The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  Suddenly, as if with one accord some unseen force prompted them to glance up, Hilary became aware that the small knot of guests at the bottom of the stairway was looking at her. Flushing slightly, she began her descent, feeling strangely self-conscious. The amber tresses of her hair, which she had curled for the occasion, bounced as she went, giving colorful and correspondent motion to the graceful movement of her dress.

  “You look lovely, Hilary!” exclaimed Logan, bounding up the stairs two at a time to meet her. He offered her his arm, which she took lightly and gracefully, and he continued the descent with her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said formally but jovially, “may I present our esteemed houseguest of the past week, Miss Hilary Edwards, of London and The Berkshire Review.”

  “Bravo, Macintyre!” said the single gentleman, first with a glance in Logan’s direction, then extending his hand to Hilary. “Where do you come up with such beauties?”

  “A trait that runs in the family,” said Logan, throwing Hilary a quick wink.

  “Hello, Mr. Davies,” said Hilary, moving from one to the other. “How nice to see you again.”

  Once introductions and pleasantries had been sufficiently exchanged, Logan said, “Hilary, I was just going to escort our guests to the ballroom. Would you care to join us?”

  She smiled, took his arm again, and they turned and led the way down the corridor, Logan’s face beaming with pride.

  “Oh, Moryson,” he called out to the factor, who was at that moment approaching from the far end of the hall. “Will you watch the door for a few minutes and greet our new arrivals? I’ll be back shortly.”

  When they reached the ballroom, Hilary saw that most of the guests were already present, clustered in small groups about the hall, nibbling on the lavish spread of cold cuts, sliced cheeses and fruits, small sandwiches, smoked fish of many varieties, and of course at least a dozen platters each of oatcakes and shortbread, brought in by many of the local women who cherished each her own private recipe which she lost no opportunity to show off. Logan excused himself just as the accordionist and fiddler began with a rousing rendition of “Scots Wha Ha’e,” and returned to the front door to play the part of host to the last-minute arrivals.

  Slowly Hilary began making her way around the room, introducing herself, greeting the few people she knew, keeping an eye out for Karl and Frances Mackenzie, whom she had not yet seen. Neither had she seen Allison.

  Jo was on the other side of the room, surrounded by several young men who were at that moment laughing at something she had apparently just said. Unconsciously Hilary began moving in the other direction, not wanting to encounter Jo without the protective cover of Logan’s presence. Ever since arriving at Stonewycke she had had the feeling that Jo was too nice, too perfect. Now all at once, even though she could not see her face, Hilary felt a sense of foreboding as she looked in Jo’s direction.

  Even as she was reflecting on what might be the reason for the peculiar sensation, she heard a voice beside her.

  “Miss Edwards?”

  She turned around to see Flora the housekeeper.

  “Ye hae a telephone call, mem.”

  “Now?”

  “’Tis long distance, mem. The yoong gentleman didna want to leave a message.”

  “Thank you, Flora. Where shall I take it?”

  “The parlor’d be the closest, mem.”

  Hilary followed her out of the hall. Who could it be but Murry? she thought, though it hardly seemed he’d had long enough to get the information she had requested already.

  She opened the parlor door and walked to the phone. To her relief the place was empty. She picked up the receiver. It was Murry.

  “Hi, Hilary,” he said. “How ya doing? I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

  “Oh no, Murry. We’re just in the middle of the biggest social event of the year around here!”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Actually no,” she laughed. It was refreshing to talk to someone from her old life, someone who represented the stability that had been so suddenly taken out from under her feet. “There are fifty or more people milling around here even as we speak. But go ahead. I want to know what you have for me.”

  “Well, I’m really onto something big. I wish you were here, because I can’t go into it over the phone. I’ll let you know specifics as soon as I can. Let’s just say in one of our next issues we’re going to take on a corporate giant that will make Goliath look like a gnat! But that’s got nothing to do with what you asked me to look into. It’s an outgrowth of that dull piece you asked me to work on last month. Man, you won’t believe what’s turned up!”

  “Come on, Murry! What do you have for me?”

  “Okay, I don’t have all the stuff you wanted yet. But I do have the goods on the guy you first asked about, though I can’t imagine why you’d want him run through the police computer. There are no goods on him. He’s squeaky clean—”

  “Who, Murry? Which name?”

  “Jameson . . . Lord Deardon. If you’d only have told me about the Deardon business right off, I could have gotten this to you even quicker.”

  “Deardon? I don’t understand. I don’t know that name.”

  “Your Ashley Jameson is Lord Deardon. Inherited the title a couple of years ago. Aristocratic blood further back than you can see. Pretty low-key bunch, but nonetheless up to their ears in dough. Deardon . . . or Jameson—he keeps to his civilian name—sticks to his university pursuits. Thirty-six years old. He even relinquished his seat in the House of Lords to devote himself more fully to his Greeks. A real scholar, renowned in his field, I gather. More into his studies than playing the part of a nobleman. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard of him—but then neither had I. I suppose Greek tragedy just isn’t our bag.”

  “You’re certain about all this? I would never have dreamed this guy would have a dossier so . . . I don’t even know what to call it—impressive.”

  “It’s all pretty much public record stuff. All I had to do is throw his name around Oxford. Didn’t even have to trouble my pal at the Yard.”

  “I must say, I am astounded. This guy up here’s been acting peculiar, doing strange things.” She stopped for a moment, thinking. “Do you have a physical description?” she added.

  “You think someone’s impersonating him?”

  “I doubt it. But I wish I had a photo.”

  “Well, here’s what I got off his university files,” Murry went on. “Six-one, about a hundred seventy pounds, or rather twelve and a half stone, light brown hair, gray-green eyes, drives a ’69 BMW—”

  “That’s him. . . .”

  “I’m surprised Logan Macintyre couldn’t have supplied you with all this information,” commented Murry.

  “Why’s that?”

  “They are old chums, as I understand it.”

  “What!” exclaimed Hilary, incredulous at the unexpected revelation.

  “Worked together on a couple government projects, and the professor’s also worked with Macintyre’s brother-in-law.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Hilary . . . what is it?”

  “The oddest thing! Those two have been dancing around here for days pretending they don’t even know each other!”

  “Why the charade?”

  “I can’t imagine! I knew there was something going on, but I would never have guessed it fell in that direction! I wonder where Jo fits into their little subterfuge,” she added as if talking to herself.

  “Jo?”

  “Never mind, Murry. It’s too complicated to explain. I’ll fill you in on everything later. Anything else?”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been dragging my feet on this. As I said, I’ve kind of gotten hooked into something else—but I’ll get on von Burchardt right away.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Murry.”

  Hilary hung up the phone, her mind reeling. She could not even begin to assess the implications of what Murry had told her. Suddenly th
ere were more doubts than ever with the revelation of his connection with Logan!

  Why would they possibly keep that secret? And with all their talk about the nobility, why would he have kept back the significant fact that he was of aristocratic blood?

  Of course none of this startling news in the least explained Ashley’s bizarre behavior of spiriting her off Emil’s yacht.

  Beneath it all, Hilary’s brain spun round and round with the question: Why the ruse?

  Slowly she turned and walked from the room like one in a daze. For the moment she had completely forgotten the party. She exited the parlor and walked down the hall in the opposite direction from which she had come, aimless, with no destination in mind.

  She had to think. Suddenly everything was upside-down. With Logan’s candor now called into question, she no longer knew whom she could trust. If anyone!

  46

  The Gallery

  For more minutes than she could keep track of, Hilary walked.

  Paying little attention to her direction, she followed corridor after corridor, went up and down staircases she had never been on before, and met no one. All the family and guests were occupied in the other wing. Without even realizing she was retracing her steps toward more familiar regions, all at once she stopped before a door she recognized.

  Quickly her mind came awake. This was the door to the gallery, which she had been wanting to see but had still never been inside.

  For several moments she remained standing, merely contemplating the door. Then she slowly reached out, turned the latch, and swung the huge door open on its silent hinges. She stepped inside, fumbled about the wall nearby for a switch, found it, then flipped on the lights.

  Immediately a subdued quiet overcame her, as if she had entered the cloistered chapel of a monastery. A great intimate hush permeated the very walls, intensified by the high vaulted ceiling. At first to Hilary it seemed the silence was due merely to the absence of sound. As she began to glance about her, however, she realized there was a more profound reason for it than what could be explained on the mere physical plane. Dozens of unmoving eyes filled the walls, pulsating with vibrant yet undisturbed motion, every face deepening the intense stillness, emphasizing the silence in the midst of their voiceless entreaties. If ever a “cloud of past witnesses” was visible, Hilary now found herself standing in the midst of it.

  Holding her breath, she began to make her way slowly around the room. All about were family portraits, mingled with others of Scottish historical significance, with here and there selections that had obviously been acquired purely on the basis of pleasure and enjoyment. The owners of this hall were clearly collectors of art with a discriminating flair.

  Gradually Hilary took in many paintings by masters—Raeburn, Wilkie, Gainsborough she recognized particularly. The far wall held but one painting, an enormous eight-by-fifteen-foot exhibition of the battle of Culloden, surrounded by a one-foot wide gilded wood frame. To each side of it, enclosed in glass cases and sitting silently on brass pedestals, were two marble busts—one of Mary Queen of Scots, a replica of that which was housed in Edinburgh Castle, and one of the Bonnie Prince Charlie, whose full figure looked down upon the proceedings from his desperate perch in the painting above.

  On the walls hung fierce Highland chieftains, delicate ladies in waiting, children in Eaton jackets and knickers or frilly crinoline. Hilary read each nameplate, finding many of the names familiar from her reading of the journal. Others were new; all held fascination. She paused at each, forgetful of time, lost in the solemn import of the moment.

  Andrew de Ramsay, the original scion of the Stonewycke line, the builder of the castle, overlooked the descendants that had sprung from his stock from a portrait so old it was encased in glass to protect it from the air. His fiery red hair struggled, even while posing for the dignified painting, to break from the restraints of his plaid bonnet. Everything about her reminded Hilary that the Ramsays were of warrior stock, fierce Highlanders come down into the low-lying coastlands only lately in their genealogy to people the northern coast of their land, yet always but a violent breath or two removed from the savage Pict and Viking heritage which first spawned their energy and dynamism.

  The independent nature of the family was clear on every face, whether it was Thomas Ramsey’s insistence on changing the spelling of the family name, Colin’s running off to die in Prince Charlie’s ill-fated cause, or Anson Ramsey’s attempt to deed the family property over to his tenants. Such a headstrong self-reliance seemed to have been the most prominent trait passed down through the years—either as a blessing or a curse, depending on how each recipient of new Ramsey blood chose to use it—right down to the carrying out of Anson’s wish years later by two of the most remarkable of this breed, Lady Margaret and Lady Joanna.

  Reading the journal could never alone give her the awe-inspiring sense of the flow of life through generation after generation as did gazing upon these portraits, though reading it had certainly prepared her for this moment. But as Hilary stood looking upon the faces of those who had come before—who could well be her own ancestors—she was caught up in the life that their faces conveyed. The room fairly exploded with silent vitality and power. As she gazed, there gradually emerged from each face a uniform consistency of expression—something in the eyes, the hair, the twist of the lips, the shape of the jaw . . . something which said, “I know what I am about, and I know from what roots I come. For I am a Ramsey. And my heart is proud of the Scottish blood that runs through my veins.”

  This look, this expression of defiance, boldness, and self-sufficiency had clearly been translated from the fierce males to the females who continued the direct line from Andrew down to the present. In the softer faces of the more delicate sex, the expressions of independence were more subdued and subtle, not quite as easy to identify amid the exterior trappings of outward feminine beauty. Stare as she might, Hilary could not exactly identify what she saw. But whether the portrait was four hundred years old or forty, something in each face made her very aware that these people were all of the same blood.

  For several minutes she stood before the two most recent portraits to be added to the gallery—those of Logan and Allison Macintyre—scanning every detail. Both were appealing faces, full of life, full of love, full of zest. But there could be no doubt through which of the pair the blood of the Ramseys flowed. For while it was the hint of a roguish smile around the edges of Logan’s mouth that drew a viewer’s attention, when one’s gaze fell upon Allison it could not be easily pulled away. It was not her mouth nor her beauty, however, that arrested further thought. In Logan the suggestion of mischief made you smile. In Allison the silent force of her eyes held your gaze, compelling you to look beyond, until you were drawn into the invisible vitality of the generations that had come before.

  At length Hilary exhaled a long sigh and turned from the painting. She wandered back again through the room. She returned to the portrait of Lady Joanna she had already seen. The painting must have been done when she was in her mid-forties—from the style of clothing, probably some time during the depression. How lovely she was! mused Hilary, though no artist could ever capture the true beauty that was Joanna MacNeil’s. Age and wrinkles and gray hair may have altered the exterior, but the lady who had visited her only a short time ago still felt life as she had when she had sat for this portrait.

  “How I wish you were here now, Lady Joanna,” Hilary murmured aloud to the lifeless figure. “I know somehow you would be able to help me with my confusion.”

  She found herself trying to compare this younger Joanna with the woman she had met so briefly in her office. So many similarities remained—the quiet refinement, the reserved dignity, that look in her eyes which she had obviously given Allison.

  Hilary moved to the next painting immediately to her right. Central on the wall, in a place of honor, rested an early painting of young Maggie.

  Hilary had already become quite familiar with two other paintings
of the family matriarch. A picture of Maggie at nine or ten hung in the parlor. Another, which must have been commissioned after her return from exile, showed Lady Margaret at age seventy or so. It hung in the entryway to the castle, just to the left of the great stairway.

  The one upon which she was now gazing, however, had been painted when the girl was about seventeen, no doubt just before events had conspired to force her to leave her homeland. Hilary stared at the portrait, probing every detail of the face, an inquisitive expression building on her own countenance. Something was there . . . something she couldn’t quite identify. She had seen it before . . . somewhere.

  She glanced quickly around. Was it in the portrait of Allison? No, she didn’t think so. She looked over at Joanna’s face again, then back to young Maggie’s. What was it?

  Suddenly the dress Maggie wore jumped off the canvas at Hilary, making her gasp audibly. Of course! That’s why it looked so familiar! She’s wearing a heather-colored dress . . . just like mine!

  She laughed to herself. What a coincidence! She turned away and began to leave. But even as she walked in the opposite direction, Maggie’s eyes seemed to bore holes in the back of her head, compelling her to turn back. The dress isn’t all, Maggie seemed to say to her, though Hilary felt rather than heard the words. There is more! Don’t turn away until you have discovered it! Gaze upon my face, Hilary, an inner voice seemed to say. Gaze until you know . . . until you know!

  Hilary stopped, then slowly turned back to face the wall. Still silent, young Maggie returned her gaze, drawing Hilary closer, ever closer, by the eyes she had passed down, first to Eleanor, then to Joanna, and at last to Allison, whose eyes were even this moment looking at her from the adjacent wall next to Logan.

  It was more than the dress! But it was more than the eyes as well. The familial similarities found in each of the women all were focused in this one youthful, commanding, unyielding, rugged, sensitive face—the vulnerability of the sensitive nose, the pale skin that subdued the other features and highlighted the shades of the hair, the strong cheekbones, the high forehead that allowed the robust eyebrows full expression, the eyes that always seemed looking into the distance, contemplating the depth and the grandness of life.