The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Might I see some of your work sometime?” asked Hilary in her most sincere attempt at friendliness.

  “Of course, if you are really interested,” Jo answered with apparent shyness, unable at the same time to mask her pleasure. “Look, there’s a rock rose bush. Two months ago I painted a gorgeous late bloom right there. Now it’s just a tangle of thorns.”

  “What’s that over there?” asked Hilary, pointing toward a huge pile of stones about a quarter mile distant.

  “Oh, nothing much. I think they said it was the ruin of an ancient village of some prehistoric people.”

  “The Picts,” said Hilary. “So that’s it,” she added, almost to herself. Suddenly mesmerized, she began walking toward it.

  “Wouldn’t you rather ride?”

  “Not at the moment,” Hilary called back.

  “Go on then. I’ll bring the horses.”

  Hilary continued walking as if she were stepping out of the year 1971 and into an ancient fairy tale. Before her stood the ruin where a thousand years ago, maybe more, a marauding band of Viking warriors had slaughtered an entire Pict community—man, woman, and child. Or so the legend went according to Joanna’s journal. But the pillaging Scandinavians had not found the treasure they were seeking. That was left for one George Falkirk to unearth a millennium later, only to lose it again in a sordid tangle of murder and deception. Here is where it began—Falkirk’s murder, Ian’s imprisonment, and Maggie’s tragic exile from her homeland. Here too a carefree London con man had been swept into the drama of the Ramsey-Duncan clan, nearly losing his life in his own personal search for the missing treasure.

  Yes, so much originated here, perhaps even in my own history, thought Hilary. For so long she hadn’t wanted to accept this change in her fortunes. Then once she had come to accept it, suddenly she was having to compete for it.

  Jo’s intrusive voice was almost a relief. “We ought to be getting back. It may begin to snow again.”

  Reluctantly Hilary mounted the chestnut. The horse seemed suddenly skittish, more reticent about the arrangement than earlier. The animal snorted and stamped one foot in a most irritable manner. Already the distance between the chestnut and the gray had widened. Not understanding the finer points of a horse’s temperamental psyche, Hilary gave her mount a little kick with her heels in an attempt to catch up. The horse broke into a trot and Hilary struggled to hang on. The first time she bounced in the saddle, however, coming down squarely upon the animal’s back, the mild-mannered chestnut whinnied and reared like a wild stallion, then suddenly shot off in a frenzied run. An experienced rider might have been able to bring the creature quickly under control. But all Hilary knew to do was hang on and hope she wasn’t thrown off onto the rocky ground.

  The animal tore past Jo, who gasped in surprise. Immediately she urged her gray into a gallop as she sought to overtake her companion. But the chestnut seemed determined to make it a worthy race. Suddenly she was running like a two-year-old thoroughbred rather than the old nag she was. She took no thought for the icy, rock-strewn terrain under her hooves, but plowed ahead, wildly splattering snow and dirt up behind her churning feet. In unmitigated terror Hilary clutched the reins and horn of the saddle, only wondering how much longer she could stay on the horse’s back and into which ditch she was going to fall, battered and bruised and broken, and most likely dead!

  Behind her Jo trailed on the gray, but did not appear to be gaining ground. Ahead, less than thirty yards away, the ground slopped off into the precipitous descent they had labored to ascend only a few minutes earlier. Once the animal crossed the edge of the ridge there would be no stopping, for the sheer momentum of the descent.

  Suddenly in the blur of her panic, Hilary saw a horse galloping toward her. But it wasn’t the gray!

  She tried to scream for help, as if her distress might not be clearly evident, but no sound would come from her throat.

  She flew past the rider. They tumbled past the precipice and now bolted more steeply downward!

  The sound of hoofbeats from behind distracted her attention. She tried to glance back, but could only make out fuzzy images of animal flesh and snow. The rider had wheeled his own steed around the moment Hilary had torn past and was now charging after her, and gaining ground.

  In another moment, out of the corner of her eye Hilary saw a hand reaching for the chestnut’s bridle. Side by side the two horses galloped! Then first she felt a change in the pace. At last her horse was slowing!

  It was some time before they came to a complete stop. Even as they did so, notwithstanding its exhaustion and heaving flanks, the chestnut continued to snort and paw the ground. All Hilary could think about was getting off the crazed animal, and in her haste she cared not in the least how clumsy or awkward her dismount appeared! She threw herself down, but even before her feet touched the ground her rescuer was at her side offering a strong arm.

  “Thank you,” was all the gratitude she could manage, still shaking from head to foot and barely able to stand.

  “Come,” he said. “I see a rock over here where you can sit.”

  Beginning to catch her breath, Hilary took his offered arm. “I can’t imagine what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along,” she panted. “I must have looked pretty foolish!”

  He led her to the rock, where she sat down and continued to breathe deeply.

  “On the contrary,” he replied. “Foolish you did not look. Panic-stricken . . . yes! But beautiful on your runaway mount, if I might be so bold as to add.”

  Hilary laughed. It felt good. She hadn’t laughed in days. “Panic-stricken I certainly was! And I’ll forgive your forward compliment, under the circumstances.”

  Now it was the stranger’s turn to laugh.

  As he did Hilary first took note of her rescuer’s accent, and she forgot her own brush with disaster long enough to give him closer scrutiny. He could not have more perfectly epitomized the stereotype of the tall, dark, and handsome hero. Accustomed to looking past the surface for deeper qualities of character, in another setting Hilary’s first response toward such a good-looking man might have been suspicion. Yet given what had just taken place, she forgave him his dashing appearance; perhaps he might have the character to match, she thought. His dark brown hair was smooth and well-groomed even after the harrowing ride. Dark green eyes glinted like emeralds in the winter sunlight, and the tanned skin of his well-proportioned face could scarcely have acquired such golden tones anywhere but on a southern summer beach. A neat black pencil-thin moustache, above ivory-white teeth always poised on the edge of a smile, completed the face, lending to the foreign mystique of his Germanic accent.

  “May I introduce myself, Fraulein?” he said. Bowing ever so slightly, he went on. “I am Viscount Emil von Burchardt, at your service!”

  “I am very glad to meet you. I’m Hilary Edwards.” She held out her hand, which he took and, bowing again, kissed gallantly. “But it is I who should be at your service.”

  He chuckled softly. “Ah, you modern women are so delightful.”

  At that moment Jo rode up and dismounted. She glanced at the stranger and smiled.

  Feeling much steadier, Hilary stood to make introductions. “Herr von Burchardt—”

  “Please, please. You must call me Emil—all the women I rescue do!”

  Hilary laughed and continued. “Then, Emil, I’d like you to meet Joanna . . . Macintyre.” Hesitating over the last name, but knowing no alternative, she forced herself to use it. “Jo, this is Viscount von Burchardt.”

  “Emil, if you will, Fraulein,” said the Viscount, bowing once more and kissing Jo’s hand. “I had no idea the north of Scotland would display such beautiful women.”

  “And where might you be from, Emil?” asked Jo sweetly.

  “I am of the Austrian von Burchardts; you have perhaps heard of us?”

  “No, I’m sorry. But then I am from America and I’m afraid we don’t keep much abreast of the European aristocracy.”

&n
bsp; “Ah, yes. You Americans have such a penchant for throwing out traditions.”

  “Only some of them. But I do want to thank you for your timely intercession today. I was afraid to press my own horse harder for fear of finding myself in a similar predicament.”

  “What brings you to Scotland, Emil?” Hilary asked.

  “I decided to put in and let my yacht weather in your fair harbor of Port Strathy,” von Burchardt replied. “I have been touring the British coast for some months. But today a great yearning for solid ground overcame me, and besides yachting, my second favorite sport is horseback riding.”

  “It’s fortunate for me your legs tired of the sea,” said Hilary.

  “But I do not want to detain you ladies longer in this cold air. Please, may I accompany you safely home?”

  “Thank you very much,” replied Hilary.

  “May we thank you even further, Herr von Burchardt, by inviting you to lunch?” asked Jo.

  “I would be honored!”

  They returned to their horses. The chestnut showed further signs of agitation. Von Burchardt insisted that Hilary ride with him; he had just the kind of saddle that would make it comfortable, he said. Hilary consented with a smile. In the meantime, Jo had a quick look at the chestnut’s hooves, commenting that she thought the animal might have taken a stone. She took its reins and followed behind the Viscount and Hilary, who talked amiably the whole way back to Stonewycke.

  Hilary was much relieved to deposit the horse into Jake’s care. As the three riders walked to the house, Jake led their animals away, speaking soothingly to his charges and patting them as he removed their saddles and dug out a handful of oats that he let them eat from his open hand.

  As he lifted the chestnut’s saddle he paused, his wrinkled brow knit in concern. “What be this, lassie?” he mumbled tenderly, rubbing his hand over a sore on the animal’s back. Examining the spot closely, he picked out several sharp thorns. “Noo, whaur did ye get these? Sma wonder ye went a wee bit off yer chump when she landed on ye.”

  He carefully cleaned the tiny wound, rubbed in some salve, then led the weary chestnut back to her stall.

  32

  Afternoon Tête-à-tête

  The Viscount von Burchardt proved himself a charming guest.

  He was witty, an adept conversationalist, knowledgeable in whatever direction the discussion went, well traveled with an abundance of stories to tell, yet at the same time perfectly gracious in drawing out discourse from others, in which he seemed to display a profound interest. Logan expressed great fascination with his yachting exploits, asking him question after question. When the viscount would answer, Logan leaned back with a smile which seemed to contain more meaning than its owner would let on, and replied, “You don’t say!”

  Von Burchardt was vague about his recent itinerary, but when pressed by Logan, who said he hadn’t recalled seeing a yacht in the harbor yesterday when he was in town, the viscount merely laughed, saying, “Well, you know us continental gadabouts—we never like to be too tied down, and I only just arrived this morning.” Smiling oddly again, Logan let the matter drop.

  Allison was the only one who did not seem to be taken in by his charm. Throughout lunch she was grumpy, complaining of a headache that had come upon her during her morning’s session with her paints. She found the viscount’s mannerisms annoying, and finally excused herself and left the room on unsteady legs.

  Logan jumped up to follow her, caught her in the corridor, lent a steadying hand, and saw her to their bedroom, where he sat her down on the edge of the bed.

  “What can I do for you, my dear?” he asked tenderly.

  “Nothing, nothing at all!” Allison snapped. “Just go back to your idiotic guest Bergmark, or whatever his name is, and leave me alone!”

  “Can I make you more comfortable?” said Logan, maintaining his cheery countenance and fluffing up the pillows under her.

  “No, no . . . I’m fine. It’s just . . . that stupid painting! I couldn’t get anything to come out—”

  She stopped and suddenly burst into tears.

  Logan sat down beside her and tenderly wrapped her in his arms.

  “ . . . my hand wouldn’t go right, and I couldn’t keep from mixing colors where they didn’t belong,” she sobbed, “and my fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. The moment I took the brush from Jo’s hand this morning I began to feel sick again. Oh, Logan, I hate it! Just when I was starting to feel good again. I so wanted to paint that little stream trickling through the snow, and now I’ve ruined that canvas and the painting’s a mess . . . and look—I’ve still got paint on my fingers—”

  She held out her hands imploringly like a little child, her eyes red from crying.

  Gently Logan stroked her hair, speaking softly into her ear. Gradually she calmed, and he laid her down on the bed. In a few moments she was fast asleep. Logan remained at her side a few minutes longer, his hand resting gently on her back, his mouth speaking barely audible prayers on behalf of his troubled wife to the Father of them both, who was watching all, and understood.

  Meanwhile, Hilary and Jo were doing their best to keep up the dialogue with their guest, hardly difficult when the guest was a man like Burchardt. By this time he had bent his charms fully upon the two attractive women—with a definite emphasis, it seemed, in Hilary’s direction. For her part, Hilary found him pleasant enough, certainly handsome and courteous. She wondered, however, if he might be just a bit too polished. She did not try to analyze the viscount or his motives too deeply. For the moment she opted to put her reporting instincts in the background so that she might simply enjoy the diversion his presence offered. She took him at face value, and for the present that seemed sufficient.

  They were just finishing a light dessert of sliced apples and cheese, with oatcakes and butter, when Logan reentered the room.

  “I apologize for the interruption,” he said.

  “How is Mother?” asked Jo, her voice laden with concern.

  For the briefest instant, Logan’s eyes seemed to recoil with her presumptive use of the appellation. But almost before it had come, the look was gone, and he answered without comment.

  “She’s sleeping now.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. Whatever is the matter?”

  “The same thing as last week—nausea, headache, irritability. I think she’s frustrated with the painting.”

  “I really should take some more time with her,” said Jo in a concerned voice. “She was doing so well, I thought she would rather experiment on her own.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Logan thoughtfully, “but I’m wondering if she shouldn’t give it up altogether. It doesn’t seem to be doing anything but upsetting her. Who knows, maybe she’s allergic to the paints. She began having these headaches almost the very day you began with her.”

  The same dark flash passed quickly through Jo’s eyes, but when she spoke her voice remained one of expressed concern. “Some people do have such a reaction to the oils,” she said. “That’s why I usually take Mother out-of-doors when we paint. She was outside this morning, in fact.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Logan noncommittally. “But now—come,” he went on in a sudden shift of tone, “let’s take our guest on a tour of the house!”

  “A splendid idea!” remarked von Burchardt with enthusiasm.

  “I have, let me see,” said Logan glancing at his watch, “until two o’clock when I must meet with the factor. That gives us about an hour. If we move quickly, that should do fine.”

  He led the viscount out, commenting to him lightly and confidentially as they walked, and the two young women followed.

  They had not gone far along the wide corridor when Jo moved up alongside Logan, slipping her hand through his arm, and smiling up at him. On the other side, Hilary quickened her pace until she drew even with von Burchardt.

  “Ah, Fraulein Edwards—”

  “Hilary, remember!”

  The viscount laughed. “Touche!”
he said. “I was about to comment to Mr. Macintyre that this maze of corridors and stairways is enough to confuse even the most skilled of cartographers. Judging from the outside, I would never fathom the intricacies contained within these walls.”

  “I am only just learning the way around myself,” replied Hilary. “I have been here less than a week.”

  “Yes, your—er, Mr. Macintyre, I should say, was just telling me something of this intriguing dilemma facing you all. I must say I have never before run across quite so—”

  But at that moment he was interrupted by the sound of Logan’s voice.

  “If we turned down that hall,” he said, “we would come to the East Wing of the castle. It has been out of general use since before Lady Margaret Duncan’s time. It’s in a serious state of disrepair now and is locked off because of the hazard it presents. We are, however, engaged in the process of restoring it, whenever the townspeople are short of work. We will make a good deal of progress this winter, but it is a slow process. We have never been able to afford a wholesale reconstruction, so we do what we can every year and try to keep ahead of Mother Nature’s tendency to tear away at old places such as this.”

  “When was it last used?” asked Hilary.

  “In the old days it was occupied for the billeting of the clan army; legend has it that Bonnie Prince Charlie hid out here after the disastrous battle of Culloden Moor. More recently, James Duncan, Lady Margaret’s father, kept a private office there. But that was the last attempted use of the place, for a portion of the roof caved in about fifty years ago, discouraging further use. It is that roof, in fact, which we hope to shore up sufficiently this winter to keep the spring rains out.”

  Down another corridor, Jo took the lead, motioning them into a large room with high ceiling.

  “We call this the heirloom room,” she said. She waved her hand about the room, indicating the many glass cases that held precious family memorabilia and clan relics. Positioned about the floor were several mannequins displaying various of the patriarchs’ Highland garb. “Lady Joanna prepared this room herself,” Jo went on, “expressly for the benefit of the visitors that come to the house, both from the village and as a result of Father’s position in London. There are a few valuable objects here, but their chief worth lies in their historical significance. There is a tatted handkerchief with a primrose design, given to Margaret by Lucy Krueger, and several of Lady Atlanta’s stitcheries. In fact, over here”—she motioned them toward a particular case—“is one that is reputed to be her very first stitchery, done when she was ten years old.” Jo beamed with pride.