Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  The appearance of Arylin-Michaels fell somewhere between those of the other two men. His face was rather plain and nondescript, as was his soft-spoken voice. He also knew little about rugby, but the moment the conversation lagged, he was ready with a political expostulation about the situation on the Continent, for his father was a Conservative M.P. in the House of Commons.

  Allison cared little that the conversation was dull. It was enough for the moment to be surrounded by these three young men. When her three school friends migrated toward the circle and aroused virtually no interest on the part of any of the young men, she could hardly keep her inward exhilaration from spilling onto her face. She purposefully took no notice of their hostile glances throughout the remainder of the evening.

  It was difficult to tell exactly when the sun had set, for the dark afternoon had passed gradually into evening. Still the rain had not come. Though a number of guests had to leave to attend to their livestock, and a few to their fishing boats, those who remained were at last led into the ballroom, where Alec, true to Allison’s prediction, marched into the center of the crowd in full Highland regalia, extemporizing an ear-deafening rendition of Scotland the Brave on his bagpipes, much to the delight of all present. Only Allison’s small group of friends standing toward one corner was indifferent to the proceedings. The rest of Port Strathy’s inhabitants whooped and clapped and sang along to the most familiar of all Scotland’s tunes.

  “An’ noo, my friends,” Alec called out when the drone from his pipes had died away, “I wad like t’ invite any o’ ye adventurous enough fer it, ont’ the floor. Ye are the evenin’s entertainment yersel’s!”

  Suddenly a rousing Reel began from the small local contingency of fiddlers and accordionists. In an instant all hands were clapping and feet stomping to the beat, and soon Alec had again filled his bag with air and was searching in wailful tones for the melody.

  The Reel lasted about five minutes, after which Alec announced, “Let’s start with The Gay Gordons! Men, bring your ladies onto the floor and take your positions in the center of the circle!”

  But his last words could hardly be heard. No sooner had the words Gay Gordons left his lips than the small band had again struck up the music with their instruments and the shuffling of many feet on the hardwood floor made momentary chaos of the room. Nor did anyone present require Alec’s instructions, for every native Scot—fisher, crofter, or laird—had known the favorite dance from childhood.

  Soon the couples, led by Joanna and Alec, were circling the room rhythmically to the lively music. With every new stanza the men advanced to a new partner, and thus progressed around the room. Alec’s laugh seemed loudest of all, and with each of the fisher or farmer wives he came to, he appeared to enjoy himself still further. The men, on their part, when they took Joanna in their arms, did so with a timid grace that was wonderful to behold. The humble pride on the faces of the hard-working men of Port Strathy told the story—for them, this was like dancing with royalty itself!

  The mood was infectious. Even Allison’s so-called sophisticated friends could not resist the invitation to share in the gaiety, even when it came at the hand of a crusty and red-faced old fisherman. No amount of expostulation, however, on the part of the future laird of Dalmount, could get Allison onto the floor. She stood watching the festivities in moody silence, trying occasionally to cover the mortification she felt at having her family seen mingling with such people, with snide and haughty comments intended to be witty. How could her father, the laird, degrade himself so!

  Out-of-breath, laughing, and perspiring freely, the thirty or forty persons left on the floor burst into spontaneous applause as the music came to a loud and triumphant conclusion. No one could remember when they’d had so much fun!

  “An’ noo, what would ye all say t’ seein’ Lady Margaret an’ Lord Duncan favor us wi’ a sight o’ their nimble feet?” said Alec above the noise, at which the clapping and shouts of encouragement grew louder still.

  Knowing the futility of trying to argue, Maggie and Ian came slowly forward from where they had been standing clapping their hands and tapping their toes. Ian beamed with pleasure as his wife gently took his arm and allowed him to lead her into the center of the room. Then, as the small band softly took up the melancholy strains of Lochnagar, Ian tenderly slipped his hand around Maggie’s waist and their aging feet began an improvisation about the floor, now a waltz, now a quick shuffle-stepping reel. Suddenly they were young again! All thought of the watching eyes were gone. The wind was on their faces, blowing down upon them from across the heather hills over which they had ridden together. Raven and Maukin stood close by, their sides heaving from the strenuous ride. For music, the birds and the breeze and the nearby rushing burn in the trees supplied more than enough. Maggie gave herself up to Ian’s strong and loving arms. He swung her around, lifting her feet from the ground as she laughed as only young Maggie Duncan could laugh. Oh, Ian, I love you! she thought, and with the words the dying melody once again penetrated her consciousness. As her mind came back to the present, Maggie was gazing deeply into Ian’s chestnut brown eyes, still thinking the same words. As if he knew her thoughts, he returned her gaze with the deep love which only two who had been through such trials as they could share. Oblivious to the music, which had by now stopped, the aging couple continued to dance a few moments longer, content in each other’s arms, until the broken sounds of applause, growing steadily louder, at last awakened them. They looked around at their friends, laughed, and then Ian said, “Weel, I guess we’re jist a couple o’ auld lovesick fools!” That brought laughs all around, for everyone in the village knew he spoke the most perfect London-English in the entire valley.

  Joanna’s laugh, however, could hardly hide the tears streaming down her face at the sight of her grandmother and grandfather so happy and content together. Thank you, Lord, she sighed, for bringing them together! And indeed, as the women of Port Strathy looked on, especially those old enough to remember, Joanna was not the only one in whose eyes stood tears of joy for the lady they loved.

  “An’ noo, let’s see if we canna get the white sergeant t’ dash aboot a bit!” said Alec. “We need a set o’ six—as many as we can weel fill up the floor wi’.”

  As the band plunged vigorously into a lively introduction to The Dashing White Sergeant, once again there was a great scurrying about as four or five sets of six tried to arrange themselves in lines of three, forming a great wheel about the room, with its spokes pointing toward the center. But no sooner had the dance gotten underway when suddenly Evan Hughes burst into the room, out of breath, with his hat crumpled in his hand. Mrs. Bonner, the housekeeper, trailed Hughes through the door of the ballroom.

  He ran straight to Alec, who was jovially winding his way through the dance’s first figure-eight, and stopped him with an urgent hand on his arm.

  “There’s been an accident,” he began. “The schooner’s run aground!”

  Immediately the dancing in Alec’s group came to a halt as he turned to Evan for details. One by one the other groups wound down also, and at last the music ceased, as gasps and exclamations around the room gave evidence to the severity of the news, especially for those with relatives or friends aboard.

  “We’ll need all the help we can git fer the rescue!” shouted Alec, and no sooner had the words fallen upon the ears of his fellow townsmen than once again the room became alive, now with no preparation for a dance but rather in preparation to battle the wind and a surly sea to save their kinsmen. The local folk never had to be told twice. Before Hughes was through with his news, a full half of them were already out of the ballroom and on their way down to the harbor.

  Those remaining, however, heard as Evan continued: “Tim Peters were mindin’ the helm” he said, “an’ when his wife heard . . .”

  He hesitated, then went on, turning toward Joanna who had joined Alec, “ . . . weel, ye know her condition, my leddy.”

  “Yes,” Joanna replied with conc
ern in her voice, “she’s had an unpleasant pregnancy—”

  “Aye, she has!” broke in Hughes, “an’ Doc Connally’s over t’ Culden.”

  “You don’t mean . . . ?”

  “Aye, my leddy!”

  “She’s gone into labor?”

  “’Tis what I come here t’ tell ye. I figured Alec here, ye know, might be a mite sight better’n nae doctor at all—that is t’ say—weel . . .” And, flustered, he broke off his speech.

  “I know yer meanin’,” replied Alec with a smile. “But nae doobt I’ll be needed at the wreck too. Hoo bad is’t, Evan?”

  “Can’t alt’gither tell. ’Tis fearsome dark oot there! But it could be bad, my laird.”

  “Please, Evan, ’tis no time fer formalities! Joanna,” he said, turning to his wife, “can ye see t’ Mrs. Peters? Ye’ve had mair experience wi’ human births than I.”

  Joanna nodded, adding, “She may not be in any real danger. Sometimes these things come and go.”

  “Thank ye, lass!” replied Alec with a grin. “I’ll organize the men at the harbor. We’ll hae t’ send a fleet o’ boats oot t’ pick up the men, I’m thinkin’. Meantime, Evan, jist in case it is her time, are ye up fer a hasty ride t’ Culden?”

  Hughes nodded his assent and hurried away with Alec close behind him.

  Now it was Joanna’s turn to spring into action. She walked quickly toward Maggie where she stood anxiously watching the developments. After a few moments of hurried conversation, Lady Margaret nodded. She would take charge of the house and what guests remained. Most, however, even of the out-of-town guests, had joined the throng on its way down the road to the town, if not to help, then at least as spectators. In the meantime, Joanna turned and her eyes, flashing now in anticipation of what lay ahead, sought her daughter.

  Allison felt dizzy. This was not at all how she had envisioned the conclusion of the evening. Two of her three young men had trooped off to watch the rescue efforts, while the third was even now plying his skills in an attempt to persuade her to accompany him along with the others. Her three school friends, in a group by themselves a little way away, were observing Allison’s every move with jealous eyes while pretending to be completely unaware of her presence. Allison at length resigned herself to following along, that prospect being more desirable than the boredom of remaining behind listening to Clifford expound on the dangers of German rearmament, when from behind her she heard her mother’s voice.

  “Allison, would you come with me?”

  She turned to see Joanna approaching with a determined stride.

  “Uh . . . where?” she asked nervously. Now this really was too much, to have her mother speak to her like a child—and in front of her friends!

  “Mrs. Peters—she may be about to have a baby.”

  “But—but . . .” Allison faltered, shrinking back from Joanna’s penetrating eyes and the urgency in her voice.

  “Allison, I may need you.”

  “Oh, Mother! My good dress . . . I’ll spoil it!”

  “Allison!” returned Joanna imperatively. “I need your help! Now, please—come with me!”

  “But the guests—” attempted Allison lamely.

  Lady Margaret, who had slowly come up to the two, now laid a hand gently on her great-granddaughter’s shoulder. “I will see to everything here,” she said. “You may go with your mother.” Her words were gently spoken, but there was an immovable firmness to them at the same time which Allison could not refuse. Further resistance would be pointless. She only hoped her friends weren’t watching, even though Clifford would probably recount every word to all of them!

  With a sigh of martyred resignation, Allison took the coat that Mrs. Bonner held out to her and wrapped it around her shoulders. If her great-grandmother had only stayed out of it! She might be able to argue with her mother. But Lady Margaret was like a rock. No matter how kind and gentle she appeared on the outside, down inside she could be so determined. Whenever Allison tried to withstand the old lady, somehow her voice always caught in her throat. Was she afraid of her great-grandmother? She doubted it. How could anyone be afraid of one like Lady Margaret? What was it, then? Was she intimidated by the sheer age and eminent standing of her great-grandmother, both in the family and in the community? Or was it simply an awe, a deep respect? But if that was its proper name, it was never a direction in which she allowed her thoughts to travel for long. And on this occasion she hardly had time to reflect on these things at all, for events began to sweep her along in their train.

  Joanna brought the Austin around front from the garage, sounded an authoritative blast on the shrill horn, and Allison ran out into the night and climbed in beside her without a word.

  As the automobile flew rattling down the hill, Allison glanced back. The last thing she saw before a bend in the road obscured her vision were several of the lanterns swinging above the courtyard garden, more agitated now in the rapidly brewing storm, a fine mist giving the lights an ethereal appearance, as if to punctuate the disastrous climax to the evening’s events.

  7

  Allison

  The room spun around and all the blood rushed from her head. Allison’s hand trembled as she tried to grasp the edge of the coarse oak table nearby. But that was not going to help.

  She was going to be sick.

  I’ve got to get out of here, she thought.

  Allison turned toward the door, threw a hasty glance back into the room, then stumbled out of the cottage into the biting rain. They were all still busy. They would never even notice that she was gone.

  She tumbled forward down the incline, unconscious of the rain beating on her body, not feeling the fierce wind on her face, twice nearly twisting her ankle on the rocky ground. On she ran. The direction hardly mattered. Only that she put as much distance between herself and that hateful place as possible.

  The baby had died, only moments before.

  There had been nothing her mother could do. There had been nothing anyone could have done. Even if Dr. Connally had been there, the outcome would doubtless have been unchanged. The labor had suddenly come two months premature after what had been a very difficult pregnancy. Perhaps had there been a hospital nearby, there might have been a chance. But how could an infant struggling for its life hope to survive under such primitive conditions? Aberdeen was sixty miles away. Her mother might be the best midwife in the area, but some things were impossible even for Joanna MacNeil. And perhaps as Allison stumbled alone into the night, she managed to dull the sting of her own sense of failure with the realization that no one else had been able to save the child, either.

  Who wouldn’t get sick in that hovel? she thought, with the stupid peat smoke clogging the air so they couldn’t breathe, and the disagreeably intimate proximity with all the noisome neighbor women who turned out to lend a hand to the blessed event. Some blessedness! Now they were all in there crying and praying and trying to comfort the pathetic Peters woman.

  But Allison knew what had really sent her reeling from the cottage was the pitiful sight of the dead baby. She had never actually seen death before. The infant had scarcely been larger than the two hands of her mother that had frantically tried to pump the life back into it. And now, a quarter mile from the Peters’ cottage, wind in her hair and rain streaming down her tear-stained face, Allison could not blot the sight of that tiny, limp, bluish body from her memory.

  Oh, why had her mother forced her to witness such an awful thing!

  Allison stopped for a moment and forced her eyes tightly shut. But it did not help. The death-child still loomed larger than life before the eyes of her mind.

  She should have known better than to bring me, thought Allison, forgetting how many times in the last month she had pleaded with her mother to treat her like a grown woman rather than a child. All those other women . . . they’ve seen it before. It’s part of their life. But not mine. That’s what people like them have to face as their lot in life. But not me! Why does my mother insist on b
eing one of them? It’s not our place! We’re meant to be above—

  Her self-centered and confused thoughts were suddenly cut short as her foot snagged on a protruding scraggly heather bush. She stumbled and fell, hands and knees landing in the muddy dirt. It was not until that moment that she became aware of how cold she was. Or that she’d left her coat behind. Slowly she picked herself off the ground. Her party dress was not only soaked, now it was splattered with mud. It would serve her mother right, she thought! Now she would have to buy her a new dress, and it was no fault but her own. And after what she had been through this evening, Allison considered herself well-deserving of the fifty-pound dress in the magazine.

  The icy cold was penetrating. But the thought of returning to the cottage for her coat never entered her mind.

  Allison stood and looked about her, realizing for the first time that she had no idea in which direction she was headed. Yet above the din of the wind she could hear the faint sounds of the sea. The Peters’ place was located three miles east of town, about half a mile inland on the large bluff that spread out toward Strathy Summit. Glancing about her, she realized she must have gone north from the cottage, down the slope, toward the sea. Fortunately she had gathered her wits just in time. Inching ahead, she made her way forward until before long she came to the rocky ledge atop the cliffs overlooking the sea some ninety feet below.

  It was well she did not suffer the same reaction to heights as she had to blood and death. Below and to her left, Ramsey Head—now shrouded in fog and rain and nearly too black to distinguish clearly—loomed so close she could have tossed a rock onto its southern slope. She shuddered, as many would to find themselves so near the Head on such a wild night as this. Children were warned away from the place. Local folk had tale after tale of strange and mysterious sounds and disreputable doings associated with the promontory. An evil man—a murderer, they said—jumped from the top of the Head, plunging to his death in the treacherous shoal below. His body had never been recovered, undoubtedly carried far out to sea by the strong tides of the North Sea. But even after seventy years, no one cared to linger long in a place where—so the old-timers like to point out—a body might surface at any moment.