The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Many women would deny that we each have God-given roles to fulfill, Allison. Especially in this family, which has for generations supported a strong matriarchy.”

  “I forget,” laughed Allison. “You are an American now. My Victorian views on marriage must go down hard for you. After all, America’s where feminism is really in vogue.”

  May laughed, too. “Allison, you couldn’t be a Victorian if you tried! All your life you’ve been your own person—that is what has prepared you to step into the role Mother has left to you.”

  “And that’s probably also why God knew I needed a strong man like Logan as my husband. He encourages me to be myself, and he shows me the respect of equality as a full partner in our marriage.”

  “That sounds too good to be real.”

  “You know it didn’t come without sacrifice on both our parts. But now I don’t have to worry about equality, because he gives it freely. His authority is no threat because it makes me feel all the more secure as a woman.”

  “You ought to write a book. Everyone does these days it seems. Olivia Fairgate did—have you heard? Pure feminism, very popular in America.”

  “I think I did read something about it. But anything I had to say about marriage would be instantly banned by the modernists as too old-fashioned.”

  “Probably so.”

  “But all this is beside the point about Stonewycke. Despite the wonderful men God brought into the line—Grandpa Ian and Daddy, and now Logan and your Mr. Reynolds, not to mention dear old Digory—we’ve always known that the bloodline flowed through us women. And now here I am—fifty-six years old, and I never really stopped to consider that someday the legacy of Atlanta’s and Lady Margaret’s and Mother’s was going to come to rest . . . on me.”

  “Do you suppose we could talk Ian into giving up his travels and coming back here permanently? Maybe we could shift the birthright onto the men for the next few generations.”

  Allison laughed at the thought.

  “That would be wonderful! But it’s no good—it would never work. I tell you I can feel the weight of this matriarchal ancestry sweeping over me from the past. In a way it’s got nothing to do with what we may decide to do with the property. We could sell Stonewycke, and I think it would still be there. It’s a heritage . . . it’s in the blood. I can sense it filling me. And I know there’s no escape. Besides . . . Ian has such a wanderlust in every bone of his body, settling him down would be like asking for a winter in Scotland without snow.”

  “It’s already on the way, isn’t it?” said May. “I can smell it in the wind.”

  They walked on for several more steps in silence. By now they had come to the trail and had followed in the direction it led, though its way was often obscured by overgrown weeds and heather. The moor they were crossing was not a pretty one. Scarcely a tree was to be seen, only brown heather, rocks, and a few bristly shrubs.

  “What they say,” Allison went on at length, “about bloodlines, about generations, about the firstborn—like the patriarchs of the Old Testament. There’s really something to it, I think. I’d never really considered it before, not in depth anyway. Of course Mother would say things to me, and I’ve read the stories of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and Esau and the genealogies of Jesus, and I realize it’s important in God’s economy. Yet until this week it was all distant. But I tell you, these last few days have made an impact. I’m seeing that those truths were not reserved just for ancient Bible times but are real today. I scarcely paid it any heed, except in theoretical terms, until recently. But I can feel something happening to me . . .”

  “And you’re not sure if you like it?”

  “I don’t know . . .” mused Allison. “Like it? It doesn’t seem it’s a question of liking it or not. Let’s just say I was unprepared for it, and I don’t know what to do with it. Maybe I don’t feel worthy of wearing such a mantle.”

  “But you remember hearing Mother talk about her coming to Scotland in 1911—how timid she was.”

  “But Mother was of the mold, so to speak. I’ve never been cut out of the same cloth.”

  “You are of the same cloth—we all are—even though we have our individualities. Who says every line of women in every generation of Stonewycke should be exactly the same?”

  “But they all had something—something special.”

  “So do you, Allison,” said May seriously. “Perhaps you aren’t able to see it. But I do. And from what I remember being told, you are more like Lady Margaret when she was Maggie than Mother was.”

  “But what if . . . what if I make wrong choices? What if, after all these years, I can’t keep Stonewycke afloat? The financial burdens of the place are steadily growing. Mother did prepare me for that. Logan and I have had charge of the money for years. I can tell you, the outlook isn’t good.”

  “Ian and I will help. That goes without saying.”

  “But will that be enough? What if I—”

  Allison paused, glancing away off in the distance. May knew she was fighting back emotions that were new and frightening to her.

  At length she tried to continue, but her voice was husky.

  “Oh, May, don’t you see? According to the Scriptures, they’re all watching—Mother, Lady Margaret, Atlanta, and who knows how many others? They’re watching me! And—I’m so afraid . . . that I’ll fail them!”

  She broke down and sobbed as the last words left her lips.

  Gently May took her elder sister in her loving arms and held her. They were silent a long while, the only sounds those of Allison’s quiet weeping and the rising wind whistling all about them.

  “I’d always just assumed,” Allison said after she had regained control of her voice, “because of how things were since the legacy would end with me, that it would pass instead to you. After all, you have a son and daughter. Now everything’s changed. But for some bizarre reason I’m still afraid I will be known as the one who let it die—after centuries. May . . . I’m just so frightened. I don’t want this thing.”

  “But what you said is true,” soothed May, still holding Allison and stroking her light hair in spite of the wind. “It’s not you or I or any single generation. It’s bigger than that, bigger than either one of us. Besides, we have no choice in these things. The Lord knows best. It is in His grand design how He orders families. Nothing comes by chance. Everything is to a purpose. We cannot alter that you are the firstborn. I cannot change that. Ian cannot change that. Neither can you change that. It is no accident. The Lord has chosen you—not me, not anyone else—to walk this path, to receive the blessings and to carry the burdens of your position.”

  May paused and looked intently at her sister. “He has chosen you for His purpose that good may result. He is in control. Stonewycke had passed into the hands of those who had no respect for its heritage sixty years ago. But then the Lord brought Mother here, miraculously restored her in the lineage, healed my namesake Lady Margaret, and gave them long and happy and fruitful lives. These may indeed be new times, and you may be a unique individual all your own. But that does not alter the fact that the Lord’s hand is on you. His life is in you, and His loving design is still over Stonewycke and all that lies in its future. You do not have to feel that everything rests upon you. It doesn’t, Allison dear. It rests with the Lord, our God. We can trust Him to guide our steps, and to do good. He can do no other.”

  Slowly Allison released herself from May’s arms, stood back, forced a smile, and wiped away the tears with her hand. “You are right, May. Thank you,” she said. “Let’s walk on a little farther,” she added, drawing in a deep breath to steady her shaky voice.

  The two women walked on. It was cold, and the wind bit cruelly through their wool coats, but they did not seem to mind. They were, as if by common yet unspoken consent, on a mission—seeking together to retouch ancient familial roots, remembering at this time of earthly loss those who had come before them, and calling to mind memories their ancestors held dear.

&n
bsp; Fifteen minutes more they walked. Scarcely a word was spoken. Nothing more needed be said.

  At last they reached the crest of a small rise and could see their destination some hundred yards away, where the ground sloped down toward a sort of hollow in the otherwise mostly flat ridge.

  “I haven’t been here in years,” said Allison.

  “I don’t think I’ve been out here since that day Mother brought us, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” replied Allison, staring ahead.

  Before them rose several irregularly shaped stones, piled and leaning against one another in what at first glance seemed like a random aberration of nature. To one who was not acquainted with their history, they would have appeared as nothing but giant boulders in the midst of a dreary Scottish moor. On closer inspection, however, for one who had the perseverance to clear away some of the moss and overgrowth, the stones would begin to take on a decidedly hewn appearance, not unlike some of the more well-known monoliths scattered throughout the British Isles as reminders of peoples long forgotten to the march of time. These stones, however, had been lost to archaeologists and historians for centuries. They possessed a history, but as yet no one had made the discovery that would unlock the secrets of their past. And thus they stood, as they had for more than a century of decades, silent sentinels to a history for the present forgotten, but for the future waiting.

  The two women paused, looking toward the stones.

  “It was just after Lady Margaret died,” said May. “I can hardly believe it was—let’s see . . . forty . . . no, thirty-eight years ago. I was only eleven, you were eighteen and just married.”

  “I remember,” smiled Allison. “Mother had been working on her journal all that day—”

  “All that day, and the day before, and the day before that!” laughed May. “The moment Great-grandmother died, she seemed almost feverish about it, as if she would forget things she’d been told if she waited so much as a day.”

  “I’ll never forget the walk out here. She was so solemn.”

  “If what she said is true, I can see why. Remember the tone in her voice when she said: ‘This is where it all began’?”

  Allison nodded. “It’s hard to believe that seventeen-year-old Maggie—our great-grandmother—and Logan’s seventy-year-old great-great-uncle Digory could have found that treasure and lugged it all the way back home. To think that our ancestors were here, on this very spot, over a hundred years ago.”

  “I wonder whatever happened to the treasure?”

  “When those thugs took it after Logan first came here, we thought it was gone forever. Then we ran across Channing during the war and learned that somehow he’d got his hands on it. Logan’s tried to get back on his track several times since, but never with any success.”

  “Whatever the treasure was, I’m sure it was spent years ago.”

  “It’s never been retrieving the treasure so much as it is the history. It’s just too bad for a man like that to make off with something that’s part of Stonewycke.”

  “Channing’s no doubt dead by now anyway.”

  “I’m sure.” Allison paused reflectively for a moment. “Well,” she said in almost a distracted voice, “it’s not the treasure really. It’s this place. I just had to come out here again. As difficult as all this is, I suppose something inside me had to try to touch Mother’s spirit however I can, and Maggie’s, and Atlanta’s. If I am destined to be the next in line, then I have to know how they felt about this spot of ground, this valley, this land . . . about Stonewycke and all it represents. I needed to come out here, if, like Mother said, this is where it all began. I really have no choice—I must be faithful to their dreams, their heritage.”

  “And leave the future in God’s hands.”

  “As hard as that is . . . yes.”

  “You are now in the first rank of Stonewycke’s women. You may not be entirely comfortable with it yet. And it doesn’t even matter if you go back to London to live. It’s in your voice. I can see Mother’s eyes in your face, and hear her voice as you speak. I imagine Maggie’s in there someplace, too. The mantle is upon you, dear sister, and you will wear it with honor.”

  They stood silently gazing upon the stones whose ancient story they did not yet know, then turned around, faced the wind, breathed deeply of its chilly freshness, and started back toward home.

  They had not gone far before Allison stopped her sister with her hand. May turned toward her.

  “May,” said Allison. “Thank you. You are as dear a sister as a woman could wish for. I will miss you now more than ever. Thank you for helping me through this time.”

  May only nodded.

  It was now her turn to feel the tears as they began slowly to fill her eyes. The legacy was in her blood also, and suddenly Boston seemed so very far away.

  5

  In a Dark Corner of the City

  Raul Galvez ducked inside the Cheapside pub several moments too late to prevent a thorough dousing from the sudden cloudburst outside. He jerked off his hat and gave it an angry snap, sending a spray of moisture in the direction of several of the pub’s other patrons.

  One of the men cursed him loudly and threatened physical violence. Galvez replied with a sufficiently venomous sneer to effectively discourage the cocky fellow. Galvez then pushed his short, muscular frame through the crowded, smoke-filled room.

  As he moved, his squinting close-set eyes darted back and forth over the place as if he were looking for someone. But all he saw were foreign pale faces speaking a disagreeable tongue that only served to remind him that he was getting farther from home every day. He shoved his way up to the counter, thinking only of taking the edge off his disgust.

  “Cerveza!” he ordered in a throaty, unfriendly tone.

  “Wot’s that, mate?” asked the bartender.

  “Beer, estúpido!” retorted Galvez. “And make it strong and dark.”

  “Comin’ right up, but you don’t ’ave to get so bloomin’ nasty about it,” mumbled the man as he turned to fill a glass.

  Galvez took the drink without any thanks and, after dropping his money on the counter, stalked away to an empty table. As his chunky body fell into its chair, he continued to scan the noisy room, now focusing most of his attention on the front door through which he had just come. He drained his tall glass and was starting on a second when he paused, the beer halfway to his lips, to take particular note of a man just entering the pub. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and stood as if he’d walked off the set of some cheap Italian western, wearing a cowboy hat, shiny tan boots, and a sportcoat with deep, contrasting leather yokes. He, too, scanned the pub as he entered, but his vigil was rewarded quickly as he locked eyes with Galvez.

  “Que paso, amigo!” called the man as he drew near. His inept Spanish was thickly accented with a Texas drawl.

  He lowered his lanky but taut frame into the chair opposite Galvez and immediately began waving his hand in the air for service, which he received post-haste.

  “Bourbon, honey,” he said to the girl waiting tables; “straight up.” He threw her a leering wink and reached out his hand playfully toward her. Her reflexes were too quick for him, however, and she was soon out of reach.

  “What do you think this is, Mallory,” growled Galvez sardonically, “Saturday night after the cattle drive? Why don’t you announce our business while you’re at it!”

  “Aw, shut up, Galvez! What’s eating you, anyway?”

  “This whole place stinks, that’s what!”

  “I dunno. I thought it was a pretty classy joint myself.” At that moment his bourbon arrived and in his preoccupation with his drink, the Texan forgot his earlier interest in the waitress.

  “Bah!” spat Galvez. “We have better cantinas in Patquia. But I am speaking of this whole town. It is cold and wet and dirty. The fog never lifts. Rotten, I tell you! And I’m sick of the place!”

  “Yeah, and where you come from it’s just dirty, huh, amigo?”

&nb
sp; Mallory laughed at his own wit, not at all troubled by Galvez’s icy grimace. Then he added with a wink, “The money’s okay though, huh?”

  “Perhaps the General is paying you more than he is me,” groused Galvez.

  “Maybe so. . . .” returned Mallory in his easy drawl. “But I been with him a long time—seniority, you know, amigo.”

  “Well, what dirty work have we got to do now—break into another office building to steal some files on the competition?”

  “Nah, no burglarizing. He says it’s not business this time. We gotta take the evening train to Oxford.”

  “Madre de Dios!” exclaimed Galvez. “It goes from bad to worse.”

  “I thought you couldn’t wait to get out of this place.”

  “At least in London there are señoritas to be found.”

  “The fence is in Oxford, so that’s where we go.”

  “Who is this fence?”

  “I dunno. Some egghead who discovered he makes more bucks moving high-class stolen merchandise than pounding education into a bunch of preppies.”

  “Why this man? There must be a dozen fences right around—”

  “’Cause he knows his stuff, and that’s what the General told us to do, comprendo?”

  Galvez twisted his lips in disdain. “Okay, okay! You gringos and your short fuses! Let’s go and get it over with.”

  “We got time. It’s two hours before the train leaves.” Mallory raised his hand to signal for a refill. “Relax, Galvez. Loosen up. Remember, this is merry ole England.”

  In a moment the waitress returned with another bourbon, but this time she was not quick enough to avoid Mallory’s bony paw.

  “Come on, honey,” said Mallory, “all this cowboy wants is to have a good ole time.”

  The girl didn’t resist. As distasteful as his attentions might be, giving in for a moment was better than causing trouble. She was used to Mallory’s type and would find her opportunity to squirm free soon enough.