A butler began clearing away the dishes while a maid, who also doubled as the cook, set bowls of berries and cream at each place.
“How very fascinating!” said Mrs. MacNeil, smiling in a most mysterious way. “My own introduction to Port Strathy came as a result of a very similar purpose . . .” She glanced toward her husband with a twinkle in her eye. “However,” she went on, “I got much more than I would ever have anticipated.”
The whole family seemed greatly amused, and enjoyed a merry laugh over her statement. Logan stirred a lump of sugar into the coffee the maid had just poured for him. He was considering an appropriate response to Mrs. MacNeil’s humorous remark, when Lady Margaret spoke.
“Please excuse us, Mr. Macintyre,” she said. “We don’t mean to leave you out of our family jocularity. It is a long story, though interesting. I’m sure one day any of us would be happy to relate it to you.”
“I shall look forward to it,” exaggerated Logan diplomatically.
“Perhaps,” offered MacNeil, “we can be o’ some assistance t’ ye in yer quest.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m sure folks like yourselves could not have known my relatives,” answered Logan, skillfully allowing himself to be led down the very path he had hoped to steer the conversation from the beginning.
“This is a small town,” said Mrs. MacNeil, “and being in our position I daresay we know just about everyone, especially the families that have been here a long time.”
“I haven’t a great deal to go on,” he replied unpretentiously. “There is, of course, the family name, and we have record of an uncle—a great-great-great uncle, to be exact—who may have lived in this area.”
“If I may ask, Mr. Macintyre, what was the name?”
“Why certainly,” replied Logan. “My mother’s maiden name, the one we are in the process of tracing, is MacNab.”
“MacNab . . .” repeated Lady Margaret, her interest clearly piqued. When Logan nodded, she continued in a faltering voice, obviously attempting to call up remembrances from a past that was growing all too hazy from the march of years gone by. “And this uncle of yours . . . do you know his name?”
“Why, yes,” replied Logan. “It was Digory MacNab.”
The words had but left his lips when he saw that Lady Margaret had turned suddenly pale.
“Grandmother, what is it?” asked Joanna, alarmed. “Alec, hand me that pitcher of water.”
But before her husband could comply, Lady Margaret appeared to regain her composure. “No, no, Joanna . . . please. I’m fine.” Then turning to Logan, she smiled weakly and went on in a soft voice. “I have not heard that name in years. It rather took me by surprise.”
“Who is he, Grandma?” asked May, unabashed.
But seeming to ignore the question, Lady Margaret reached across the table and grasped Logan’s hand in hers.
“You are related to him . . .” she said. It was not a question, but rather a statement spoken deliberately and with a touch of wonder. “You are Digory’s nephew!” Again the words were in the same tone, her face gazing at him as if she wanted to weep, or laugh, or gather him into her arms. After a moment, she recovered herself, released his hand, straightened herself in her chair, and smiled. “Forgive me for taking on so. But this is like meeting a ghost—a most welcome and pleasant ghost!—from the past.”
“I didn’t intend to shock you.”
“Only a shock in a most gratifying and wonderful way,” she assured.
“Then you knew him?”
“He was groom, right here at Stonewycke, when I was a girl. He made quite an impact on me.”
“No!” exclaimed Logan. “Why, that’s positively uncanny! I mean that I should chance upon you in town as I did, then be led to this very spot!” Logan judged it best that he verbalize the coincidence before anyone else thought of it and had their suspicions aroused.
“We dinna believe in coincidences aroun’ here,” said MacNeil.
His statement, unprepared as he was for it, startled Logan to such an extent that he had difficulty maintaining his own composure. It sounded almost threatening.
“What my husband means,” interposed Mrs. MacNeil, “is that we believe in a Lord and God who is the great Master Planner of life. With Him there are no accidents, no events without deeper meaning, no coincidences.”
So that was all he meant! Logan exhaled a sigh of relief and almost broke out laughing. For a moment he had feared they were on to him. But now, he hardly knew whether to laugh or stiffen up his defenses all the more. On top of everything else, he found he had landed in the middle of a bunch of religious zealots!
19
Conversations in the Bluster ’N Blow
In the middle of the night the weather turned stormy and violent. The winds off the North Sea pelted the coast with such force that three trees on the bluff east of town were uprooted and crashed into the sea below. By morning the sky was still so black that sunrise offered only a whimper of protest against the dark, a pathetic streak of light swallowed up in minutes by the fierce, gray, rolling clouds.
By noon Logan had had all he could take of the vacant, deathly quiet inn, and of Sandy Cobden’s company. What he wouldn’t have given for an evening with Skittles at some pub like Pellam’s! It looked as if the weather might be trying to break up a bit, so he donned his overcoat and cap and made his escape.
He wandered over to the New Town, but the place was all but deserted. He engaged one of the innkeepers in a game of cribbage, but when Logan won two games and several shillings, the innkeeper lost interest in any further contests of luck and wit. He was heading back toward town when the storm, with redoubled force, opened up once more upon Port Strathy. In minutes Logan was drenched through to the skin. Any notions of further exploration were firmly quelled.
He opened the Bluster ’N Blow’s stout door, but it was the wind which forced him inside. Cobden was busy as always, this time sweeping the floors.
“Looks as if the storm ootraced ye, Mr. Macintyre,” said the innkeeper.
“There wasn’t even a warning,” replied Logan, then looking down at the puddle he was making on the clean floor, added, “Sorry about the floor. Looks like I’ve made a new mess for you.” He stripped off his overcoat and jacket and cap and hung them on a rack to dry.
“Canna be helped . . . ’tis the wettest spring we’ve had in years.” Without missing a stroke of his perpetual labor, the innkeeper continued. “There’s a good blaze in the hearth where ye can dry off.”
Logan thanked Cobden and was turning gratefully toward the warmth of the fire when he heard some commotion. Someone had entered from the kitchen, and the swinging door had clattered shut behind him.
“Tabby ought t’ be jist fine in a day or twa,” said the newcomer.
Hearing a familiar voice, Logan turned and saw the broad hulk of Alec MacNeil, at the moment rifling through a black valise.
“Good afternoon, Mr. MacNeil,” said Logan.
Alec looked up from his search with a friendly grin on his face. “Logan! Good t’ see ye again!”
All over again Logan was stirred by the vibrant energy that seemed to flow from this unlikely landed gentleman. Who would possibly have guessed his position and esteem in the community from seeing him in his manure-caked rubber boots and working clothes? “Been makin’ some house calls,” he added before returning his attention to his valise. “Ah, here we be!” He held up a small pill box. “She should be better afore ye finish these, Sandy. But use them all onyway.” He gave the box to the innkeeper.
“Thank ye kindly, Alec,” said Cobden. “I hate t’ admit it, but auld Tabby’s been a right fair companion since the missus passed on.” He set his broom against a wall and wiped his hands on his dingy apron. “Let me fix ye gents a pot o’ tea . . . or a hot toddy, if ye’d rather?”
“Tea would be wonderful, thank ye, Sandy,” said Alec. “I dinna like the idea o’ goin’ back oot in that storm. Ye’ll join me, willna ye, Logan?”
Logan smiled his assent and sat down opposite his unlikely companion. They exchanged conversation as Cobden served them their tea and then retreated to his labors. Logan meanwhile tried to fathom this Alec MacNeil, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. It had come out in the conversation the previous evening that his father had been a fisherman; yet here was Alec, as he insisted on being called, married into one of Scotland’s ancient titled families. Logan had known men in similar positions, common men who had married money and position. Though they lived well and were able to draw upon certain advantages as a result of their appropriated position, there yet remained a sense in which they maintained a subordinate place in the scheme of things, especially in the eyes of their peers. Logan had never met such a man he did not disdain; it seemed as if they had forfeited the pride of their manhood for wealth.
But Alec MacNeil fit no such pattern. What had seemed obvious around the dinner table—the deference of his family toward the authority of his character—was no less apparent here with Cobden, who, though their exchange was as of equals, nevertheless treated Alec with a visible respect. MacNeil had relinquished nothing of his manhood in his marriage, and instead seemed to command the totality of the Stonewycke prestige and whatever else may have gone along with it.
“That auld Austin’s been runnin’ like a top since ye tinkered wi’ her, Logan,” said Alec, taking a gulp of his steaming tea.
“Glad to hear it. But you’ve got to watch that magneto and especially keep the spark plugs clean. Otherwise it won’t crank.”
Alec held up his hand and laughed good-naturedly. “I’m afraid I dinna ken one end o’ an engine from the other. But I’ll pass yer instructions on t’ Nathaniel—he’s likely goin’ t’ be the mechanic o’ the family.”
“He did seem to have a knack for it.” Logan cupped his cold hands around his steaming cup and drank deeply. “I offered to give him some pointers,” he added, “and the offer still stands whenever he’s free.”
“That’s kind o’ ye,” replied Alec. “So ye think ye may bide a wee wi’ us here?”
“I’d like to learn more about my uncle Digory and the place where he spent his life. Possibly I might be able to meet one or two old-timers who knew him.”
“’Tisna many yoong folks these days who hae such an interest in their family histories.”
“I’m doing this for my mother,” stated Logan. “But I have to confess that since I’ve discovered who Uncle Digory was, I am growing more and more intrigued with him.”
“He seemed rather a simple man, from what little I’ve heard,” commented Alec.
“Perhaps that’s the very thing that interests me. There must be more under the surface, and I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“Could be. It’d be Lady Margaret who’d help ye best. We’d all be pleased fer ye t’ take up her invitation to speak with her further on the subject. I suppose she was too tired last night t’ help ye much.”
“I don’t want to put a strain on her.”
Silently Logan wondered if it indeed had been fatigue which had restrained her conversation last night at dinner. At times she could be most ebullient, then suddenly would draw back as if the conversation had approached shaky ground. Once he had asked an innocuous question about her parents. All at once the tables were reversed and it was as if she were being discomforted by him. Her eyes darkened for a flickering instant, a look had passed over her face which he couldn’t identify, and then just as quickly she had laughed lightly and said there must be more interesting topics to discuss. The conversation had then moved into a different track, but before he left she had promised him another interview regarding Digory. He knew it would have been unwise to press further just then. Whether he was anticipating seeing her again with fear or with eagerness, Logan couldn’t really tell. It all would depend on which aspects of her mysterious nature presented themselves to him.
“Oh, she’s hale an’ hearty enough,” Alec was saying. “But at that age, I suppose some days are jist better than others.”
At that moment the door opened and a new face entered the room. Logan, seated facing the door, saw her first. She was a tall woman, and though not exactly fat, bore a muscular frame uncommon in women. Her storm-tousled thick brown hair, streaked with gray, framed a hard-working but not entirely unattractive face. She had a healthy glow about her and a certain liveliness in her sea-blue eyes that made it difficult to fix her exact age, though it was nearer forty than fifty. She was dressed in worn dungarees with wide navy suspenders hitched up over a chambray work shirt. She had already hung a heavy red-and-black checkered coat and battered wide-brimmed hat on Sandy’s coat rack. In her arms she carried a sleek, silky-coated Irish setter.
“There ye are, Alec MacNeil!” she said in a voice as husky as her physique.
“Why, Jesse . . . hello!” exclaimed Alec, turning. “What have we here?” He had risen and was now giving the dog a friendly pat. The animal gave a pathetic wag of her tail. Then first Logan noticed a thick rag wrapped around her forepaw.
“Luckie got tore up pretty bad,” replied Jesse. “I saw yer car parked oot front an’ thought I might save a trip up t’ yer surgery.”
Alec took the setter called Luckie into his arms and carried her over to the rug in front of the hearth. Logan watched closely as the doctor cleaned the wound, all the while speaking in soothing tones to the animal. Luckie did not protest, hardly whimpering at what must have been a painful process. It seemed that Alec MacNeil’s uncanny charisma extended even to the animals of Port Strathy.
The woman apparently noticed Logan’s rapt interest in the process and sidled toward his table. In hushed tones, as if she did not want to disturb a master at work, she said, “Wouldn’t trust my Luckie t’ no one else.”
“He appears to know what he’s doing,” commented Logan, following her example and speaking in a subdued voice.
“Mind if I take a load off?” she said, and without waiting for a reply, plopped rather ungracefully onto the bench opposite Logan. “Ye’re new here, aren’t ye?”
“Yes. Came yesterday. The name’s Logan Macintyre.” He held a hand out to the woman.
“Jesse Cameron here,” she replied, grasping his hand firmly and shaking it vigorously. She then proceeded to fill Alec’s abandoned cup with hot tea, taking a long, satisfied swig. “Ah! That warms the body good! ’Tis a muckel storm oot there! Nae doobt the mercury’s dropped twenty degrees since yesterday.” She took another drink of Alec’s tea. “We may as weel scrap the season completely. I doobt it’ll let up fer days.”
“Bad for the crops, is it?” offered Logan, feeling bound to hold up the other end of the conversation, though he had the distinct impression that she would do just fine without him.
“Crops!” she rejoined, as if the word were an insult. “Rain in spring doesna bother the farmers! ’Tis the draughts in August that sen’s them t’ an early grave. Oh, a flood might slow things up a mite. But as far’s the weather goes, the farmers haena a thing t’ worry aboot. But a fisher! The slightest ruffle on the deep blue surface o’ life, is enough t’ louse things up fer him fer weeks!”
“You’re a fisher . . . ah, fisherwoman?”
“That surprises ye? Ye canna hide’t from me, young man! But ’tisna so odd as ye may think. Womenfolk aroun’ here are as hearty as their men, ye ken.” Her tone contained no defensiveness, but she spoke firmly, as if she had made the statement so many times it had become a fact from mere repetition at the mouth of Port Strathy’s resident thick-skinned and opinionated expert on women’s rights. “Women hae always worked alongside their men aroun’ here. The fact that my man’s dead an’ gone doesna mean I should let the best trawler in Strathy go.”
“By no means! I agree
completely,” said Logan. This was quite some woman, he had to admit. “I meant no offense.”
“O’ course ye didna, lad,” she answered without guile or sarcasm. “There’s many strangers, city folk mostly, who might. Lord knows, I’ve had my troubles, companies in Aberdeen no wantin’ t’ contract oot t’ a woman. Had t’ prove mysel’ o’er an’ o’er.”
“I understand. It must be difficult,” said Logan. “My mother supported my family since I was a child, so I know what you mean.” Actually, it was only at that very moment that Logan had ever given so much as a thought to what his mother had been through all those years. But he’d make up for it when he found old Digory’s treasure, he told himself.
“I’m no complainin’, mind ye,” Jesse went on. “An’ I’ve done right weel. ’Course e’erybody’s havin’ a struggle these days. An’ these storms dinna help neither.”
By now Alec had rejoined the two. “’Tis a muckle storm, Jesse!” he said. “I hope no one was oot when’t struck?”
“The only casualty I know o’ is poor Luckie there,” replied Jesse. “E’erybody’s been more fearsome careful since the schooner cracked up. We were o’er haulin’ some equipment—’bout the only thing ye can do in the rain—when a hook flew back an’ grabbed hold o’ auld Luckie.”
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