“Having problems?” inquired the stranger.
Nat nodded, and the man continued, “I’ve some small skill in mechanics. If you like, I’ll have a look.”
“Sure,” replied Nat eagerly. “I’m not doing much good.”
He stepped up to the bonnet, affording Allison a closer view of his features. No doubt he was a stranger, she thought, not only in the unfamiliarity of his face, but also because of his general carriage and the polished finesse of his actions. No fisherman would have removed his jacket with such care, even if it had been a well-tailored tweed such as this man’s. Folding it neatly, he laid it on the car, then proceeded to roll up the sleeves of his fine linen shirt. He definitely did not possess the brawny physique Allison was accustomed to seeing on the fishers and farmers around Strathy. She might have taken him for a scholar, but the tone of his voice and a peculiar look in his eye did not quite concur with that conclusion. There was a boldness about him, as if he feared nothing and, in fact, invited challenge with relish.
The fact that the newcomer was young and good-looking was not lost on her, but for the moment she could not help feeling perturbed that she had thus far gone completely unnoticed as he concentrated on the more practical aspects of the situation. And however bold and confident his appearance, she asked herself, how much does he really know about automobiles? Her doubts along that line were preempted when he called out to Nat from under the bonnet.
“Give her a try.”
Nat brushed past Allison and slipped in behind the wheel. Then miraculously came the sudden roar of the engine.
Nat whooped and hopped out. “Thanks, mister,” he said.
“Glad to be of assistance.”
“What was wrong with it?”
The man replied with a technical explanation involving wires and sparks, connections and cylinders, which greatly impressed Nat, whose budding love affair with things mechanical had been cut short by Mr. Innes’s death. Allison, however, could make little of it.
“Where’d you learn all that?” asked the youth with admiration.
“Oh . . . here and there,” replied the stranger, a bit evasively, thought Allison. Though she could not possibly have known, her misgivings were sound, for he had in fact gained most of his knowledge of cars from his involvement in a rather lucrative, albeit illegitimate, auto racing enterprise some two years earlier. This, of course, he wisely kept to himself.
“Our factor knew all about cars,” said Nat, “and he was teaching me all he knew, but . . . he died a while ago, and no one in Strathy knows more than I do.”
“That’s too bad.” The man brushed his hands together, then held one out to Nat. “I’m Logan Macintyre. I may be here a while, if you’d ever like a few pointers.”
“Thanks.” Nat took Logan’s hand and shook it awkwardly. He was hardly used to being treated on equal terms as this man was now doing. “I’m real pleased t’ meet ye. Nat MacNeil’s my name.”
Finally Allison could no longer stand to remain in anonymity. She stepped boldly forward, clearing her throat daintily.
“Oh, that’s my sister, Ali,” Nat added, almost as an unnecessary afterthought.
“Allison,” she corrected with a disapproving cocked eyebrow directed at her brother. “We are very much in your debt, Mr. Macintyre,” she added in her most mature tone, smiling prettily.
It was a pleasant smile, and ought to have had a very positive effect on the stranger, even though it was tinged with an indiscernible trace of haughtiness, which Allison could not have helped even had she wanted to. The smile did, in fact, largely make up for her appearance in his mind, though as he looked fully upon her, Allison was acutely aware of her old clothes and messy hair. Had she known of the smudge of grease across her cheek, she would have turned a bright shade of pink.
But after a moment or two Allison began to gain the distinct impression that this man was looking at her as if she were a little girl, and might at any moment reach out and pat her condescendingly on the head. At last she thought she knew what the peculiar look was that she had noted earlier—it was the unmistakable air of superiority. It was a wonder she had not drawn the conclusion sooner, as familiar as she was with that very bearing. And she found it especially distasteful in someone who treated Nat as more his equal than herself. However, her hastily formed judgment was confused by his congenial reply.
“Don’t think of a debt to me,” he said. “Actually, I haven’t been able to tinker with a car for some time, and I rather enjoyed myself.” Had Allison been able to read deeper into the truth of his statement, she would have known that after his close brush with the law two years ago he had sworn never to touch another automobile in his life.
Maybe I misjudged him, Allison thought. He might deserve Port Strathy’s best welcome after all.
“Now that you’ve managed to get our car running,” she offered, “can we give you a lift anywhere?”
“Oh, no thanks. I’m staying at the inn down the street, and don’t have anyplace else to go.”
“Then you are new here?” Allison observed.
“Just arrived today.”
“What brings you here?” put in Nat.
“I’m sure it’s none of our business, Nat,” reproved Allison.
“You must be visitin’ friends, though,” ventured Nat, ignoring Allison’s remonstration.
“I don’t know a soul in town,” answered Logan, apparently not as disturbed by the inquisitive nature of the youth as his older sister assumed he might be. “Except you folks,” he added.
“Then we can repay you by having you to our place for dinner,” declared Nat.
“That’s not necessary,” answered Logan, taken aback momentarily by the unexpected display of hospitality.
“Sandy Cobden’s cooking leaves a great deal to be desired since Mrs. Cobden died,” came a new voice from inside the automobile. Logan had not at first realized there were other passengers. He stooped down and tilted his head to have a look at the new speaker.
A brief silence ensued as the two surveyed one another. Before he spoke, Logan cleared his throat, somewhat nervously Allison thought, and as he did, she noted a slight sagging of the cool composure he had thus far assumed.
“In that case,” he said, recovering himself as best as he was able, “perhaps I had better take you up on your kind offer.”
“Jolly good!” exclaimed Nat.
“We shall be pleased to have you, young man,” said the woman in the Austin.
“Mr. Macintyre,” said Allison in a rather lofty tone, “may I present my great-grandmother, Lady Margaret Duncan.”
17
The Lady and the Sharp
Logan sat back in the rear seat of the Austin as it left the small town and headed up the steep coast road.
If he hadn’t been one who had trained himself to take in stride whatever life chanced to throw him, he might have been knocked off balance a bit with the sudden turn of events. As it was, he sat back and reveled in his good fortune.
His fortuitous stumbling upon the very people he sought had momentarily been lost upon him as he and the old lady had first exchanged glances. For when his eyes met those of Lady Margaret, a very odd and unfamiliar sensation passed through him. Even if he had tried, he couldn’t have explained what it was he felt. He might have made a faltering attempt to describe it as like being suddenly stripped naked before one who knew you better than you knew yourself, as if the lady had been able to perceive to the very depths of his being. It seemed in that passing moment of time as if she had possessed the ability to read him more accurately than if his whole life had been boldly printed upon his shirt front—better than Skittles, better than his mother, better even than himself. He had an unnerving premonition that possibly he had opened the door to more than he bargained for.
But just as quickly the sensation passed. Logan was not of the temperament to ponder such things deeply. He was content to allow it to pass without further reflection. And if there was any t
ruth to the unsettling foreboding, if she did know of his motives or his duplicity, the pleasant smile which followed immediately made clear that she would never have held any of these things against him. The only acquiescence he gave to the uncomfortable feelings her penetrating eyes had elicited was an unconscious and barely perceptible faltering of his self-command.
It was only the beginning of an afternoon filled with unexpected sensations. But at the moment Logan climbed into the automobile, the remainder of this landmark day still lay ahead of him. As he settled into his seat, he took a few moments to regather his equanimity. And now as Allison maneuvered the Austin up that oft-trod road southeast of town, Logan’s eyes took in the wonders of the rugged seascape terrain on his left.
In a few more minutes they turned off the road to the right, away from the sea, through a slight wooded area, still climbing, until suddenly looming before them was the great, gray-brown ancient castle known as Stonewycke. They sped through an ornate open iron gate, and for a moment all his worldly savoir-faire fled. Even a modern sophisticate such as Logan could not help being awed by the four-hundred-year-old ediface.
And with the awe came a fleeting sense of defeat. Suddenly things were happening he hadn’t planned on. Who was he, a mere mortal, to think of pitting his puny wiles against this place? Here for the first time an impression of history came over him. The walls of this fortress had withstood storms and armies and revolutions, and the lives and deaths of hundreds of mortals no better nor stronger than he. Yet here it stood, outlasting them all. Logan had faced up to many obstacles in his life—poverty and failure among them. But here was something he could never hope to conquer—inanimate, yet commanding.
He struggled to clear his head. These kinds of thoughts would never do.
But then a voice, soft and dreamy, seeming to float down from the heavens, caught his attention as if his very thoughts had been read:
“Child of loud-throated war! the mountain stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age:
Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. . . .”
Logan glanced around and saw that the words had come from Lady Margaret. The peculiar feeling he had had when he first met her in town tried to intrude upon him once more. But this time he shook the spell away, and looked back toward the castle.
He was himself again. He had to be wary. Something about this place, and especially something about that lady, was unnerving him. He couldn’t let that happen. This was business. This was his big chance. He’d just have to call to his aid all those years on the tough streets of London. Why, this place couldn’t throw anything at him in a year like what one day in the big city did. He had to keep his head about him.
“Nice poem, m’lady,” he commented, in a tone perceptibly more distant than he had thus far used.
“William Wordsworth wrote it about another castle,” Lady Margaret replied. “But to me it has always captured the soul of our Stonewycke.”
“That’s what you call the place?”
“The name goes back to the time of the Picts. But the castle’s only been here less than half that time.”
Suddenly Allison braked to a jerky stop at the doorstep of the great mansion.
“How does it stand after four hundred years?” asked Logan.
“You are familiar with the history of our home I see, Mr. Macintyre,” said Lady Margaret, evidently pleased.
Only then did Logan realize his blunder. “Oh, no more than most,” he quickly replied, hoping to repair his error. “You said it had been here less than half of the last thousand years, so I naturally figured—”
“I see,” she replied.
I had better be more careful, thought Logan. I don’t want to arouse any suspicions this early in the game. It had been a lucky break to stumble upon the Duncans as he had, even if it was a small town. But he couldn’t trust to luck, not with something this important at stake. He had to use his wits and his brains. And he needed to think of something fast, some reason for being here, for no doubt at dinner there would be questions flowing his way.
His hosts ushered him into the mansion through huge oaken doors, which were easily twice his height and seemed as thick as his head. I’d better not have to make any quick escapes, he thought wryly.
The larcenous side of Logan’s nature could hardly help noting the finery that greeted him as he stepped across the threshold. Some of the pieces in the entryway had to be nearly as old as the house itself. That hall tree, for example, if it was authentic, might be worth a thousand pounds. And nestled on a shelf in the middle of the ornate antique piece stood a gilt-edged vase—he couldn’t even venture a guess as to its probable value. Then there was the artwork. While they passed down a long corridor, he glanced into several rooms to his right and left. In one his eyes focused on a magnificent portrait of a highland chieftain that reflected a distinct Raeburn touch. Logan had a passing knowledge of art, for in his line of work one usually managed to acquire at least a cursory knowledge in a wide variety of potentially useful fields. If that painting was an original . . .
He did note, however, from the very moment he entered the place, that it was not opulent in its display of finery. Now that he looked around further, in fact, everything was quite simple. And that very simplicity convinced him that what he did see could be nothing but the real thing. The place had no hint of anything fake about it. And these people must be the real thing, too. People didn’t have to flaunt their wealth or position when the blue of their blood ran as deeply as the Duncans’.
From the corridor they stepped into a large parlor, and all at once it seemed to Logan that they had stepped again back into the twentieth century. The room was furnished with several low comfortable sofas, three rocking chairs, a couple of slender-legged tables, and three electric lamps in two of the corners and against a third wall. Magazines and newspapers were strewn about, and a large console radio stood along the adjacent wall. This was clearly where the family spent a great deal of time. A roaring fire blazed in a huge hearth that occupied nearly the entire far wall.
“Some digs,” said Logan with a low whistle.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Macintyre,” said Allison. “I’ll go and find my parents.” Then turning to Nat, she added in what the young boy thought was a snooty tone, “Nat, you go tell Claire we’ll have a guest for dinner.”
None too pleased at having to leave Logan, whom he considered his own personal discovery, and even less pleased at being ordered about by his big sister, Nat nevertheless complied. Then Allison followed him from the room.
After the departure of the young people, Logan found it extremely difficult to make himself comfortable as Allison had encouraged him to do. He was not quite ready to spend an extended amount of time alone with this intimidating lady, despite the fact that it was she he had come to Port Strathy to find. He would no doubt be able to like her; she seemed pleasant enough. But her effect on him thus far had been disconcerting and he could not help being—he hated to admit this—just a little afraid of her.
Had he been alone and at liberty to do so, he would probably have laughed outright at the very suggestion of such a thing. Why . . . she was just a frail old lady, after all! There could not be a sinister fiber in her entire being. On the contrary, she struck him as thoroughly kind, gentle, and compassionate. He had no doubt imagined the whole thing—probably a hangover from his seasickness! Had he given the matter deeper consideration, he might have discovered that it was these very qualities of virtue which caused his inner self to squirm. But Logan did not consider such things deeply, least of all introspective matters to do with his own emotions. Instead, he strolled toward the hearth and pretended to be engrossed in the procedure of warming his hands.
“For all her grandeur,” the voice he had been hoping not to hear said, “we do have a time keeping this old place war
m.”
“I can imagine,” replied Logan, hoping the conversation would drift to topics no more threatening than the weather. “Installing central heating would be rather a difficult task.”
“We have done so in the sleeping quarters,” she said. “It would have been too hard on the children without it. I don’t know how I survived it as a child.”
“Then you’ve been here all your life?” He knew he might regret this line of questioning, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Not exactly. I had a sojourn in America. A rather long sojourn, actually. But I shan’t easily forget my childhood here.”
“You sound as if you love the old place.”
Lady Margaret laughed a bright, merry laugh. The tones were almost musical, and obliterated all sense of her great age in a single instant.
“The love of Stonewycke is rather a family inheritance,” she said, in the same melodic voice, which sounded cheery and youthful. “You’ve heard of some families which inherit a family curse? Well, we Stonewycke women pass along a deep regard for this home, this estate, these people, and this land. At least—” she paused momentarily, and the hint of a cloud passed rapidly across her brow as Allison’s face suddenly came into her mind. She left the sentence unfinished, glanced up at Logan, smiled, and just as quickly the momentary shadow disappeared and she resumed. “It runs in the blood, like genes and chromosomes and personality traits. But do forgive me; I laughed only because your comment struck me as so understated.”
“I suppose having a place where you belong is pretty important,” offered Logan, suddenly feeling a hint of the discomfort returning.
“Yes it is. But in all the places I’ve been, sometimes almost beyond memory of this, where my sense of belonging began, I’ve learned over the years that there is something even more important . . .”
She paused thoughtfully, then walked toward one of the rocking chairs and sat down, rocking gently back and forth as she continued to speak. “And where might be such a place for you, Mr. Macintyre—if it’s not too forward of me to ask?”
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