Allison dropped him in front of a large stone structure behind the house that she referred to as the stable. The tractor was sitting outside. Allison spun the Austin around and sped off, leaving him coughing in a cloud of dust. If the family did not fit his expectations of the occupants of Stonewycke, Allison did, for she was out of harmony with the rest of the family. In fact, she was the only one who came close to matching his expectations. She paraded her position around like she was the daughter of the king. What a contrast there was between her looks of superiority toward Jesse Cameron’s crew, and the manner in which her father had received Jesse herself! Maybe Alec was still one of the townspeople at heart. But Logan could not imagine even Lady Margaret treating the common folk with such derision.
Where, then, had Allison acquired such attitudes, he wondered, if not from her own family? One thing was sure—Allison MacNeil had something to prove. But he wasn’t at all sure what it was. She had everything she could possibly want. Her mother and great-grandmother were the most respected women in the community, and thus she herself would surely have been accepted with a certain sense of stature by the townsfolk. Yet she seemed to disdain it all.
Well, he concluded, Allison may be an enigma in a family full of enigmas, but it doesn’t rest on me to try to figure them all out. He had a hidden treasure to find, and then he’d be out of this place.
Even as he was still watching the Austin speed away, Logan found himself being hailed by Fergusson Dougall, Stonewycke’s factor since the passing of Walter Innes.
“Ye must be Macintyre!” said the factor, moving as hastily as he was able toward Logan where he stood puzzling over his thoughts. To have described the man’s movement would have been difficult; it resembled a waddle more than a walk, for Dougall was an extremely bulky man, whose weight over the years had settled mostly into his lower regions, the end result being a most unwieldly pear-shape configuration. His round, sunburned face with sagging jowls was friendly, and his voice carried an unpretentious, almost self-effacing tone.
“That I am,” replied Logan, turning and extending his hand, which was quickly engulfed in Dougall’s beefy paw.
“Weel, I’m the factor,” he said, his voice almost reminiscent of an apology. “Fergusson Dougall at yer service, but everyone jist calls me Fergie, an’ ye’re welcome t’ do the same, Mr. Macintyre.”
“Thank you. And it’s Logan.”
“I’m obliged t’ ye fer comin’,” said Dougall, relieved that the tedious formalities were dispensed with and anxious to get to the business at hand. “This here’s the tractor—the troublesome beast!” he began, then chuckled, producing a great jiggling effect in the regions of his stomach. “’Course I needna be tellin’ you that!”
Logan laughed at the factor’s wit, but the humor which struck him was the irony of the man’s words. For in reality, Logan had never before that very moment laid eyes on a tractor in his life.
“Well, let’s have a look,” said Logan, then hung back a moment hoping Dougall would take the initiative and open the engine’s bonnet, for he was even uncertain how to go about that most basic of operations.
Fergie did so. Logan peered inside, discovering to his great relief that he recognized most of the basic parts, though their arrangement was somewhat bewildering at first. He turned back and picked up a couple of the tools that had been laid out on the ground in preparation for the arrival of the tractor “expert.”
“Does she start at all?” he asked.
“Nothin’ but a cough an’ a sputter.”
“Hmmm,” pondered Logan. “Let’s hear it.”
The factor moved toward the tractor but apparently had not driven it personally on many occasions. His difficulty in climbing up into the high seat would have been humorous had the sight not been sadly pathetic, and he would not have accomplished the task without a helpful boost from Logan. It took him a moment to get the cantankerous shift lever into neutral. But when he did and the attempted start was made, his description of the result could not have been more accurate. Another look at the engine made Logan wonder that the thing had ever run at all.
“I shouldna wonder if nothin’ can be done wi’ it,” said the factor. “We always left the engine work t’ Walter—in fact, he wouldna hardly let anyone else touch his engines, ’ceptin’ Nat. He treated them jist like they was livin’ things, like he did the horses. I know farmin’, but I neither ken nor do I like these contraptions.”
“The time will come, Fergie,” said Logan philosophically, “when you won’t be able to survive without them.”
Logan proceeded to tinker with the engine until it began to make sense to him. Gradually the puzzle of its operation came clear to him, not without several more attempts at starting it. Within an hour he had located the problem, and as he had feared, a new part was going to be needed. He was determined, however, to get the engine functional. Who could tell how long it might take to get the new part, if it could be obtained at all? He didn’t have that kind of time.
He therefore unbolted the carburetor, then turned to Fergie and said, “I’m pretty sure she needs a new coil. If this one’s not bad already, it will be soon. So you’ll need to order one wherever you get parts around here. In the meantime I’m going to try to clean up the carburetor. If the coil’s got any life still left in it, that might help to get it going.”
Nodding as if he understood every word, Fergie followed each move of the young man who more and more appeared to him a mechanical expert with every moment that passed.
“Where’s young Nat?” asked Logan as he rummaged through the tool box sitting beside the tractor in search of a certain tool.
“He an’ Alec went oot t’ the field after the tractor broke doon, t’ check the state o’ the soil after all the rain. Be back any minute noo, I shouldna think.”
Logan proceeded to do what he could to clean up the carburetor, removing accumulated grime from the tiny valves and carefully scrutinizing every inch of it. “Probably hasn’t been adjusted recently,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, but Fergie responded quickly.
“Adjusted?”
“These carburetors have to be adjusted almost constantly. I take it Mr. Innes didn’t pass on that bit of information? Well, I’ll do what I can. I think we’ve got the tools here to do at least a workable job. In the meantime, do you have any extra diesel?”
Dougall scurried off into the stone building and in a few moments returned carrying a small red can.
“Ah, perfect!” said Logan, opening the can and splashing a bit of the oily reddish-gold liquid onto the offending mechanism. “I think with an adjustment here and there, and with all the cracks and crevices and holes and jets cleaned out, we just may get this thing running again—that is if the coil isn’t altogether gone already.”
In five minutes, after several final adjustments and another thorough cleaning, Logan bent over the tractor’s engine and reinstalled the carburetor into position.
“That’s it, my friend!” he called out at length, giving his back a stretch but remaining in front of the engine. “Time to give the old bucket of bolts a try . . . and keep your fingers crossed!”
Summoning both his pride and all the discipline possible for his overtaxed frame, Dougall managed to scramble up onto the seat without assistance and immediately tried the starter. Logan held his breath as the engine coughed once, then again, and at last kicked into activity.
“Give it a little more throttle!” shouted Logan above the racket, reaching in to adjust the carburetor.
The factor did so.
Within thirty seconds the engine settled down and began, if not exactly to purr, at least to chug rather steadily along.
Sensing victory over the uncanny beast, the free-spirited factor gave a whoop and stood to jump out of the driver’s seat. In his excitement his portly leg knocked against the gearshift lever, sending the tractor into gear and suddenly lurching forward. His corpulent bottom side came crashing back into the seat and he b
arely managed to keep from falling off the tractor completely. Logan, still standing directly in front of it, wrenched his body to the side only missing by inches having the runaway vehicle crush his leg under its massive wheel. As he did so he tripped over the tool box, twisting his ankle in the process. He crumpled to the ground as the tractor rumbled dangerously past.
Fergie managed to grind the lever back out of gear and slam on the worn brakes, then laboriously catapulted his bulk off the tractor—a procedure which nearly cost him more damage to his entire frame than Logan, who was still lying on the ground, had suffered.
“Oh, dear Lord!” cried the factor. In the melee, he had been slammed to his seat at the moment Logan had jumped free, and he thought he had run directly over the young man. “I’ve killed him!”
“I’m nowhere near dead, man,” replied Logan, turning onto his side. Fergie, however, refused to be comforted and continued to loudly bemoan his stupidity.
“I’m fine, Fergie,” insisted Logan, in a voice intended to sound weak but brave. “Just help me to my feet.”
Fergie put his thick arm around Logan and pulled him up, but as soon as Logan reached an upright position and tried to test out his own weight, his left foot slipped under him.
“Ye’ve broken yer ankle!” wailed the factor. “Dinna ye move a step,” he said, taking firm hold of Logan again and easing him back to the ground. “I’ll get ye help.” The moment he had Logan comfortable, he ran off like a charging elephant, making more noise than speed, puffing laboriously.
His ankle did hurt, but it was certainly not broken. Logan knew that much. It was probably not sprained, either. He could walk on it right now if he wanted, and it would be fine in a couple of days. But if he had received this much sympathy from the factor, how much might he garner from the members of the family? Might they even feel duty-bound to nurse him back to health? This could be his key into the good graces of the family. He would be stupid to turn his back on such a fortuitous gift.
Within moments Joanna MacNeil, little May, and two farmhands came running from the direction of the house. Dougall was hobbling along at the rear, panting awfully, and mopping his brow with a huge red handkerchief.
Joanna was the first to reach Logan’s prostrate form, and he smiled weakly at her.
“I’m terribly sorry for causing you this trouble,” he said.
“It’s certainly no fault of yours,” she answered, kneeling at his side. “I should never have asked Allison to bring you here. May I have a look? I’ll be able to tell if it’s broken or not.” She began to roll up his right pantleg.
“It’s the left ankle,” he corrected her, making a mental note that he was going to have to remember that fact as well.
Gently Joanna manipulated the injured foot, with Logan wincing at all the appropriate moments.
“It doesn’t appear to be broken,” she announced, clearly relieved, “but you must have sprained it badly. If you don’t mind I’ll have Harry and Russell here carry you to the house. Then I’ll call for the doctor.”
“I don’t want to put you to the trouble. If someone could just—”
“Nonsense! You’re not going anywhere. Don’t even think it. This is the least we can do.” And without further argument, she instructed the two sturdy men to take him in hand.
He was carried into the house and upstairs to a guest room on the second floor. They laid him on top of a made-up four-poster, while Joanna remained downstairs to use the phone. When the men left him alone, he looked about, nodding his head approvingly. This would do quite nicely! The Duke of Windsor himself would find little to complain about in a setup like this. The room was Victorian and very expensive. But like everything else at Stonewycke, it was tastefully simple. He wondered how long a sprained ankle should keep one immobile, and what other symptoms he should display. The doctor could be trouble. But if he was like the rest of the rustics in this out-of-the-way place, he shouldn’t be too difficult to convince. He couldn’t remain on his back for long. But then if he played his cards right, by the time his injury was healed, he’d have another reason to stay at Stonewycke.
Soon a light knock came to the door and Joanna entered carrying a tray with tea.
“Forgive me for leaving you so long,” she said, pouring the tea. “I’ve been trying to soothe poor Fergie.”
For the first time Logan felt a pang of guilt at his subterfuge. The factor was a nice fellow, and well-meaning. He was sorry to put him through this. But he’ll get over his worry, Logan told himself. When this was behind them, the man would be more beholden to him than anyone on the estate, which could prove a tangible asset later on. And he would make it up to the factor somehow, just like to Jesse. After all, it was Dougall who had inadvertently landed him right into the middle of the biggest opportunity of his life. Yes, he owed him too!
In the meantime, it felt rather nice to have the Lady MacNeil wait on him. He let her stir two lumps of sugar and some cream into his cup, then arrange his pillows while he painfully pulled himself up on the bed. He’d have to be careful not to overdo it, however, for these people would sympathize more with brave fortitude than with sniveling.
“Fergie tells me this all happened because of your good fortune with the tractor,” she said.
He laughed softly. “Good for the tractor, that is,” he said.
“You do seem to be quite a mechanical wonder, Mr. Macintyre.”
“I guess I’ve always been handy in that way,” he replied modestly.
She tapped her chin thoughtfully but said nothing more. To make conversation, Logan launched into an account of his experiences aboard the Little Stevie. When he laughed at his trip overboard, she laughed with him and commented that she had had a similar “baptism” into Port Strathy life, only hers was more figurative: midwifing in a barn with manure up to her knees. She related in full the story of the calf-birthing and how she had been reluctantly pressed into service by a very cross vet by the name of Alec MacNeil. The doctor arrived in the midst of their laughter over the story.
He complimented Joanna on keeping the patient in good spirits. When he examined the ankle he noted the lack of swelling, the only symptom Logan was unable to feign. But everything else met with his apparent medical satisfaction, and his final diagnosis was even somewhat more severe: there could possibly be a pulled muscle or torn ligament, injuries which might not produce overt swelling but could be even more serious than a sprain. He parted with the final instructions to apply ice and to stay off the foot for two days, calling him after that time if it was still able to bear no weight. He left a small bottle of pain pills, and upon taking two Logan immediately fell asleep, aided no doubt by the fact that he had not slept in well over thirty-six hours.
Dark shadows had begun to crisscross the bed when Logan awoke some hours later. His sleep had been a heavy one, yet somehow not entirely refreshing. Unaccustomed to the pull of conscience, he attributed the uneasiness he felt to the effects of the drug. He remained groggy and disoriented for several minutes, but by the time he heard the knock at the door, he had regained his full faculties.
Joanna entered, followed by Alec. She was carrying another tray, this one burdened with several steaming bowls and another pot of tea.
“I hope you’ve slept well,” she said.
“Yes, thank you. I did. Those pills must’ve been strong.”
Joanna reached over to arrange his pillows.
“Lady MacNeil, you don’t have to wait on me like this.”
Then Alec spoke for the first time. “Logan,” he said, “my wife’s a born nurse. She wouldna be happy wi’oot servin’ others. So dinna try t’ stop her—ye’ll only end up wi’ a fight on yer hands.” He chuckled as he watched her, but there was an unmistakable look of pride in his eyes.
“Well . . .” Logan conceded reluctantly, letting her set his dinner in place.
“Ye worked more o’ yer wonders wi’ oor tractor, I understan’?”
“Nothing much,” replied Logan. �
��I got her started, but she’s going to need a new coil. I’m almost certain of that.”
There was a slight pause; then Alec spoke again. “Logan,” he began in a more businesslike tone, “I came up here, o’ course, t’ see hoo ye’re farin’, but also, my wife an’ I hae been talkin’—”
“Please,” interrupted Logan, “you have been more than hospitable, but I have no intention of taking advantage of your kindness. There’s no reason why someone can’t drive me down to the inn.”
“We wouldna think o’ na such thing, Logan,” said Alec sternly, “an’ dinna insult us by inferrin’ that we’d sen’ ye away in yer present state.”
Logan was taken aback by the rebuke, and hardly knew how to react to it. But when Alec spoke again, his voice had softened perceptibly. “Noo, ye’ll be stayin’ here as long as it takes t’ git ye on yer feet, an’ we’ll hear nae more aboot it. But that’s not what Joanna an’ I were talkin’ aboot. Ye see, we hae a good bit o’ machinery here, an’ some o’t it’s gettin’ rather auld, an’ it’s all been sorely neglected since oor auld factor died a few months ago. What’s more, Walter made himsel’ almost indispensable t’ the crofters an’ farmers and fishers, too. Everyone’s been managin’, I s’pose, like they’d manage wi’oot a vet if they were forced t’. But ’tis a lot easier t’ have someone aboot wi’ a special touch who can eliminate the headaches that come when ye hae t’ do somethin’ y’ere not trained fer. Well, that’s a roundaboot way o’ sayin’ that we’d like t’ hire ye here at Stonewycke, t’ work fer us an’ t’ lend ye oot t’ the others in Port Strathy that might be able to make use o’ yer services. We know ye hae important work in London, but ye said ye was on leave, an’ we’d be pleased fer ye t’ consider it. We’d give ye room an’ board an’ ten pounds a month in salary.”
Logan doubted that even his smoothest talking could have conjured up a better offer. Still, he did not want to appear too anxious.
“You don’t owe me this, you know,” was his reply.
Stranger at Stonewycke Page 19