Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Yes. There was an old Bible among my mother’s possessions. In a chest of family heirlooms, that sort of thing.”

  “Of course,” mused Margaret. “I suppose when he died, someone must have packed up his few belongings and sent them to his relatives.”

  “Yes, I imagine so. It was the Bible, in fact, that put me on course to Port Strathy.”

  “Would it be possible for me to see it? It would mean a great deal to me.”

  “By all means. Alec was kind enough to retrieve my belongings from the inn, so I’ll get it for you when I return to my room.”

  They continued walking about the stable, admiring the horses once again, and Logan was wondering how best to bring up the subject of the room again. Perhaps he was being overly cautious. It would be no more incongruous for him to want to take a peek at Digory’s room than for Lady Margaret to request a look at his Bible. But before he had a chance to verbalize his request, she brought up the subject herself.

  “You must want to see Digory’s room as much as I want to see his Bible,” she said. “To be perfectly truthful, I would very much like to see it again myself. I haven’t been in there since that time he was ill.”

  “Never?”

  “I left Scotland rather suddenly shortly afterward, and then I was gone some forty years. When I returned . . . well, I hate to admit it, but I hadn’t given it much thought until now. While Digory’s presence remained with me, some other things grew rather dim. And of course, the general disrepair of the place, not to mention my age, has discouraged exploration.”

  “So no one has been up there in all that time . . . ?” Logan tried to sound casual, but he feared a slight tremor in his voice might betray his eagerness.

  “I’d see no reason for anyone to. We certainly didn’t need the space for anything. Of course someone had to gather his things when he died.”

  “Yes, that’s true . . .”

  “My mother, probably.”

  “Lady Atlanta?”

  “My, but you are well versed in our family history already!”

  “I just try to pay attention,” laughed Logan.

  Since the revelation of the room, Logan had harbored the hope that perhaps Digory had simply hidden the treasure in his own private little flat above the stable. Perhaps it was not too bright a move, but then Digory was a simple man whose whole world seemed to be his horses and that black Bible. He might not have been cunning enough to think of a more creative spot. Could it be possible that he had hidden it in a manner that anyone superficially gathering his belongings would have overlooked it? And overlooked any clues he might have left, hoping for young Maggie’s return? If no one had disturbed anything since then . . .

  He had to get into that room!

  Suddenly his mind reeled from the idea which would make him a rich man. As calmly as he was able, he turned his gaze from the broken stair and back again toward Lady Margaret.

  “I was wondering,” he began, “and it may be an entirely presumptuous thing for me to even ask, but Mrs. MacNeil mentioned that I was to receive room and board as part of my wages. Would you think it might be possible for me to stay in Digory’s old room?”

  Margaret smiled. Why the idea struck her as so perfect, she could not tell. Was it because this young man was of the same blood as her dear old friend? She could not deny that she felt a peculiar bond with him. She had almost from the very first. Thus, it was right for him to live where Digory had spent most of his simple existence. And who could tell, she reflected further, but that some of the old man’s life, the life of the spirit, might yet haunt the place and turn the young man, still a boy in so many ways, toward Digory’s God, who had become her own God as well?

  “I think it would be very possible,” she answered at length. “The steps will have to be repaired of course, and the room cleaned up no doubt.”

  “I can do the work myself,” he offered, perhaps too eagerly.

  “I’ll send someone over to help you. You’ll not want to do a great deal until your leg heals.”

  “Thank you, Lady Margaret,” Logan replied sincerely. “This means a great deal to me.”

  She left him in high spirits over the prospects of seeing her old groom’s room made habitable again.

  Logan continued to stare up at the closed door at the top of the stairs, then leaning his cane against a wall, tried to pry loose a couple of the boards that seemed to be rotten. Most of the framing was still sound. It wouldn’t take much to make the stairway fully navigable.

  Again, he had to compliment himself on the perfect setup. Even if the treasure was not up there, the place might reveal any number of clues. According to Lady Margaret, the old fellow was nothing less than a saint. What would a man like that do with a treasure? But actually Logan did not believe in saints—everybody had an angle. What had been Digory MacNab’s? It could not have been pure goodness of heart—Logan found such a notion difficult to swallow. But then, why hadn’t he touched the treasure for his own use? More than likely the old duffer had died waiting for the loot to cool off enough for him to use it. But that wouldn’t explain the cryptic letter to Maggie.

  The whole puzzle was perplexing.

  But was it really necessary to figure it all out? It hardly mattered what the man’s motives were, except insofar as it might lead Logan to the location of the treasure. Yet in spite of himself, he could not help being profoundly struck by the ambiguous complexity of the man who was his ancestor. He had to keep telling himself that the man’s personality had nothing to do with it. It didn’t matter if he was a saint or sinner. No matter what he was, it would surely please him greatly to see his great-great-great nephew prosper for a change.

  Engrossed in thought, Logan heard, barely in time, the squeak of the door between garage and stable. He grabbed his cane and spun around.

  27

  Heated Words

  It would rain before the day was out, but Allison thought she would have a couple of hours for a ride.

  Every heir to the Stonewycke legacy could ride, and Allison was no different. She didn’t care that much for horses, but riding did prove some distraction from the nearly intolerable prison that home had become.

  As she walked through the old wooden stable doors, still standing open, she thought of the days long past when her great-grandmother had been a girl, when Stonewycke’s stable boasted the finest stock in several shires and a full staff to care for them—groom, stable boys, and blacksmith.

  Today there were only six horses. All good ones, certainly. But there was no staff to speak of. Her father—she shuddered at the thought—cared for the horses, and Nat and a couple of the field hands cleaned out the stable when they could be spared. Mr. Dougall looked in from time to time, but when Allison thought of her father feeding and rubbing down horses, and her brother, who might one day bear the family title, mucking out the stalls, she wanted to scream.

  None of the other families she knew lived like that. The Bramfords had a far smaller estate, but it was fully and properly equipped. Imagine Edward Bramford IV sweeping up horse droppings! The thing was inconceivable. Her mother preached about hard times and economy, but Allison knew her parents really, deep inside, enjoyed living this way. They would have carried on as commoners even if Stonewycke were as prosperous and mighty as it had been in its days of glory.

  Someday, she thought, I may, as Mother said, be the mistress of Stonewycke. And then things will be different!

  As she yanked the door open into the interior of the stable itself, she noticed a light on. Perhaps there’d be someone around, after all, to saddle up her mount.

  “Hello,” she called, “is anyone in here?”

  “It’s me, Miss MacNeil,” said Logan, hobbling out from the corner. “Good afternoon.”

  She nodded curtly and walked to the saddle rack where she began to examine several before selecting one. She started to lift it off, then cast a quick glance at Logan.

  “Do you mind, Mr. Macintyre?”

&
nbsp; “Of course not,” he replied, “that is, if you’re in no hurry.” He smiled slightly and held up his cane to remind her of his infirmity.

  “Oh, I had forgotten. I’m sorry.” Rather than remorse, her voice seemed to contain a note of annoyance.

  Logan, however, was determined to be friendly. Although this girl was the most tedious person he had met in a long while, he was not going to let her sour disposition intimidate him.

  “Please, Miss MacNeil,” he said, “everyone around here seems to be calling me Logan. Why don’t you do the same?”

  “Mr. Macintyre,” she replied haughtily, “I hope the congeniality of my family does not cause you to forget who you are, and who we are. And I especially hope you do not plan to take advantage of their kindness. You are an employee here, nothing more. And it would be wise for you not to forget your place.”

  For a brief moment he could only gape in astonishment at the rebuke.

  The next moment he burst into a great laugh. She could not mean it! It was altogether too ridiculous!

  “How dare you laugh at me!” she cried in a passion of anger.

  “My . . . my place! Ha, ha, ha—don’t you know that sort of thing went out with Victoria? Ha, ha!”

  “Maybe it went out on the back streets you call home,” Allison said, still enraged, “but persons of proper breeding still know to whom their respect is due.”

  If there was one thing Logan despised it was snobbery. He believed that he was as good as any man, pauper or king. He refused to take arrogance without countering it, especially when it was directed at him. This attitude had gotten him into trouble before, and no doubt would again.

  His laugh subsided quickly and he glared back at Allison. His next words were controlled and cool. “And I suppose you think you are just the one to remind me of my place?”

  “If I must.”

  “It’s you, my lady, who needs to be put in her place. And I think I’m the one who’s going to have to do that!” Though he, too, was angry by now, his tone was measured, and not without a touch of tongue-in-cheek. But Allison did not enjoy his humor, especially that it came at her expense.

  “You dare!” she seethed. “I will have your job.”

  “It would be well worth it, my lady,” he replied. “To lose my job in order to see you put in your place, I would consider it a more than equitable trade.”

  Allison rankled at his sarcastic use of her title, and Logan, thoroughly enjoying her reaction, continued. “I must be honest with you, my lady; it’s high time someone was. You are the worst snob I have ever known, Miss Allison MacNeil.”

  “How dare you!” she shrieked.

  “Whatever you may think,” he went on, “being a Duncan does not give you the right to walk around treating people like dirt. If you hadn’t noticed, this is the twentieth century. We are not your feudal serfs.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this!” she fumed. “Leave this stable at once!”

  “And if I don’t?” said Logan, leaning back against the saddle rail and cocking his head slightly to one side.

  “Leave this place at once!” repeated Allison. “You have no rights here. I command you to leave!”

  “You command me!” laughed Logan. “You are so insufferable I can hardly keep from laughing. You’re living in the Dark Ages, Miss MacNeil.”

  In a white heat of passion, Allison grabbed a saddle off the rack and marched down the row of stalls, stopping at the black mare’s. She heaved the saddle onto the horse, who stamped its foot, none too pleased at the brusque treatment. She began to untie her, thinking to lead her outside and saddle her there.

  But Logan, not yet finished, hobbled after her. “Do you mean to tell me I’m the first person to inform you of this flaw in your character?”

  Dropping her hand from the latch of the stall door, her only response was a furious but speechless expulsion of breath.

  This conversation had not gone as Allison had intended. After impressing him with her superiority, she had planned to relent just a bit, grant him the privilege of calling her by her first name, and perhaps even invite him along on her ride. Now she was too enraged even to speak.

  With fingers none the nimbler, trembling uncontrollably, Allison attempted to secure the saddle. She gave the girth such a taut yank that the mare jerked away. But with Logan’s final words she spun around, looking as full of energy as the lively filly she was saddling.

  “Flaw in my character!” she repeated indignantly. “Who do you think you are that you can talk to me like this!” Her voice had grown icy cold and full of the imagined pride of her superiority, as if she dared him to venture an answer.

  With the change, Logan had suddenly seemed to have enough. He could never out-argue or out-yell someone so passionate and volatile as this. Maybe she would listen to reason.

  His tone moderated and his voice softened. “Who do I think I am? I’m just someone who was trying to be friendly,” he said. “I only suggested that you call me by my first name, not that we marry and spoil the precious Duncan bloodline.”

  She bristled, and he quickly added, “I suppose I was only hoping that your cool and formal behavior toward me did not spring out of something personal you might have against me. And I thought perhaps if you called me by name—”

  “Personal?” she asked, cocking her eyebrow, confused but wary. “I have no reason to have anything personal against you—I hardly know you. It’s you who has been making personal remarks, when you hardly know me.”

  He nodded thoughtfully at her point, then said, “However, I gathered from what you said that I might not be good enough for you to become acquainted with.”

  She restrained a satisfied smile. He was attempting to concede, to back down. He did acknowledge her superiority after all.

  “Well . . .” she answered, drawing the word out in a coquettish manner, “I might make an exception—with you.”

  “You would!” He clasped his free hand to his heart and beamed stupidly. “You really would do that—for me?” He was mocking her, but she did not catch it at first.

  “Why, of course,” she began, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t—”

  Suddenly she stopped, seeing his face, which could contain itself no longer, at last break out into a smile.

  Realizing she’d been the butt of his joke, she tried to stammer out something further. But taken so off her guard, nothing would come, and the next words were Logan’s.

  “Why? you ask.” His laughing had given way to a brutal seriousness. “Because, my lady, it’s you who’s not good enough for me!”

  His cruel words were meant to sting, and they hit Allison all the more severely when he spun hotly around and limped away. She wanted to scream something after him, the final insult which would put the low-life in his place. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She let him think his words didn’t bother her at all. Which they didn’t, of course!

  She stared silently after him, and when he reached out to open the rear door of the stable which led outside, she suddenly noticed his limp, favoring his right foot. Hadn’t it been the left that was injured? She continued watching in silence until the door had closed behind him, then ran quickly toward it and peered out through a crack. There could be no mistake: he was favoring his right foot, putting his weight on the left. How curious! She’d have to observe him again, later in the day, to see if the limp of their new mechanic had changed.

  Slowly she walked back to the stall and turned her attention to the mare, finished saddling her, then walked her outside and mounted.

  What could the man’s game be, anyway? Why fake an injury? To get the job? It hardly seemed reasonable. He hadn’t appeared that desperate for work. Her parents almost had to beg him to take it. Why then? Was he trying to ingratiate himself to the family? He had certainly not tried to get into her good graces with his behavior today!

  She’d have to watch him and say nothing to her family. Nor would she confront Macintyre. At least not yet.
She would bide her time for now. With someone as arrogant and self-assured and plain-spoken as this man, she would want some distinct advantage over him. In the meantime, she would keep her eyes open and try to find out what he was up to. Perhaps she ought to get on friendly terms with him. That might not be so easy after the things they had said today. But if he confided in her, there could be no telling what she might discover. And if she went to her parents with something definite against him, it might teach them to respect her opinion a little more.

  She dug her heels into the mare’s flanks and galloped off, eagerly anticipating the days ahead. The challenge of a bit of mystery was always invigorating—especially when the prey was such a cocky beast. Yes, the next few days and weeks might prove most interesting. And if nothing else, her schemes would relieve her boredom.

  28

  The Hunt Begins

  It took two days, with the demands of Logan’s other new duties as Stonewycke’s mechanic, to repair the stairs to Digory’s room. He had done most of the work himself, since spring planting had required the attention of the other hands. Thus when he had hammered the final board into place, he was all alone.

  He gingerly navigated the steps, not out of fear either for their weakness or that of his ankle, but out of anticipation of what lay beyond the closed door at the top. What might his uncle’s room reveal to him? Would this prove the end of his quest? He had but to turn the latch to find the answer.

  He reached out, placed his hand on the ancient iron bar, twisted it downward, and pushed open the rough-hewn door, creaking on its hinges, nearly decayed from disuse. The light inside was dim and shadowy. High on the adjacent wall was a single window, large enough only to admit a whisper of the morning’s light that shone outside. Logan had come prepared for near-blackness, and now he held aloft the kerosene lantern he had been carrying in his other hand. Suddenly a rapid fluttering sound filled the room. Logan stepped aside and ducked as a bat flew directly toward him, missing his head by inches, escaping through the door into the stable.

  The large room was covered with a thin dirt-film from neglect, with cobwebs hanging everywhere. Stepping fully inside, Logan saw that there were in actuality two rooms. The one in which he stood contained a small cast-iron stove and a bed with a rat-eaten straw mattress. The other, little more than an alcove where the roof of the stable sloped down to the floor, but in which a small gable added enough height to stand at the near end of the room, contained a rough pine table and a single chair. An empty shelf had probably contained books or eating utensils. Between the two rooms stood a wide-open doorway. Two people would have felt extremely cramped in these quarters, but for a single man, with simple tastes, it might be satisfactory.