The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  What did it matter anyway? She hadn’t really wanted any of this in the first place. To find she was not the daughter of an aristocratic family should be an immense relief. She could now return to her life—the life she had grown to love, the city she loved—and resume being the person she had grown content to be.

  Yes . . . she should feel relieved, she said to herself again. This had been unpleasant . . . but it would be better this way.

  The road wandered north for about a mile, finally intersecting the coastal road just east of the entrance to the estate that Hilary had taken earlier. She walked down the hill, looking out on the sea, icy blue and calm today, so unlike the stormy expanse that had given her solace yesterday. She needed no solace now, only escape. Before realizing it, she found her feet carrying her down the rocky hillside and across the sand to the water’s edge. She couldn’t face the inn right now either—she had to be alone.

  Perhaps it was only to take one more walk along this magnificent shore. She would never return here. This was not her home. It belonged to another—a sweet, beautiful, lovely young woman rightfully named Joanna. This was her home, her heritage—her Stonewycke. She even looked like she belonged here.

  She would miss the MacKenzies, thought Hilary. She had wanted to visit them again.

  But she couldn’t think of all that. If the name Stonewycke forced its way into her thoughts once more, she would crack. Forgetfulness would not come easily. The days, weeks spent in trying to accept the truth about her birth—they might have been put to better use consulting attorneys and researching the authenticity of Lady Joanna’s claims. She was a practiced veteran at such things, ferreting out bogus leads from real ones. In the face of the woman’s intense sincerity, it had never occurred to her to doubt. Yet what if she had been off in her own little world, and her claims nothing but an ironic game of her aging imagination?

  “You are my granddaughter.” As Hilary walked, her thoughts drifted back to that day in her office. Lady Joanna’s face was still as vivid as it had been that afternoon. Hilary had known the words were true, though every logical, practical reaction inside her had cried out against it.

  “How could I have been so wrong?” she silently implored.

  The only answer she received was the steady pounding of the waves alternatively slamming against the sand and rocks, then slipping back into the sea. The sight did possess a calming effect. Perhaps it came from the eternal consistency of the sea—surely one of the most awe-inspiring elements in God’s majestic creation. She could easily grow to love it, if only . . .

  All at once Hilary realized all the changes she had been through over the past days were still with her. Despite her concerted attempts to thrust them from her mind because of how foolish she felt, the images and emotions and tuggings upon her heart conjured up by the journal remained. She could not help still feeling intrinsically a part of the sweeping saga of this incredible family. And, in a way she had never before experienced in London in all her life, she felt somehow a part of the land and its people too. The memory of Frances MacKenzie’s large, simple, sparkling-eyed face began to take shape in her mind, and the delicious peace in which she had felt wrapped while lying in her cozy bed of heather. Why, that had been only this morning! One didn’t meet faces of compassion and hands of humble service like that very often in London. What did it all mean? What was her part in all this?

  Slowly, from some distant place—either deep within her spirit or from outside her, she could not tell which—began to form the incredible thought: But what if it hadn’t been a mistake? What if that look on Lady Joanna’s face signified that she was indeed her true granddaughter? What if . . . what if the case of mistaken identity actually rested with the girl still sitting up there in the castle . . . sitting there with Hilary’s rightful parents?

  The thought was too inconceivable! And if it was true, what could she possibly do about it? How could she think of dealing such a blow to the other—what should she call her?—the other claimant? She had already been at Stonewycke almost three months. She was already part of the family. It would be too horrible for her now to discover that she had been part of a mistake. That look of innocence in her eyes—Hilary could never do that to her! To tell her that her whole life and past had been uprooted, but that it had all been a cruel mistake, that the lawyers had somehow mistaken all the evidence.

  What am I thinking? Hilary suddenly said to herself. This is absurd! She is Joanna Macintyre . . . not me. How can I even consider the risk of being made the ultimate fool by going back there and . . .

  The thought did not finish itself. As she played devil’s advocate with herself, she had no plan, no barometer to steady her conflicting emotions.

  I’m getting away from here! she decided resolutely. That’s the only sane thing to do!

  She continued on down the rugged shoreline, making her way over the occasionally rocky shoal toward the harbor, Port Strathy, and the wide expanse of level beach on the other side of the village. At length she climbed a large rock that sat at the water’s edge, scampered up, and perched herself on top, gazing down at the swirling water as it ebbed and flowed beneath her. At last her mind let loose its futile debating and her thoughts turned to prayers.

  There was an answer in the midst of all this. Something assured her of that. She just had to make sure she didn’t miss it altogether in the muddled mass of her own confused perplexity. Only as she gave up trying to rationalize the whole dilemma out did a peace steal upon her—and out of that peace the answer would come.

  “Guide my thoughts, God,” she whispered. “Show me what I’m supposed to do.”

  Again Lady Joanna’s face stole into her mind’s eye. This time she saw an aspect of her countenance she had never seen before—neither the day of the fateful interview, nor in her memory since. Beyond the assurance, there had been an imploring in her aged, yet tender, loving eyes. Almost as if she were asking for Hilary’s help!

  “You give your word that you will tell them?”

  Had there been a desperation in her tone beyond that of a grandmother who feared her newly found granddaughter might opt to keep her identity a secret? But why?

  Why would the old woman have come seeking a daughter when a perfectly good one—one who bore such a distinct family resemblance, and wore such a sweet countenance—sat at home the whole time?

  ———

  Two hours later Hilary walked back toward the inn. Dusk was settling over Port Strathy. She had already resigned herself to one more night here. She would return to the inn, take a bath, then perhaps walk over to the MacKenzies’ cottage and spend the evening with them.

  Approaching about a quarter mile from the inn—she could see it gleaming white and inviting on its perch above the cliffs that extended out to the east—Hilary saw a figure coming toward her. In the gathering darkness of the late afternoon, she could make out no details except that the form walked like a man.

  In less than a minute, however, they had moved near enough to one another for recognition. It was Logan Macintyre.

  All Hilary’s emotional equilibrium began to flutter, and, except for great determination of will, would have fled entirely. She walked steadily on until they came close and stopped.

  “Hello,” said Hilary simply.

  “I hope you don’t mind my seeking you out like this,” said Logan.

  “Of course not.”

  “Davies said he hadn’t seen you. But your car was still parked out front, so I took a chance I might find you somewhere along here.”

  “Is this where everyone in Port Strathy comes to think?”

  “Very nearly.” Logan’s eyes laughed, but he only let a brief smile flicker across his serious expression, a smile that Hilary felt rather than saw. “My wife and I spoke together after you left,” he added.

  “I’m sorry if I caused—”

  “You caused nothing, Hilary—if I may call you that—except a good deal of confusion. No less for yourself, I’m sure. Ple
ase, let’s walk.” He gently touched her arm, nudging her into motion.

  “Thirty years ago,” he began once more, “we lost our daughter. In time we resigned ourselves to never seeing her again. But now all of a sudden we have two perfectly lovely young women, both of whom appear justified in laying claim to that position. If you think you are confused, try to imagine our predicament. It would have been enormously easier had we not read such sincerity in your face. But we could hardly deny it. In addition, there is the little I know of you from London, all of which speaks highly of the honorability of your intent. You are a somewhat well-known woman of growing reputation. Thus, it strikes me that you would have much more to lose than to gain by any attempt to deceive us—which I do not for a moment believe you are trying to do. And believe me, I have some knowledge in such matters.” He paused, gazing into the gathering darkness.

  “But this only deepens our dilemma. For you see, our daughter—Jo, that is, whom you met—has come to us with the most impeccable of credentials and has already been with us nearly three months. I can hardly believe that the people who initially contacted me about her discovery—men of high repute—could have been so grievously in error. Especially after all the checking that was done. And I cannot help fearing the effects of such a blow to her, now to discover she was uprooted and torn from her life in the United States—for nothing but a dreadful foul-up of some kind in interpreting the evidence and records.”

  “I’m not sure what you are saying.”

  “If Lady Joanna did indeed come to see you—”

  “She did.”

  “I tend to believe you, my dear,” sighed Logan. “At the time you mentioned, she did travel to London. There was some small row about it here, in fact, for none of us wanted her to go alone—at her age, you know. But she insisted. She was to all appearances in perfect health, so eventually we gave up our protests. She was extremely cryptic about her reasons for the trip, however. But the point remains that she was in London at the time you said.”

  “I think one question should be asked,” said Hilary. “Forgive me for it, but I have to know—was she in her right mind?”

  Logan seemed on the verge of a quick response, but he stopped himself and did not speak until after some consideration. At length he said, “If you indeed did speak with Lady Joanna, then you would know the answer to that question.”

  They fell silent for a moment. Hilary was the first to speak again.

  “Yes, you are right. I do know the answer. Because, as it turned out, that one meeting with Lady Joanna is going to have to last me a lifetime, I have not allowed myself to forget a single detail of it. She was a remarkable woman. Perhaps one of the most sane persons I have ever met.”

  “Then why would you raise the question?”

  “Because I’m as desperate for answers as you are, Mr. Macintyre. That would have simplified everything, wouldn’t it?”

  “I believe we must forget about finding simple answers.”

  They were nearing the path that led up to the inn. Logan paused at its foot momentarily and Hilary took the brief lapse in their conversation to study him. It was difficult to reconcile this mature man with silvery hair and moustache with the rakish con man and daring undercover spy of Joanna’s journal. But then maybe not, when you looked deeply into his eyes, outlined with distinctive crow’s feet now, often deeply introspective. Even in the failing light Hilary imagined hints of wry amusement, even a little mischief. All the features that had made him handsome in his youth had combined now, at age sixty, to give him a markedly distinguished air, mellowed with a sensitivity that had not come except through suffering and hard-fought spiritual victories.

  Hilary could not deny the uneasy fluttering within her heart. For against all analysis, she realized this man might be her father! If so, she knew she would be honored to be called his daughter. He was a far deeper and more sincere man than she imagined when she first stood to interview him a week and a half earlier.

  But he had begun to speak, and she jerked her wandering mind back to matters at hand.

  “In answer to your question, Hilary,” he was saying, “I have an interesting, perhaps unusual, suggestion to make. I have spoken to my wife, and we would both like for you to stay with us while we sort this all out.”

  Hilary gaped silently at Logan. Interesting was far too mild a description of the idea!

  “I . . . I couldn’t,” she finally stammered. “It would be—too awkward. I couldn’t do that to your dau—to Jo.”

  “So you will return to London then, and just forget the whole matter?” Logan asked pointedly.

  “I don’t know. That would be best for everyone, wouldn’t it?”

  “Then perhaps that answers all our questions. For if you sincerely believed Lady Joanna’s claim, then I doubt you’d give it up so easily.”

  “It almost sounds as if you are looking for a challenge, Mr. Macintyre.”

  Logan sighed. For a brief moment the creases on his youthful face deepened, and he looked old. “I sincerely wish we weren’t having to face these baffling questions, Hilary,” he said. “But now that they have been raised, we cannot merely turn our backs. Allison and I can never rest until they are resolved.” He paused and leveled his gaze steadily at her. “Regardless of what you decide to do, I cannot let this go.”

  “But you were so sure before.”

  “Perhaps we still would be if it wasn’t for Lady Joanna’s part in all this—of which we knew nothing until today.”

  “She has that much influence, even though she is gone?”

  “If you come to know us at all, Hilary, you will soon learn that in this family the women are accorded much respect. For several generations they have been endowed with great wisdom and godliness. The men who have come into the family, such as myself and my father-in-law Alec, we have learned to recognize and honor that wisdom, and never to take it lightly.”

  “Like the mantle being passed down from one woman to the next.”

  Logan’s head shot around, his eyes suddenly appraising her as if trying to detect if there could possibly be a hint of mockery in her words. But when he saw none, he simply nodded and remarked, “That is an odd thing to say.”

  “Lady Joanna wrote something to that effect in her journal.”

  “Her journal?”

  “Yes. She sent it to me. Actually, that is what prompted me finally to approach you.”

  “She sent you her journal?” He was obviously stunned by the disclosure. “No wonder it was missing,” he said aloud, but as if thinking to himself. Then he turned his gaze from Hilary and focused on the wide sea beyond them.

  Logan began walking again. Hilary had to half jog to catch up. But he said nothing until they had negotiated the short but steep climb up the bluff. When they reached the top, he continued along the flat path for a few brisk paces, then stopped and turned suddenly.

  “I believe,” he said with decision, “that it is imperative you accept my invitation.”

  “It would be too strained.”

  “I might think you were afraid of something, but you hardly strike me as a person who frightens easily.”

  It was now Hilary’s turn to fall silent and momentarily introspective. Perhaps she was afraid. Yet her inborn nature had always compelled her to confront her anxieties rather than hiding from them. The same internal force that had urged her to make her first trek to Stonewycke now prevailed upon her to heed this man’s words. Neither could she just return to London and forget. The haunting image of Lady Joanna and the stirring words of the journal would never leave her.

  “You are right on both counts, Mr. Macintyre,” she said, turning to him. “And because I see no other solution, I will accept your invitation.”

  He nodded, pleased, but remaining grave and thoughtful. They continued on to the inn, where Hilary paid her account, picked up her things, and departed with Logan.

  23

  The Oxford Connection

  A furtive figure dashe
d out of the shadows, lumbered across the deserted street, darted into an adjacent alley, then stopped.

  Clearly unused to the effort, his panting was the only sound to be heard. After a few moments he resumed his flight, crossed the next intersection, and continued at as fast a pace—something between a hurried walk and a labored jog—as he could manage for two blocks. His loose frame gave every appearance of rebelling against the sustained exertion. Sweat had already matted his hair, which was a little too thin on top, a little too long on the back of his neck, and was dripping from his high forehead and down his heavily jowled cheeks. Under the shabby wool overcoat, his shirt was already drenched under the arms.

  Halting again, he tried to still his aching lungs, listening all the time for the footsteps he was sure were following. There were none to be heard, but he knew the man was out there—somewhere . . . waiting . . . for him!

  He had to get back to his flat! There he would be safe—at least until he could decide what to do.

  As he moved once more out of hiding and down the cobbled street, terror was visible in his eyes. He knew the stakes of this game. When he had given up his tenure for more lucrative pursuits, he’d known there were risks. And though he’d met many shady and dangerous characters along the way, and managed to hold his own with them, inside he was still a scholar at heart. He would never be altogether like the men he did business with. That’s why he’d adopted the practice of protecting himself by always having information on his colleagues at his ready disposal. Know your adversaries—and your allies had long been his code. You never know when they might turn out to be one and the same.

  Protect your flank. It was the only way to survive. That’s why he’d hired his old gumshoe friend Stonecroft to watch out for him, keep his eyes on his clients, tail them if necessary, learn what he could of their background, who was working for whom, where was the money coming from, motives. Call it insurance.