you would scarcely grasp its significance if you did. But I want you to have it, in the event that something should happen to me, or in case you are gone longer than we anticipate. It is the promise not only for your return but for the safety of this land we love. This will always be your home, whatever happens. Do you understand me? It is yours!” Those final words never faded from Maggie’s mind and heart even after forty years of
exile.

  Joanna then went on to recount, according to the memory of Lady Margaret late in her long life, the separation from her beloved young Ian, the voyage to America, the heartache of loss, the trip west, and many memories of that sad but strengthening time which had for so long remained locked in the heart of the aging woman.

  Hilary set down the manuscript, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine what it must have been like for Maggie Duncan, only seventeen years old, newly in love, torn between father and mother and lover, to have been wrenched from her home so violently by events beyond her control.

  But the significance of that moment had extended far beyond simply a young girl’s leaving home. If nothing else was clearly evident as she read on in this chronicle of a family’s heritage, one thing was certain—Stonewycke was more than a mere home. Stonewycke and the parcel of earth surrounding it, and all it had come to represent among the people of the region, had grown to the proportion of something almost sacred, pulsating with life. There was nothing that could be considered hallowed in the land or the castle themselves. It was only as God worked in and through them, and gave meaning to places and events by virtue of His greater workings in the hearts of men and women, that Stonewycke began to throb with what seemed a spirit of its own, which was nothing more nor less than God’s Spirit himself.

  As she wrote, at times, Joanna would pause in her telling of events to reflect on this strange phenomenon of Stonewycke.

  How can a piece of real estate, a mere chunk of ground, an ancient castle take on such meaning in a region’s life? Sometimes I fear we of this family have elevated the importance of this place all out of proportion. I have at times wondered if God is pleased. But then I recall that it is God himself who has infused this life into Stonewycke, and that it is none other than His life—in us, in our hearts, not in the land itself—which gives rise to these feelings. And in so doing He has indeed put something special here. I had no idea how—when I first came to Strathy as a timid and insecure outsider—this place would draw me into itself.