The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “I wish I’d been able to know her better.”

  A short silence followed, each reflecting on the confusing turn of events. Finally Allison asked, “Hilary, do you mind my asking about your beliefs . . . your spiritual values? Are you a Christian?”

  Hilary smiled. “I suppose you always hope someone won’t find that question necessary, that the way you visibly live will be answer enough. But yes, I am. I have been walking with the Lord since I was a teenager, though every year it seems the growth works its way a little deeper.”

  Hilary paused, wondering how far to open herself to this near stranger who just might be her mother. At length she plunged ahead. “I suppose that accounts for a good deal of my present confusion. I prayed and was sure God was directing me here. Now it seems perhaps I was wrong.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  “No. I’m not certain of anything anymore. But if God was leading me here, I cannot help wondering why things have turned out as they have.”

  “Nothing has ‘turned out’ yet at all. We are all confused. Nevertheless, if there is a single principle that shouts out of my mother’s journal above all else, it’s the simple truth that God can take the bleakest of circumstances and, for those who are walking in His way, transform them wonderfully so that good results. I am sure God brought you here for a reason.”

  What a boon those words had been to Hilary—exactly what she needed to hear. They enabled her to shift the weight of the present confusion into God’s infinitely more capable hands. Everything that had come about must indeed be part of some design greater than her small mind could fathom. She was here at this very moment for a purpose. Perhaps that was why sleep had eluded her this night, for an anticipation was gradually creeping over her since her conversation with Allison. For the first time since her arrival, she found herself eager for what God had in store. Moreover, she was not so willing to turn tail and run as she had been when she first discovered Jo’s presence.

  If God had brought her here, then He would direct her path and make the way into her future clear.

  30

  Snowy Rendezvous

  Hilary rolled over in her bed, squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to force sleep to overtake her.

  But it would not come. Many years ago she had learned the futility of fighting a temporary bout of insomnia. During such times it was generally her habit to get up and do one of two things: spend time in prayer, or seek out her typewriter. In either case, the night hours always proved profitable.

  But on this particular occasion, as she had already spent a good forty-five minutes in prayer, and as her typewriter was four hundred miles away in London, she had to settle for the third option: a cup of tea—hot enough to be relaxing, weak enough not to send sleep even further away.

  She rose from her bed, wondering if she dared roam about the house at nearly midnight, much less rummage through an unfamiliar kitchen. But the worst that could happen might be a scolding from the cook, who, Hilary could already tell, possessed strong territorial feelings toward her domain.

  Hilary crossed the room to retrieve her robe from a chair. As she glanced out the window, suddenly all thoughts of tea faded from her mind. It was snowing!

  She rushed forward and pressed her face to the windowpane. The white flakes must have been falling for some time, for already one or two inches covered the ground, casting over the countryside an eerie luminescent glow. The boughs of tall firs were just beginning to bend under the weight, and the absence of wind allowed the slender piles of whiteness to grow high upon the branches before falling silently upon the powdery blanket below.

  “No wonder it was so quiet outside!” exclaimed Hilary.

  With a childlike sparkle in her blue eyes, she threw down the robe in her hand, slipped out of her nightgown, and quickly stepped into her slacks, pulled a sweater over her head, put on her shoes, and grabbed her heavy overcoat as she headed out the door and into the stillness of the corridor.

  She could scarcely remember the last time she had been out in a fresh snowfall. The bustle of London usually turned what scant snow did fall there into brown slush before nine in the morning. But she had always enjoyed the snow. Even as she hurried down the staircase, another night came to her mind when she had been about ten years old. The night had been a similar one to this, although she had slept well. In the middle of the night she had awakened suddenly, almost as if some inner voice had told her something extraordinary, beautiful, magical was at that moment taking place in the forbidden midnight hours. The instant she had seen the white gleaming cover spread out over the streets, reflecting the glow of a pale moon peering through a break in the cloud cover, she knew she must venture forth.

  Creeping from her parents’ flat and down the single flight of stairs, grimacing at the loud creak as she landed on the next to last step, opening the door as noiselessly as she was able, soon she was outside.

  Notwithstanding the presence of the moon, snow was still falling, and huge lightly textured flakes brushed against her face, upturned in awe. What a glorious moment that had been for the city-bred youngster, made all the more wondrous in the realization, as she first looked down toward her feet, that neither milkman nor bus nor workers returning home from factory graveyard shifts had yet marred the perfect, velvety mantle.

  Funny how things come back to memory, she thought. The uncanny silence, the ghostly illumination. It had been these sensations, more than the sight of the snow itself, which had triggered the memory. It had been many years since that night had come into her mind. As a child she had determined to keep her adventure to herself. But then the terrible cold that resulted two days later forced a confession of her errancy to her worried mother. Mrs. Edwards had smiled gently, and in her eyes could be detected a certain camaraderie which seemed to say that she, too, held memories of one or two childhood journeys such as Hilary’s.

  “Well, tonight I’ll not catch cold,” said Hilary to herself as she opened the great front doors and stepped outside.

  Her face was met, not with a blast, but yet with the impact of the cold. Huge flakes fell unhindered from the midnight sky—soft, noiseless, gentle.

  Hilary held out her hands in unabandoned delight, letting the mystical crystals glide through her fingers. She started down the steps, and was all at once overcome with the curious sensation that she had been there before, standing on those very steps, standing just as she was now, looking out into the sky, with snowflakes fluttering all about. For the briefest of instants, snatches of a dreamlike childhood passed through her mind, with images altogether distinct from the more lucid memories of London. Then came the picture of a small girl again, standing in the snow, with just a trace of high-pitched giggling floating, as if audibly, in the air about her.

  Just as quickly as the obscure images had come, they were gone, leaving behind only the sad melancholy of something very precious being lost. Trying to shake the feeling, Hilary continued down the steps and began to cross the courtyard.

  She smiled as she went, looking behind her at the footprints she left, feeling the thrill of being the only one in on nature’s delightful secret. She made a wide circle around the fountain, then wandered aimlessly toward the gate across the entry road some hundred feet away.

  Suddenly she stopped. There again was the faint sound. Maybe it hadn’t been merely a dream of childhood! Though now there was no giggling, only the faint muffled sounds of voices drifting toward her across the snow. She was not alone in the pre-dawn world after all! Peering ahead, barely visible in the midst of the white earth, Hilary spied two figures. They stood just off the roadway, beyond the gate, in a grove of silver birch. If they hoped for the cover they might afford, the barren, leafless trees offered none. Only one of the figures was identifiable.

  Jo stood facing the castle, whispering with emphatic gestures, apparently in heated dialogue with a man whose back was toward Hilary. The usual impassive serenity of Jo’s face was flawed with tension to accompany her motion
s. Even in the night, Hilary thought she could see her dark eyes flashing.

  Instinctively Hilary stepped to one side of the gate, wondering what she should do. Before she had the chance to contemplate long on the question, however, the couple embraced, then stepped apart.

  Hilary knew she could not get back into the house without being seen, and her footprints would give her away in an instant. She stepped farther into the shadow of the gate, knowing even as she did so that the last thing she could do was hide.

  The dilemma of an encounter was forestalled, however, and then Hilary realized why there had been no footprints but her own in front of the house. When the man disappeared back along the driveway, Jo turned and walked through the trees, where a breach in the hedge at the side of the house admitted her to the garden area. There she crossed the relatively short space to the kitchen door, adding a new set of footprints to the ones she had made earlier, and was soon inside.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Hilary waited another five minutes where she was, then walked back across the courtyard—by now feeling the effects of the cold—into the house again, and back up the stairs.

  Long after she had climbed once more into the warmth of her own bed, Hilary asked herself for the twentieth time what the strange meeting could signify. If Jo had a lover, why the secrecy? Surely Logan and Allison would not deny a romantic interest to a thirty-two-year-old woman. If not romance, then what other reason could have driven her out in the snow in the middle of the night to meet a man?

  She had no way of answering her question, however, and eventually fell into a deep sleep, whose only interruption was a silly dream about two snowmen crossing a large field of ripening grain together. The larger of the two began to melt, causing the smaller great dread. Before long there was but one snow figure left, a child of a snowman, made with two balls of snow rather than three. When she arrived at a village after walking a long distance, there were no other snowmen to be found. And when all the people asked her name, the little snowgirl couldn’t remember. When asked where her mother was, all the little snowgirl could answer was, “I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.”

  31

  Fortuitous Encounter

  When Hilary awoke the following morning, she felt oddly refreshed. Never would she have guessed that her night had been interrupted by snowfalls, secret trysts, and wandering snowmen.

  At breakfast everyone seemed to have been similarly affected by a positive wave of good cheer that had come with the snow. Jo entered the dining room, glowing and full of enthusiasm. “It snowed in the night! Isn’t it grand?”

  “Indeed!” agreed Logan heartily as he dished up his plate from the trays and bowls on the sideboard.

  “I should like to take one of the horses out for a ride today,” Jo continued. “The day is too gorgeous not to be out in it.”

  “This terrain’s difficult for a horse even in the best of conditions,” said Logan. “It might be a bit tricky. Have you ever ridden in the snow?”

  “You know I’m quite an adequate horsewoman.”

  “So you’ve shown yourself, I admit.”

  “Why don’t you join me, Father?”

  Logan laughed. “Surely you know by now that the extent of my association with horses lies in the area of wagering, not riding—and even in that regard I’ve grown a trifle rusty these days.”

  “And you’ve no desire to learn the equestrian side of life at the track?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “And you call yourself the progenitor of the Ramsey-Duncan strain?”

  “I call myself nothing but a humble Macintyre, sprung from the common, yet noble blood of grooms. Don’t you know,” he added with a wink in Allison’s direction, “it’s the women who wear the pants in this family?”

  “I’d not be adverse to joining you if it weren’t for this silly ankle,” Allison put in. “But I’ll not stay indoors on such a day,” she went on with some defiance in her tone, and a coy, sidelong glance at Logan. “I think I shall try my hand at painting a winter scene. I’m feeling good, and I haven’t painted in days!”

  “I didn’t know you were an artist,” said Hilary, settling down at the table with a plate bearing half a stewed tomato, a couple of smoked kippers, a piece of toast, and a soft-boiled egg.

  “I am merely a student,” replied Allison. “Jo is the real artist among us, and she has encouraged me to take it up as a hobby.”

  “Don’t let her fool you,” said Jo. “She has quite a talent for it.” She paused, then brightened suddenly. “I’ve a splendid idea! Mother, I’ll get you all set up with your paints. Then, Hilary, you can join me for my ride. You haven’t yet had a proper chance to see the countryside.”

  “I’m not much experienced with horses either,” said Hilary. She would have been closer the mark had she said she’d only been on a horse one other time in her life, and that was fifteen years ago. But she let her statement stand.

  “Say you’ll come,” prodded Jo. “It will be the perfect opportunity for us to get to know one another better.”

  Hilary suppressed the urge to say that what she was really interested in was knowing Allison and Logan better. But again she kept quiet, and in an hour thus found herself dressed in riding habit borrowed from Allison, browsing through the horses in the stables. Jake followed after her, pointing out the merits and idiosyncrasies of the half dozen beasts. She finally settled upon a sedate-looking chestnut which Jake then led from its stall and saddled. In the meantime, Jo had chosen her favorite, a spritely dapple gray mare.

  The two women mounted. Side by side they provided an interesting contrast. The chestnut, which in the sunlight showed a fair smattering of gray in her coat, hung her head low and, to Hilary’s great relief, seemed barely capable of more than a slow trot. Hilary, however, sat bolt upright, looking confident, the reins held expertly in her hands, exactly as Jake had placed them. It was not the first time in her life as a reporter she had had to feign expertise where none existed. She’d snagged many a good news story that way. She knew how to watch and listen, and pick up appropriate clues from others. Why she did so now she couldn’t quite explain, except that perhaps she was growing weary of being the odd person out at Stonewycke.

  She had no delusions that she would fool Jo with her act once they began to move. It was obvious Jo knew her way around horses from the masterful way she sat the gray. There, atop the powerful mount, Hilary thought she detected an almost imperceptible change in the look of her face. Was it something in the tilt of her chin, or the glint of her dark eyes? It seemed that the animal energy of the gray mare was being conducted through the saddle and up into the rider. Demure and passive the effect would not be called. Untamed, stormy, perhaps. A hint of wild challenge, a daring, supreme self-reliance.

  Before Hilary had time to evaluate this hidden person, Jo jabbed her heels into the gray’s sides and was off at a trot. Hilary followed as best she could.

  Jo led the way at a spirited pace. They headed west for a short distance; then Jo turned sharply toward the south. The night’s snowfall had deposited several inches of white covering, but many patches of brown earth showed through, and dormant shrubbery and boulders otherwise spotted the landscape. The pale morning sky, more than half filled with thick gray clouds in front of a backdrop of white, gave every indication that it would not be long before snow dominated the entire countryside.

  They continued on for about half an hour, following a rough, narrow trail that surely saw little general use. The air grew colder, and the wind, which had been but a chilly breeze lower down near the sea, turned icy and whipped fiercely at the two riders and their steeds. The chestnut’s flanks heaved with the added exertion, but Hilary dared not slow for fear of falling too far behind. Eventually the ground leveled off, and to Hilary’s relief she saw that fifty yards ahead Jo had reined the gray to a stop. Hilary trotted up next to her.

  “I thought we might need a rest,” said Jo, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
>
  She might just as well have said you. But Hilary swallowed her pride, gratefully nodded her head, and dismounted. The solid ground had never felt so good. She rubbed the chestnut’s white face.

  “You are a nice beastie,” she said, “but I think even you will agree that we were not made for each other.”

  Jo swung easily off her mount. “I rode nearly every day in Baltimore,” she said, striding over to where Hilary stood. “My adoptive father had a fine stable, even a few thoroughbreds.”

  “All my father owned was a mangy yellow cat,” laughed Hilary. “But she was a good mouser, and that was a valuable possession in Whitechapel.”

  “Whitechapel?”

  “Where I grew up . . . London—the East End.”

  “Ah.”

  “I have a feeling that you and I had quite different upbringings. Whitechapel is far removed from all this, believe me.” Hilary swept her hand through the air to indicate their surroundings. “In more ways than one.”

  “It will grow on you.”

  “But surely you must hope it doesn’t.” Hilary purposely kept her tone light.

  “I hate to think we are rivals,” Jo replied.

  “But we are, aren’t we?” asked Hilary, the interviewer in her surfacing.

  “You may look upon it that way. But I feel no sense of competition. I know my credentials are irrefutable. I only feel bad for the mistake that will ultimately be uncovered in Lady Joanna’s investigation. It’s only a matter of time, I’m afraid.” For a brief instant her eyes narrowed and sent out a dark flash. Almost immediately that icy glance was replaced with the gentle breeze of a smile. “I am sorry, Hilary. I really am. I so wish you could be spared the pain.”

  Hilary walked on in silence, leading her equine companion with the reins in her hand.

  “You should see this place in late summer,” said Jo, when she caught Hilary again and came up beside her. “It’s a sea of purple. When I first arrived, I was just mad to get it on canvas.”