The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Without going into every detail Lady Joanna related to me, I would simply say that . . . oh my, I don’t know how to say this! . . . what she told me was—”

  Hilary took a deep breath, as if to gather courage.

  “—she said that I was . . . that she had searched many avenues and had been led at last to me, and that . . . that I was—her granddaughter . . . that the two of you were my own parents!”

  In stunned silence both Logan and Allison stared at Hilary, then toward one another, then back at their guest. The moments before anyone spoke seemed interminably long. In reality the shocked stillness lasted but a second or two.

  It was Allison’s voice that broke the silence.

  “But that’s impossible,” she said. “Our daughter is in the kitchen waiting for us right now. She’s been with us ever since she was located, several months ago. . . .”

  21

  First Arrival

  It had been a dreary summer in Port Strathy. That day three months past in mid-August proved no exception.

  A heavy rain fell with a stiff wind driving the torrent diagonally, knifelike, into the gray castle walls. Inside, even the fire in the hearth seemed a willing accomplice to the black weather. It had been nearly impossible to light, and twice had burned down to cold dead embers before it could be revived. Even then its gloomy warmth could not begin to penetrate the raw chill pervading the ancient masonry. Now and then the swirling wind took the chimney for its trumpet, sending the smoke back into the house in silent puffs. Then, its gusts once more righting themselves, it sucked the smoke back skyward through suddenly glowing coals and a whistling flue.

  Outside, that same northerly gale made sport of the trees, shaking them about as if it would pull them out of the ground and toss them into the sea. Indeed, only in a land like Scotland could such a day come during a season bearing the name summer.

  Allison pulled back an edge of the curtain and looked outside. She still held a small hope that her eyes might detect a hint of clearing in the dark, ominous sky. But the storm beat down relentlessly. Only large drops pelting the windowpanes greeted her. It was certainly no day to be afoot.

  Fierce, deadly streaks of lightning shot across the evening sky followed by deafening explosions of thunder. One of the wicked bursts of light suddenly illumined a moving vehicle, its headlamps barely discernible in the jagged glare of nature’s beam. It came through the open gateway into a courtyard prematurely darkened by the mass of clouds, finally pulling to a stop in front of the fountain.

  A visitor was expected at Stonewycke, though not for two more days. Allison was expecting no callers today, especially at seven in the evening and in such weather. Why someone would be braving the elements at this hour, Allison could not think.

  All at once she felt her heart contract. Their preparations had been focused two days from now. Might there have been some mistake? Could this be the moment instead?

  She hurried out into the entryway just as the heavy brass knocker struck the exterior of the door. Allison tried to catch her breath but her heart was racing. Slowing to a steady walk, her hands trembled as she reached out to open the oaken portal.

  The instant it swung wide another grotesque stab of lightning slashed across the bleak northern sky. Its ethereal glow framed the caller’s face for a brief instant, outlining the hair and shoulders but rendering its features momentarily invisible. Immediately the flash passed, however, leaving in the wet dusk a young woman whose precise age was difficult to determine from the youthful innocence staring out from the face, though Allison quickly recognized that she carried herself with a certain degree of maturity.

  Intuitively Allison knew that before her was standing the expected visitor come ahead of time. This could be none other than the object of the telephone call they had received but a week and a half ago. . . .

  A clipped, businesslike voice had, after identifying preliminaries, delivered the startling news: “We believe your daughter has been located—”

  “But that’s impossible; our daughter was killed—”

  “Do you know a Hannah Whitley?”

  The memory of the rest of that conversation would not be easily erased from Allison’s mind, nor of the days that followed. They were days filled with endless legalities and calls and meetings and discussions. Logan’s London solicitors had conferred with the man in Glasgow, credentials had been verified, several calls to the United States had been made. In the end all the cold, hard matters of law had been satisfied. When Logan was certain everything was in order, he told the gentleman in Glasgow they were ready to meet the young woman, and the final arrangements were made. He and Allison traveled north to Stonewycke, where they had arrived only two days ago. The plan had been for Logan to pick her up at the Fraserburgh train station on Saturday. Now here she was on Thursday night.

  “I hope you don’t mind my showing up early and unannounced,” said a pleasant voice out of the darkened entryway.

  “You must be . . .” But even as she tried to speak, Allison’s mouth went suddenly dry, and further words were impossible.

  “Yes, I am your daughter.” The voice contained a delicate, almost breathless quality, sweet and feminine, mellowed yet further with an intense sincerity.

  Allison stood before her speechless for another instant. Imagining this moment over and over in her mind throughout the previous week, she had never pictured herself dumb and paralyzed like a schoolgirl. Finally, with great effort, she shook off the spell. She could not leave the poor girl standing with her back to the rain. Something had to be done.

  “Come in . . . please,” said Allison in an unnatural voice.

  “I just couldn’t wait another two days,” said the young lady, stepping inside, rain dripping from her umbrella and raincoat. “That hotel in Aberdeen was enough for one night. Yet I did not want our first contact to be by telephone.”

  “I understand,” said Allison, finding her voice again.

  Then suddenly the tears came. All week she had held them in check, not wanting to let herself believe the unbelievable. But now—after thirty years . . . her own daughter . . . here . . . standing before her!

  The young woman put down her suitcase and stepped toward Allison. “Mother . . .” she said in a voice trembling with emotion.

  With the word she thought she would never hear in this life, all reserves at last broke down. Allison moved toward her, and as if of one mind the two women embraced. The tender reunion was marred, if only indistinctly, by the barely noticeable stiffness in the arms that encircled Allison. But how could it be any other way? Though perhaps they shared the same blood, as adults they were still strangers.

  When they fell apart, Allison half laughed as she brushed a quick hand over her eyes.

  “It’s wonderful to have you at Stonewycke . . . again,” she said, smiling. “Come, I’ll take you to meet the others.”

  Allison led the way into the family parlor, where before long they were seated with Logan and Lady Joanna enjoying a fresh pot of tea. While they sipped from delicate china cups and Logan engaged his daughter in quiet conversation, Allison took several moments to study the newly found Joanna Macintyre. Her auburn hair glimmered in the reflection of the fire, now at last blazing in the hearth. It shone somewhere between the fiery auburn of young Maggie’s and the richer, more subdued tones of Joanna’s when she had first come to Scotland. Lady Joanna herself, her own hair now gray, sat quietly observing as parents and daughter acquainted themselves, and the similarity of hair color was not lost on her.

  She was no carbon copy of her predecessors. How could she be? Yet the resemblances were more striking than might have been anticipated. Still, her eyes were much darker and her skin not so pale as Allison’s. Of course, they must not forget to reckon Logan’s side of the family in the girl’s heritage.

  Young Joanna, or Jo, as she said she had grown accustomed to being called, demonstrated complete poise and courteous mannerisms. Her movements were gracious, almost feli
ne at times, measured but purposeful. They learned that she had attended the best boarding schools and graduated from Vassar near the top of her class. Her adoptive father, a banker, was British by birth but had moved to the States after the war.

  “That explains the accent,” said Logan.

  “Having grown up in America,” Jo replied in an almost apologetic tone, “I’m afraid I have lost too much of my British heritage.”

  “We’re open-minded,” laughed Logan, “even toward the Colonists.” Then he added in a more serious tone, his eyes deepening with intensity, “We are just glad to have found you.” Even as he spoke his eyes clouded over with tears.

  Jo rose and walked toward him with that calm assurance and steady gaze of her dark eyes that they would soon come to know well. She took his hands into hers.

  “Oh, Father!” she said, emphasizing the word, “I never dreamed that finding my real parents would be this wonderful. You can’t know what it’s like for me. I feel that my life is at last . . . fulfilled.”

  “Perhaps we can know a little of what you feel,” Logan replied with a kindly smile that hinted of past pain. “We lost a daughter, too, just as you lost your parents.”

  The days following that momentous evening were indeed filled with great joy. When the weather permitted, Logan, Allison, and Jo could often be found walking upon the hills and paths of the estate. The parents wanted the daughter to see everything, and to feel the importance of the land as her heritage. Jo took it all in with a deep awe.

  “This is more beautiful than I would have been able to imagine!” she exclaimed one day as her eyes, wide with girlish delight, swept the landscape.

  “Do you remember anything from before?” asked Allison.

  Jo hesitated as she thought. “Just vague images,” she answered at last. “I remember the castle, I think. I mean just the look of it from the outside. And the landscape seems like something I’ve seen before, almost like it was part of a dream.”

  “You were very young.”

  “Oh, but I’m here now at last! And it’s so clean and pretty everywhere. I’ll have to paint it sometime.”

  “You’re an artist?” asked Allison, realizing for the first time that, though she was an eager and attentive listener, Jo modestly spoke little about herself.

  “I sometimes feel presumptuous saying it, but, yes, I suppose I am. Though I am still learning.”

  “You should be proud of your talents. They are from the Lord. Do you sell your paintings?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “But not enough to make a living at?”

  “No, hardly that.”

  “And you’ve no hankering after the struggling Bohemian lifestyle?” offered Logan with a smile.

  Jo laughed—a soft, almost musical laugh that was pleasant to the ear. “I would never have been a starving young artist trying to eke out an existence somewhere. I have my adoptive parents to thank for that. They were very kind and generous to me.”

  “We have never had an artist in the family,” said Allison. “It will be a delight to see this beautiful land captured on canvas. Perhaps you might even pass along some of your talent to your mother. I’ve always wanted to learn to paint.”

  “With pleasure!”

  During their quiet moments Allison and Logan found themselves marveling at the blessing their daughter was proving to be, at how the village children followed her about with admiration, at how freely she seemed to adapt to life at Stonewycke. In just a short time she became a special part of their home and community. When Logan found it necessary to return to London, she seemed completely content to remain in Scotland with Allison, who felt she should remain behind, at least for a while.

  Only Lady Joanna seemed reticent toward her namesake. It was difficult at her age, she told Allison, to accept change easily, even when it did come in such a wonderful package. But for the next few weeks Allison’s mother kept more to herself than usual, absorbed in her journal, distracted, sometimes going out for solitary walks on the grounds. She even went off oddly once to Aberdeen by the Fraserburgh train, and a time or two to Culden to visit a man by the name of Ogilvie, the son of an old friend, she said, who had taken over his father’s practice. When she returned her face wore a troubled expression.

  Allison tried to ignore Joanna’s frequent quiet moods, determined as she was to enjoy this happy time of reunion. And after three months, only the sudden death of Lady Joanna had marred young Jo’s homecoming. The unexpected hemorrhage was accompanied by not a few pangs of guilt in Allison’s heart. Yet even then, Jo kept a bright countenance. She proved so supportive, so sympathetic, that Allison wondered if she could have faced the loss of her mother without her newly found daughter.

  So what was she possibly to think when all of a sudden another young woman turned up on her doorstep claiming to be their lost Joanna Hilary? What, indeed, but that the newcomer was sadly mistaken in her information.

  22

  Altered Plans

  Sitting in the guest parlor, Hilary did her best to cope with this sudden nightmare.

  Sipping the cup of tea that had been offered her, she graciously nodded attentively as Allison recounted briefly the events leading up to Jo’s coming some months before. But inside she was paying little attention. She could not keep her mind from playing over and over that scene with Lady Joanna in her own office. How could the woman have been so convincing if it was nothing but a gigantic mistake? Even as she had spoken to Hilary in London, this other daughter—apparently the real daughter—had been here, at Stonewycke, fully known to her grandmother the whole time. What could it all mean?

  It was a mistake, that’s what it meant. A huge blunder! Her believing the farfetched story in the first place . . . her coming here! She should have trusted her instincts. She knew in her heart of hearts that she, Hilary Edwards—for that was her name after all—could never be part of all this!

  And now here they all were—nice, courteous people that they were, who could deny it?—trying to soothe her frayed emotions. Oh, it was all too awful! She had to get back to the city. That was her real life.

  “I know how I would feel had this happened to me,” said Jo, who had entered the room and was sitting opposite Hilary. Her voice was so delicate, so sweetly consoling.

  All Hilary could do by way of response was to set her china cup down a bit too hard. With an awkward chinking sound, its contents spilled over the edge.

  “I really should go,” she said, rising.

  “You can understand our reaction,” said Logan in a calm, reasonable tone, despite the tension etched in his face. “We are every bit as bewildered by this sudden turn of events as you must be. That’s why we can only hope that by a thorough explanation of everything, we can somehow sort it out.”

  “Yes, of course, I understand.” Hilary, too, attempted to inject calm and reason into her voice.

  “Believe me, we want to get to the bottom of this. But we have already gone to such lengths poring over records and documents and verifying the history of . . . of . . . our daughter here”—as he spoke he motioned toward Jo—“that without concrete proof—”

  “I only know that Lady Joanna MacNeil came to me several weeks ago with the most startling revelation I could possibly have imagined.”

  “Why did you wait so long to come?”

  “Why did I wait . . . ?” Hilary began to feel control slipping from her voice. “I don’t know. It . . . it all took me so by surprise. I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of it. The upheaval . . . the change. I tried to come to you once. I came up for the funeral, but in the end I talked myself out of a confrontation.”

  “Surely, then, you must have realized our daughter had already returned?”

  “I spoke to no one. I slipped in at the very end of the service. My mind was so preoccupied I hardly took notice of my surroundings.”

  “But didn’t you—”

  “Please,” interrupted Hilary, her voice thin and strained. “I had better leave
. I am not prepared for a cross-examination. I have no proof—only . . . only the look in a dear old woman’s eyes. I’ve been a fool. You have your daughter.”

  Hilary turned and fled from the room.

  Behind her retreating figure she could hear a clamor of protesting voices, all so sympathetic, wanting to help ease her gently back down into the reality that she was nothing but an adopted working-class woman. But right now she could accept no sympathy, especially from them. She had had to gather courage from within herself to come here in the first place. Now she would have to cope with this unexpected crisis of identity in the solitude of her own soul, and nowhere else.

  She ran out into the crisp autumn sunlight, now regretting her decision to walk up to the estate. On foot her getaway would be too slow, and might allow those compassionate people to come after her so they could persist in pitying her foolishness.

  She broke into a run, exited the gates, then turned sharply to her right. There was a path somewhere along here, if it still existed. She had read about it in the journal. It didn’t lead directly back to town, but at least if anyone did try to follow, they would not think to come in that direction.

  She skirted the walls and hedge that surrounded the castle, and after some minutes came to a steep, rocky path that led down into a gorge before finally jogging upward again and out onto a broad pasturelike heath. In summer the grassy expanse would have been lush and green, but now it spread out brown and decaying, awaiting the covering of snow that was not far off.

  Hilary slowed her pace to a walk, crossed the barren field, and in about twenty minutes came to a road, one she had not been on before, wide but unpaved. Two or three vehicles passed, each offering her a ride into town. But Hilary could bear no human contact just then.

  Walking along the rough, uneven dirt surface, Hilary continued on in the direction in which the sea must lay. She would return to the inn, pay her bill, get in her rented car, and leave this place. How could she have so badly misread all the signs? She was sure God had been leading her to come here. What had gone wrong?