The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  They were silent a few moments and Hilary returned her attention to the wall. At last she saw the final plaque. It was of Davies himself. But the moment her eyes rested upon it, he began to shuffle awkwardly, giving an embarrassed cough or two.

  “I know it must seem a bit presumptuous . . .” he began.

  “No,” said Hilary. “You are part of this now, and always will be. Not only do you deserve a spot on this wall, but it is your duty to take your place alongside the others.”

  No sooner had she spoken the words than Hilary realized their application to herself as well as the innkeeper. Like Davies, she was also intrinsically being drawn into something greater than herself. It had begun to come into focus on the train, and now the feeling returned even more forcefully. Being here, standing on the very land that had been in the family of her ancestors for so many generations, so many centuries, she saw more clearly than ever the depth of love, the yearning Lady Joanna had held in her heart toward her—not only as a granddaughter returned from the dead, but also as an integral part of the Stonewycke heritage.

  And Hilary was also a link to the future of that legacy. Perhaps she would not find her way into Joanna’s journal, but might she not be able to do something to help keep the tale which had flowed from Joanna’s pen alive for future generations? Might there be a role for her to play in the ongoing story of Stonewycke?

  Suddenly, even as she chatted distractedly with Mr. Davies, Hilary knew that she had indeed not come here by accident, that she was not being swept into this saga by mere chance. As a knot tightened within her, she knew that the course of her future had suddenly all changed. She knew there could be no halfway measures. As there had been a Lady Atlanta, Lady Margaret, Lady Joanna, and Lady Allison—so too must there one day be a Lady Hilary as well.

  Feeling all at once detached and unreal, in a shambling way Hilary thanked the innkeeper as politely as possible, and broke off her conversation. Her voice sounded strangled in her own ear, and she could feel her heart pounding hard in her chest. A hot sweat broke out over her forehead and her knees began to shake.

  Hilary had never fainted in her life. Even in the violent jungles of Vietnam, she had kept her wits about her. But she had never felt this kind of lightheaded sensation, and before she made a complete fool of herself, she realized she had to get outside and into some fresh air.

  16

  Uninvited Thoughts

  Hilary stepped from the door of the Bluster ’N Blow and inhaled a deep draught of the chilly air.

  A storm was indeed brewing. The wind off the North Sea whipped at her face and easily penetrated the thickness of her Shetland wool sweater. It quickly restored her equilibrium and forced a thread of practicality into her distraught mind. But still she could not go back, even for her coat.

  Gray waves slammed fiercely against the smooth sand that stretched out in front of her before giving way to the rocky shoal at the far end of the promontory in the distance. Overhead the sky was a solid gray mass with little variation of color, except along the distant horizon where a black bank of sinister-looking clouds portended the approaching rain. And judging from the wind, coming relentlessly from offshore, the clouds were heading this way and would arrive some time that night.

  This northern coast of Scotland was wild and unpredictable. She vaguely remembered Mr. Davies telling her at the end of their conversation that a storm of hurricane proportions had nearly brought down the entire inn over a hundred years ago. Glancing behind her, the inn seemed as solid as the rocky coast upon which it was built. She peered back at the sea, raging in good earnest now, and then toward the harbor. All the boats were tied securely, but that could hardly keep their masts from bobbing up and down and sideways in a frantic symphony of windy, wavy motion.

  She began walking along the shoreline toward the harbor. With the physical exertion came some relief from the cold. Her head felt clear now, and it was refreshing to fight against the elements.

  Yes, this was a glorious land. She had thought so when she had come twelve days earlier. She had walked along this same beach then too, when the weather had been calmer. She supposed they even swam here in the summertime. What a land of contrasts! It all looked so different now. Not because of the storm. It looked different to her inner eyes—the difference between gazing upon an image in a mirror and finally beholding the real thing. Now this wild, beautiful, gray, green, rugged expanse of coastline meant something to her that it never could have before the journal.

  Everything was suddenly changed. Now there were so many others whose presence she felt, others who had walked this same way once, others whose feet had passed over this same sand, others whose very blood was part of her own makeup. How many times had young Lady Margaret walked, or more likely ridden her magnificent black Raven along this very shore? And Joanna, too, had come here for consolation during those dark days before she discovered who she was. And here, probably within sight of where Hilary now stood, she had also met her dear Alec.

  Once more—the comparisons seemed so frequent lately—Hilary found herself following in her grandmother’s footsteps, and seeking the solitude of the sea. Now it was her turn to find consolation, to wrestle with quandaries too complex for the conscious mind to fathom, to ask questions that seemed to have no answers . . . and perhaps—as her predecessors had learned to do during their times of trouble—also to pray.

  The truth of her birth had suddenly been laid bare. Not just who she was; she had known that simple fact for three weeks. Now there was much more to face. Now it was a matter of what it all meant.

  She had been prepared to accept Logan and Allison Macintyre as her parents. Once the initial shock of Lady Joanna’s revelation had sunk in, there had even come a dawning thrill at the thought of being a member of such a fascinating family. Even while reading Joanna’s journal, as many tears as that reading had evoked, she had managed to keep a small part of her heart detached from the implications of it all.

  But she had not, until standing there in front of Mr. Davies’ special wall, realized what membership in this family would mean . . . to her. For just as the heritage of the Bluster ’N Blow had been passed down, though not by blood, from owner to owner, so too the legacy of Stonewycke was no mere static legend that could be relegated merely to the pages of some dusty and archaic journal. It was a living, breathing, ongoing inheritance that went beyond times, places, wills, houses, and earthly possessions. It was a legacy that pulsated with life from generation to generation—a legacy made real, made alive, made imperative, and made inescapable by the journal and the lives of which it told.

  Hilary’s mind went back to Joanna’s note which had been tucked inside the journal. Her grandmother had hoped that Hilary’s reading of the words she had written would help her “ . . . find your own place within the family.” Now at last she discerned what Lady Joanna had truly meant with those seemingly simple words.

  And suddenly—strong, decisive, woman of the world that she was—Hilary found herself afraid.

  It was not merely the thought of her becoming a member of the so-called aristocracy. That certainly would involve a shock to her system. But it could be dealt with, ignored even if she wished. Surely times of great soul-searching were bound to come in that regard, but it was not that which troubled her most at this moment.

  On her mind instead was her innocent conversation with the innkeeper. It had to do with walls and plaques and histories and landmarks, with this shoreline and town, with boats bobbing in the water and the homey little cottages she had passed on her way into town.

  Even more than these things, it had to do with people . . . with four incredible women—those women who had fought and suffered and wept and prayed for this land. And had loved it beyond human understanding.

  It had to do with the frightening, terrifying, bewildering realization that she was one of them.

  Fear . . . because she was not like them.

  She did not love this land the way they did. Yes, the co
ast was grand, the mountains, the rivers, the Highlands more scenic than anywhere in Britain. Its villages were quaint. Its history was colorful and intriguing. But the depth of feeling, of personal devotion, was simply not in her. How could it be? She possessed more affection for the grimy tenements of the East End than she felt for this coastal fishing village, however lovely it might be.

  Couldn’t she become part of the family and forget the rest? Couldn’t she simply slip in, as it were, unnoticed, without a fuss? Besides, there were other grandchildren who might feel ill-used, being so abruptly usurped from their position. If her parents were the kind of people she imagined them to be after her meeting with Lady Joanna, they would surely be able to understand that she was not equipped for anything more. She could never stand tall enough to rank alongside the memory of her predecessors as being in the direct line of heirs. In fact, stranger that she was, they might not even want or expect such of her.

  Everything practical, everything logical, told her that such reasoning was right. No one would . . . no one could expect it.

  Yet all logic was swept immediately away with the overpowering memory of Lady Joanna’s face that day in her office. As that face rose before her mind’s eye, something deeper than she could hope to explain with mere words stirred to life within Hilary’s heart. Could it be only her imagination, or was there indeed more behind the sensitive features of that face than the simple joy of finding her granddaughter?

  Hilary kicked at the sand under her feet. She had walked well beyond the harbor and now stopped and looked again toward the sea. The gray of the sky had already changed. The black clouds were halfway toward the shore, continuing to tumble over one another as they grew larger and larger. However, behind them, faint hints of deep orange and purple now smeared along the horizon. Somehow the rays of the setting sun had managed to penetrate the thick cover. It would be a lovely, fierce, short-lived sunset that would give way within the hour to the approaching blackness. In the distance, though she wondered if her eyes were deceiving her, she thought she spied a small sloop trying to make the harbor, in spite of the elements seemingly bent on preventing its success.

  Hilary looked back toward the town, the inn, the houses of gray stone that all seemed impervious to the perils of wind and wave and rain. Here she was! This was not London. She was in Port Strathy, at the very gates of Stonewycke itself. A decision must be made. She had been so certain of her course of action on the train, so sure of what she must do. She could not now get cold feet and turn around again! But could she do it . . . did she have the inner strength it would require to stand before that imposing place, to knock on the door, and say . . .

  What would she say to them? If only there were some other way!

  Hilary sighed. There was no other way. All the questions were really unnecessary. She knew what she must do. She had given her word to Lady Joanna. What became of it, she could not know that. But she would present herself to her parents. That much she knew. She had to . . . she wanted to.

  Hilary bowed her head. It was time to do what she had done all too seldom of late.

  “Dear Father,” she prayed quietly, her voice making barely a sound in the lashing wind, “give me courage to step into the future you have marked out for me. None of this was of my design. I know your hand is in it all. Forgive me for forgetting. I know you must have been preparing each of us for this moment. Help me to be receptive to whatever your will for me is. Help me to follow as you lead.”

  She exhaled a deep breath, then turned sharply back toward town and began walking crisply forward. It was time to face her destiny.

  17

  Unsought Heroism

  As Hilary strode through the wind, it was clear evening was descending. Approaching the harbor, she now saw clearly what she had taken for a phantom a few minutes earlier: a small boat was indeed making for the dock. But with every dip into one of the troughs between the waves, it was lost to sight and she feared it would capsize any moment.

  Before even thinking why she did so, Hilary broke into a run. Reaching the harbor area, she ran onto the nearest dock, then out toward the end. On either side of her were moored boats of all sizes and shapes, securely tethered, yet making a racket as the incoming waves beat against their sides. Hilary slowed, struggling to keep her feet on the swaying dock.

  She could see the little boat clearly now. Its single sail flapped furiously in the gale, and the man sitting astern could barely manage to keep her from tipping, with his right hand on the rudder and his left attempting to keep the sail in position. In front of him, on the floor of the tiny sloop, sat a small girl. She couldn’t have been more than seven, and the terror in her face was visible even from the distance where Hilary stood.

  On they came, slowly, yet inching ever closer to the outermost railing to which the man might secure his fragile craft. Hilary stood, as one helpless, wanting to help, yet without so much as a rope she might throw them when they got closer. Every wave seemed intent on destroying any hope of survival, but the look on the man’s face told of an equal determination to triumph in the struggle.

  As he crested a small swell, the man saw Hilary on the dock. The mere sight of another human being, helpless though she was, seemed to fill him with hope, and he wrestled all the more powerfully against the stubborn rudder.

  “Come on! You’ve almost made it!” shouted Hilary. Her voice sounded thin and weak in the midst of the gale.

  “We’ll try to throw ye a rope!” shouted the man in return. “Hang on to it for dear life!”

  He spoke to his daughter, who then crept onto her knees and made her way to the front of the craft, laid hold of a bunched rope, then knelt. Swinging it as mightily as her tiny frame would permit, she let loose the rope in Hilary’s direction.

  But Hilary did not have the chance to see whether it would have reached her, or whether with it she might have helped attach it to the mooring. For the moment the girl’s arm was outspread, a gust of wind took evil hold of the sail. The boat lurched violently, and the seaman’s tiny daughter was thrown overboard into the angry sea. All thought of the rope was suddenly gone.

  “The lass canna swim!” cried the father in a despairing voice, half rising.

  But even before he had the chance to act, Hilary instinctively knew that if he so much as took his hand from the rudder for an instant, he would lose his boat to the sea. Without further thought Hilary plunged into the icy water.

  A huge white-tipped wave crashed over her head the moment she regained the surface. Sputtering, she tried to grope her way through the turbulent waves toward where she thought the child had gone under. All about was only water—freezing, churning water. She tried to swim, but her body was tossed about and she was powerless to resist it. Another wave doused her, and as she felt herself sinking beneath it, her feet kicked something solid.

  All she could think of was the child, though in her benumbed state she could hardly make her arms and legs obey. She struggled to the surface, took a huge gulp of air, then plunged under in the direction from which she had come. Down she went, with eyes closed, thrashing madly with her arms.

  There it was again! Her hands felt something . . . something soft . . . yes! It was the girl!

  Wildly Hilary grasped at the invisible form, clutching at the girl’s clothing, kicking her own feet, trying to swim back to the surface. But, oh! the cold! Her hands were numb now, so numb she could no longer tell whether she still held the child. All about was darkness. She could see nothing. The wild windy gale began to grow distant in her ears. She squeezed her fingers tightly around . . . around what? She could no longer feel anything. With arms outspread she reached out . . . then she felt the burden go from her grasp. Her fingers relaxed . . . the girl was gone.

  In mingled despair and a sense of finally giving in to the powerful elements, her body relaxed. All sound ceased. She could no longer feel the thrashing of the waves over her. The cold was gone now too. A strange peace began to steal over her. Out of the blackn
ess, in the distance she perceived a tiny light. Larger now, it was coming toward her . . . a single light surrounded by blackness. Light . . . and warmth . . . and blackness . . . and then a soft voice, approaching her. And then Hilary knew no more.

  ———

  When wakefulness began slowly again to invade Hilary’s consciousness, it was with a continuation of the same vague sensations. While her eyes were yet closed, she was aware that she lay in a darkened room. As she lifted her eyelids a crack, in what looked to be the distance, but was in reality but a few feet, she saw a light approaching, a flickering light.

  Closer it came. From it warmth seemed to be coming. This was just like the dream she had had before falling asleep . . . if she had fallen asleep! Maybe she was dead! A figure stood behind the light! It grew larger. She struggled to rise. A voice spoke. She felt a hand pressing her gently back down where she lay. She looked at the light again. It was something she recognized. It was . . . it was . . .

  It was a candle! Of course. She could see it now. A woman stood beside her holding a candle. She was speaking, though she had not heard the actual words until now as they gradually began to sift through her mental fog.

  “ . . . lie still, dearie. Jist lie back . . .”

  The gentle woman’s voice soothed her. Slowly she began to take in her surroundings. Beyond the candle in the woman’s hand, a soft glow and a deliciously radiant sense of heat was coming from a stone hearth that held a bright but subdued fire. The room in which she lay was a small one; it contained no other furnishings besides the bed, which was of a most peculiar composition but comfortable enough. The ceiling was low, and seemed once to have been painted in something resembling white but had over the years darkened considerably, no doubt from the smoke, not all of which, Hilary’s nose now told her, managed to escape up the chimney. She lay, in dry bedclothes, beneath several layers of heavy quilts. The entire result was one of dreamy well-being, though Hilary hadn’t a clue where she might be.