He didn’t mind her asking. What he minded was the feeling that she must certainly already know the answer.
“I should have said,” he replied, “that belonging must be important to some people. In my case, I prefer to keep my options open, so I’m free to move about. I suppose I haven’t found a place where I want to belong yet.”
“I detect a Glasgow ring to your accent, and even, strange as it may seem, a bit of cockney.”
This lady doesn’t miss much, thought Logan. She’d make an honest fellow nervous. He was going to have to be very careful.
“Born in Glasgow,” he answered. “Been in London the last seven years.”
“But still no roots?”
“I’ve plenty of time.”
“Yes . . . I suppose you do,” she answered thoughtfully. Had she felt a little freer with their new acquaintance, she might have added, “But time, Mr. Macintyre, is a fickle commodity. It can deepen the hurts, or it can heal them, depending on what you do with it.” As it was she said nothing.
The tone of her words disturbed Logan, but he was saved from having to ponder it further by the arrival of Allison. At her side was a lovely woman whom Logan immediately took for her mother. She was three inches taller than Allison, slim of figure, and carried herself in a manner worthy of her station. Her auburn hair, streaked lightly with gray and pulled back in a simple bun, framed a face of delicately chiseled features. Though there was a youthfulness about her, delicate crowsfeet at the corners of her eyes hinted at her forty-two years. She was dressed simply in a navy woolen skirt and pale blue sweater. Logan was again struck by the understated simplicity of this family. But Mrs. MacNeil required no ornaments to announce her breeding. It flowed unmistakably with her every move and proclaimed to anyone perceptive enough to notice it that she had been born to the grandeur of Stonewycke. Had Logan read his Glasgow newspapers more closely, of course, he would have realized that things are not always as obvious as they appear.
She stepped toward him and held out a hand, smiling, “Mr. Macintyre, I’m so pleased to meet you. Allison has told me how you helped them on the road today. It was very kind of you.”
Logan stepped awkwardly forward to take her proffered hand. The American accent which spilled fluidly from her mouth came so unexpectedly that, when coupled with the easy grace of her manner, the sophistication which had seemed so refined in London among the Ludlowes and Cochrans fled him.
“I . . . well, it was no real trouble,” he stammered. “I had nothing better to occupy my time.”
“We’d still be stuck in Port Strathy,” put in Nat, who had come back into the parlor behind his mother, “if you hadn’t come along.”
“Well, we couldn’t have that,” laughed Mrs. MacNeil. “And we are certainly happy you have accepted our hospitality.”
“I’m sure the honor’s entirely mine, ma’am,” answered Logan, recovering his possession.
“Dinner won’t be for some time,” she added. “Perhaps you would enjoy having the children show you about the grounds in the meantime.”
Logan replied enthusiastically to the suggestion. Allison, however, begged to be excused from the excursion.
So Nat, who could not have been more fully pleased with the turn of events, led their guest back outside. Breathing in a great draught of the country air, Logan disguised his sigh of relief as a delight for the out-of-doors. More relieved than he would have imagined for the respite from the conversation, he decided this would be the perfect opportunity to question the youth away from the scrutiny of the adults. Thus he could better prepare himself for the more formidable assault of the masters of Stonewycke.
18
Disclosures
Allison scrubbed her face until it shone.
Of course all the while she told herself that it actually needed scrubbing and that her great-grandmother would not have approved of her coming to dinner, especially in the presence of a guest, with a dirty face and dressed in worn denim. In no way, she tried to convince herself, did her present actions have anything to do with the guest in particular.
But it wasn’t every day a handsome young man ventured to set foot in Port Strathy, even if he was arrogant and treated her like a child. Although she had to admit that was partly her own fault, for she hadn’t exactly presented her best side today, what with grime on her face and dressed in old clothes.
She’d make up for it at dinner. She’d make certain he wouldn’t be able to neglect her. I wonder how long he’s staying? she thought. And what could have brought him to Strathy? He had been rather vague about it. She laid down her washcloth and tapped her lips thoughtfully as she tried to place his name. There were the banking Macintyres down in Edinburgh. They were quite wealthy and had weathered the banking problems in ’29 better than most. They’d had a daughter in one of the schools she had attended. A year behind her, as she recalled. She wished now she’d been friendlier with her.
Yes, that must be it. He had something of the look of a financier, although she could hardly picture his youthful face in a pinstripe suit and vest sitting behind a desk. The thought brought a laugh to her lips. But he did carry himself with the refinement of someone with breeding. There was a certain worldliness about him too, and she liked that. Of course it made his condescension toward her all the more grating.
Well, she would command his interest tonight, and it would be no child that he saw.
She looked fully into the mirror on her wall, turning her head back and forth to gain her best advantage. She did not have to lie to herself when she concluded that the face which met her gaze was a pretty one. Picking up her brush, she began to arrange the silky golden waves that fell to her mid-back. She twisted and turned her hair in many styles and shapes, some absolutely goulish, some rather alluring. In the end she left it to hang in its most natural manner, which was becoming in its own way. But she did wish she could do something about the paleness of her skin. Next year—she didn’t care what her mother said!—she was going to wear lipstick.
She pulled open the vanity drawer where she had secretly laid a tube of pale pink, called “passion flower.” They might not even notice if she wore some tonight. And even if they did, they would never embarrass her in front of a guest. And later . . . they could do what they chose.
Slowly she lifted off the cap, and with the painstaking effort of inexperienced and nervous fingers, attempted to dab the color onto her lips.
Leaning back, she surveyed the effect. Hmmm . . . not bad at all, she thought. She pinched her cheeks till they matched the color on her lips. Too bad she was cursed with that infernal Duncan pale skin! A hundred years earlier it might have been in vogue. But modern women preferred to glow with health and vitality. They were not frail and helpless as were their predecessors. Today’s women, thought Allison, are capable and independent, able to stand on their own two feet.
Allison thought she carried the effect off rather well, and if she lied about anything as she completed her toilette, it was the worldly maturity of the girl seated at the vanity. No amount of lipstick or verbal prattle about self-sufficiency could hide the lingering child within seventeen-year-old Allison MacNeil. As the eldest of the family, a great deal of maturity had been expected of her, and she had grown to expect it even more so from herself. She refused to be less than the adult woman she hoped to become, and if childish insecurity tried occasionally to surface, she repressed it beneath a veneer of grown-up hauteur. The facade, however, was only skin-deep, though she protected it well—protected it especially against the comparisons with the two women who had raised her in the Duncan heritage. At such distinctions she steadfastly refused to look. The time of her unmasking had not yet come.
The selection of a dress proved to be more difficult than the choice of hairdo. She pulled open her wardrobe door and began sorting through the clothes hanging before her. The white eyelet was too frilly, the navy organdy too grim, the tartan too . . . well, too gauche.
Allison walked over to her b
ed and flopped down upon it. Even if he was one of the banking Macintyres, he could hardly be worth all this trouble!
Then sighing, she rose, and once again lifted her eyes to survey the wardrobe. At length she settled on the pink and white floral cotton with its A-line skirt and flared elbow-length sleeves. Her father had once commented on how grown-up she looked in it. His opinion on most things mattered next to nothing to her, but on this particular occasion she hoped maybe he was right. It was a calculated risk she was willing to take.
After slipping the dress on her trim figure, she decided the choice had been a good one. She walked to the door, refraining purposely from taking one final satisfied look in the mirror. She opened the door, then hesitated and turned back into the room for that one last look.
She looked pretty, indeed. This Logan Macintyre would take notice tonight!
She descended the main stairway as gracefully as each of the Duncan women had before her. But when she passed the portrait of Lady Atlanta Duncan that hung on the wall where the staircase curved around, Allison’s step faltered momentarily. The austere face, looking as if it had been chiseled in white marble, seemed to stare down upon her in mockery. “How do you,” she seemed to be saying, in that proud, restrained voice she knew her great-great-grandmother must have had, “presume to carry the mantle of your Duncan heritage?”
Allison puckered her mouth stubbornly at her fancy, hitched her shoulders as straight and tall as her regal ancestor’s, and proceeded on her way, giving a defiant backward glance at the portrait.
———
A pleasant fragrance, emanating from several bowls of flowers, filled the dining room. Logan wondered if they always ate this way, or if today marked some special occasion. Surely the finery had not all been laid out for the benefit of a guest they had just picked up on the road and invited home for dinner. Sterling, crystal, expensive china, and fine linen all graced the long flower-bedecked table. It was quite a spread, indeed.
Seeming to anticipate his silent question from his puzzled gaze, Mrs. MacNeil spoke. “Perhaps you would have preferred eating in the kitchen,” she said. “We usually do, to be quite truthful. But we so seldom have guests to entertain that before we knew it . . . well—we had the dining room all opened and dressed.”
Logan commented that he’d enjoy himself regardless, but asked them to forgive him if he chanced to pick up the wrong fork. While his hostess chuckled over his pleasant-natured humor, the rest of the family began to enter. Lady Margaret appeared on the arm of an elderly gentleman whom Logan took for her husband, Lord Theodore Duncan. Logan recalled having read that he had recently inherited the family title, Earl of Landsbury, from an older brother who had died. He noted that though the white-haired old man carried himself with dignity, there was a marked self-effacing humility about him. When Logan referred to him as “Your Lordship,” he had demurred, almost bashfully, saying something about how meaningless such titles could be at times. And indeed, everyone but his wife referred to him simply as Grandpa Dorey, and thus Logan settled on “Sir” as the safest appellation.
Lord Duncan sat at the head of the table, and Lady Margaret at the opposite end. Logan sat to Lady Margaret’s right, and Mrs. MacNeil and her eldest daughter flanked him. He did not fail to observe the change in Allison. She’d be quite attractive, he thought, if it wasn’t for that smug self-centered manner of hers. Across the table sat Nat and a younger sister, Margaret, whom all simply called May. A vivacious ten-year-old, she looked more like her mother and great-grandmother, despite her age and dark curls, than either of the other offspring Logan had yet met. She had apparently been very aptly named. Next to May sat an empty chair.
For some time Logan was spared the grilling he had feared by the constant jabbering of little May. There was no end of information which poured forth concerning neighbors, house pets, events at school, and a hundred other trivialities. The two older people, especially Lord Duncan, encouraged her along, and laughed merrily over her endless anecdotes.
About fifteen minutes into the meal, they were interrupted as a man poked his head into the room.
“The Johnsons’ mare had a lovely filly,” he announced as he entered and walked toward the table. From his coarse dress, tousled pale hair, and sweat-streaked face, Logan assumed that he must be one of the workmen.
“Oh, can we see her, Daddy?” chimed May.
“Of course ye can, lassie,” he replied. “We’ll go oot t’morrow mornin’.”
So, Logan mused to himself, the elegant, highbred Mrs. NacNeil is married to a common country fellow. The prospects for amusement here became more and more interesting by the moment. However, as he surveyed the man further, Logan concluded that he’d be best to reserve any hasty judgments regarding this powerfully built man until he was better acquainted. He could see at a glance that it would not do to cross the fellow.
“Alec,” said Mrs. MacNeil, “this is our guest, Mr. Logan Macintyre. From London.”
“Pleased t’ make yer acquaintance, Mr. Macintyre,” said Alec, approaching the table with outstretched hand. Logan stood and shook it. The big man’s hand seemed to swallow his own as it wrapped around it in a firm grip, which was followed by a vigorous and friendly shake. “Ye’re most welcome in oor hoose!”
Oh, Daddy, for heaven’s sake! thought Allison as her father brushed past her. Coming into the dining room smelling of the barnyard! And with a guest, too! She tried to ignore the proceedings by directing her interest toward her plate, but Allison could hardly hide her embarrassed displeasure. Her father’s country ways, untamed by position, title, modest wealth, or the fact that he lived as laird in a prestigious mansion, was a constant source of chagrin to her elevated sensibilities. Why can’t he act befitting his station, she thought, instead of always having to play the country bumpkin!
“Dinner is still warm, Alec,” said his wife.
“I’ll be along directly,” he replied.
He disappeared, only to return ten minutes later, washed, with hair combed, and dressed in corduroy trousers, an open-collared cotton shirt, and a slightly worn Eaton jacket. Even with the improvements of his attire, he hardly seemed to befit the station of a country squire.
MacNeil took the empty place which had been reserved for him. His presence at once added a distinctive energy to the atmosphere in the room, not unlike that provided by young May, but on a higher level, more substantial, the incidents related with more meaning. By his speech and mannerisms he revealed himself even more as a country-bred man than before. Yet that appeared to in no way affect the attitudes of the others toward him. They all deferred to him; even the earl spoke in a deferential manner when addressing the younger man. He was the obvious master of Stonewycke, but it was not an authority he demanded or required. It was simply there, without anyone’s having thought about it, given unconsciously simply by virtue of the person he was. Logan noted, however, a considerable cooling on the part of Allison the moment her father sat down across the table from her.
This crowd is most unusual! thought Logan. I wonder what other surprises are waiting behind these ancient stone walls.
He had not been looking forward to the inevitable moment when he should become the central topic of conversation. But when it came it took him almost by surprise, for it came more like the whisper of a breeze than the hurricane he had expected.
The main course had been served—a steaming, juicy salmon—when Nat, no doubt feeling himself the resident expert on the stranger, opened the discussion in Logan’s direction.
“Mr. Macintyre knows all about cars,” he said to his father, the only one at the table not yet informed of the incident in town.
“Do ye, Mr. Macintyre,” said MacNeil. “Weel, if ye intend t’ stay here in Port Strathy, ye’ll find nae dearth o’ work in that area.”
“I haven’t seen many autos about,” said Logan.
“There be only a handful o’ autos, t’ be sure,” replied Alec, “but we hae oor share o’ tractors, threshers,
an’ the like. All needin’ repairin’ e’en more than the auld oxen an’ draught horses.”
“Maybe you’re in the wrong field,” suggested Lady Margaret playfully.
MacNeil gave a great laugh.
“Hoots! I’d sooner wrestle wi’ a stubborn Gallowa’ or a huge Clydesdale any day than wi’ one o’ them mystical engines.”
“You work with animals then, Mr. MacNeil?” asked Logan.
“Aye, do I! I’m a veterinarian.”
“And what do you do for a living, Mr. Macintyre—that is, when you’re not tinkering with autos?” It was Allison who spoke.
Fortunately for Logan he had spent the afternoon giving that very question considerable thought. For he had known it would come sooner or later, and he wanted to be ready with a well-formulated response. He may not have been eager for an inquisition with himself at the center. But at least if it came, he would be amply prepared for it.
“I’m in finance—investments, mostly,” he replied. “However, at the moment I’m on an extended leave from my firm.”
“Ye willna find much in that line aroun’ here,” said MacNeil.
“Looking for new investment opportunities?” suggested Allison, ignoring her father’s comment.
“I’m really not at liberty to divulge anything,” replied Logan, content to maintain the charade, but Allison thought she detected the hint of a knowing look in his eyes.
“Can’t imagine what could interest anyone aroun’ here whose business was bankin’,” insisted Allison’s father.
“But it is a lovely spot for vacationing,” said Lady Margaret, entering the discussion for the first time. As she did so, her eyes drifted to Logan’s. Somehow he picked up the impression that he was being rescued, spared the ordeal of answering any more uncomfortable questions.
Well, I don’t need rescuing, lady, he thought stubbornly. And I won’t be intimidated either!
Out loud he said, “I’m here neither strictly for business nor pleasure.” His tone held a hint of defiance, as if he would not be daunted by their questions and would maintain a sense of his own strength of presence in spite of these very unexpected surroundings. “Mine is, you might say, an errand of . . . well, I suppose you might call it an errand of sentiment,” he went on, now opening the door shrewdly in the direction of his choice, and hoping that someone would take the bait and lead him where he wanted to go. “My mother has a keen interest in our family heritage, and I am now in the process of tracing a branch of our family that seems to have led me to this area. You see, my mother is quite aged now.”—he silently hoped his mother would forgive him for coloring the facts a bit, and was glad none of those present would ever have occasion to meet his mother, who could not have been a day older than Mrs. MacNeil—“and she resorts to using me as her feet, so to speak.”
Stranger at Stonewycke Page 15
