Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  Allison said nothing, and there followed a moment of silence during which Logan wondered if he’d overstepped his bounds. Then suddenly she jumped up. “It’s getting late,” she said in a voice higher pitched than usual, apparently ignoring what he had said.

  “Forgive me,” he said quickly, laying his hand on her arm so she would not leave. “I spoke out of line.”

  “Not at all.” She seemed to be struggling with whether to admit the truth in what he had said and thus allow him to see further into her real self than she had planned, or to lash out against his words in angry denial and self-defense. The mask of her outer self was momentarily stretched so thin that Logan might have seen something akin to desperation in her eyes as she wrestled with how to reply. Then just as suddenly the look vanished, and she said in a cool, controlled tone that kept her from either of the two emotion-charged extremes: “You simply made an observation, however far from the mark. Do not worry about offending me, Mr. Macintyre. My family is wonderful.” The final word was spoken with such an emphasis as to drain it of the sincerity inherent in the statement.

  Allison wanted to flee. She didn’t care for observations like his and wasn’t used to such honesty. None of her friends were this open with her. She intimidated them into a sort of subservience which kept everything on a superficial level. But this man refused to be intimidated by her. And yet even as he probed in his most discomforting way, he was not without a certain sympathetic, even tender side which seemed concerned lest his—

  But what was she thinking! Hadn’t he been downright cruel in his outbursts in the stable earlier? Tender? Logan Macintyre! Pshaw! The man . . . why, he is insufferable!

  She was about to frame some caustic word which would again put him in his place when the thought of her friends came again to her and made her recall her original purpose in seeking Logan out. She became calm inside, reminding herself that she could be more successful by keeping up the front. Concentrating her attention on her previous intent, she let herself forget her awkwardness under his questioning and whatever else she might feel toward him.

  She sat down once more, but Logan could sense that the previous pleasant mood had retreated, and the pretense was back again in full force. The words, however, when they came from the mouth, were agreeable enough.

  “I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Macintyre,” she said, pouring out some fresh tea.

  “So have I.”

  “I’m afraid you might have misunderstood me on our last meeting.”

  “I feel certain I must have,” he replied.

  He thought, even as he spoke, that he had understood her quite well then. It was now that confused him—this changeableness, the flip-flops of her moods, the brief glimpses of a character she seemed desperate to hide, the congeniality followed by unspoken flashes of anger. What was going on inside the hidden inner self of this attractive young girl who seemed so in need of friendship, even love, but who so violently resisted any attempt by another to draw near on a human level? She was intriguing, despite his confusion; Logan would no doubt have been highly amused to learn that her own feelings for him were very similar.

  “I’d like to make that up to you in some small way,” said the congenial Allison.

  “If there was any need for restitution,” he replied in cavalier manner, “you have already done that tonight.”

  “I was thinking of some other way,” went on the designing and contrived Allison.

  “It isn’t necessary,” replied the wary Logan.

  “I know,” she said, touching her chin as if she were uncertain how to proceed; in reality the scheming side of her nature was now fully into place. “You may even think me forward in suggesting this, but . . . I feel justified in that I’m certain you must long for the company of people your own age—everyone around here is so ancient. Well—there is to be a gathering of some of my school friends this Saturday at Lord Bramford’s estate. And I thought you might like to accompany me.”

  Logan could not help wondering what he could possibly want with the company of a roomful of teenagers like Allison. And the way in which the invitation was phrased sounded as if she thought she were doing him a great favor in asking him. It hinted at the condescension so evident in their earlier encounters. Yet, could it be possible that she was sincere? He doubted it! Something in her tone . . .

  But on the other hand, he could hardly resist such an opportunity to find out more of what made the complex Allison MacNeil tick. He could ignore the irritation stirred by her tone; after all, old habits die hard. And he was inclined to accept the invitation regardless. The enigma of this young lady was positively too fascinating, even though at the same time he was fully aware he could get burned by getting too close. Hers was not an emotional nature to be toyed with.

  “That’s a very kind invitation,” he replied slowly, after a pause. “But I really doubt that I’d fit in.”

  “You deport yourself quite well—that is, you’d hardly know—”

  “Hardly know I wasn’t really of the same stock?” He shouldn’t have said it, but he couldn’t resist. He waited for her fiery response.

  But instead, “No . . . that’s not what I meant to say—I mean . . .” she said, then broke off, flustered.

  He responded with a good-natured grin. Realizing that he was not disposed to making an argument out of it, she returned his smile.

  “That is to say,” she went on, the mask dropping again for a moment, “you would have no problem fitting in. I’m sure of it.”

  Logan was sure of it, too. He had mixed with such crowds before, and knew all the proper moves. How else could he be invited into the richest gambling salons or into the action around the wealthiest card tables? Still, he was hesitant. He reminded himself that he had to remain cognizant of his purpose in coming to Stonewycke, that he could not jeopardize his plan in any way, especially by becoming too involved with any of these people.

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking her full in the eyes, seeing if he could find the real Allison somewhere.

  “I’d . . I’d really like you to go with me,” she said, returning the gaze.

  He stared back, still wondering. She was something! he thought.

  “I doubt your parents would approve of your being escorted by one of their employees,” he said.

  At this Allison laughed, and the bitterness of her tone only added to the paradox.

  “Believe me,” she said, “my parents like nothing better than the mixing of the classes. You needn’t worry about them!”

  “Well, then, if they approve, I’d be happy to escort you.”

  She rose.

  “Now it really is getting late. Thank you.”

  He stood and bowed grandly. “My pleasure.”

  She seemed to float to the door, then stopped, turned, and added casually, as if she had just thought of the trifling matter. “The affair is black tie. I hope that won’t present a problem for you.”

  “Not at all,” replied Logan.

  The young lady fairly waltzed through the corridors back to her room. She was quite pleased with herself. She had managed Mr. Macintyre quite well. But more than that—though the haughty Allison would never admit such a thing—she was extremely pleased at the prospect of being with this man. The sensitive Allison had enjoyed him immensely this evening and could almost forget that he was of low birth.

  The haughty Allison hoped he’d see fit to keep that fact quiet on Saturday. She also found herself wondering what her friends would think of her dating such a person. It might even be considered rather chic, she told herself. It had always amused her friends to go “slumming,” as they called it, while on holiday.

  Whatever happened on Saturday, it was sure to be a memorable evening. The three days until then were positively going to drag by. At least she had gotten her new gown—not the exact one she had wanted, but close enough.

  It would dazzle everyone. Including Logan Macintyre.

  32

  Glasgow R
ed Dog

  There is a pride often associated with those who have known poverty, a pride that can be the result of stubborn pigheadedness rather than stemming from anything noble.

  Logan Macintyre possessed just such a pride, however mixed it was with a colored sense of morality. He would make his own way in the world whatever it took. No handouts for him. He would rather “earn” his money in a poker game, employing questionable methods of skill, than to take a few shillings from a sympathetic friend. Even with Molly and Skittles, he had adroitly turned their acts of charity toward him into situations of mutual benefit. If they fed him when he was penniless, he reasoned that they needed his youth and energy in order to make their various schemes successful.

  Thus, when Logan assessed his meager finances immediately following Allison’s invitation, he found them sorely wanting for the necessities he supposed such an occasion would require. To ask Alec, the only likely candidate, for the loan of a tuxedo was out of the question. Not only was Alec several sizes larger than Logan, but it would have been too degrading to attend such an affair in a borrowed suit. Logan was extremely conscious of appearances. What money he had possessed had always gone toward the very best in attire. His tailor in London was reputed to have outfitted the Duke of Marlborough at one time. These things were important to Logan.

  Unfortunately, he did not just now have the funds to meet these standards. But he did know where he might quickly acquire them. So the next evening found him at Hamilton’s place, around a coarse table with several of his recent acquaintances, among them Buckie, a few other fishers, and a farmer or two. The stakes were not high, but he needed to raise only ten or fifteen pounds, and that should be possible. So confident was Logan of his success that he had already made arrangements with a tailor in Aberdeen for a fitting, and had requested the following day off from his employment at Stonewycke.

  Buckie dealt the first hand, and bets were laid on the table.

  Ale and pleasant conversation, however trivial, mingled with the business of poker. It was a congenial, easygoing group; none were apt to flare up angrily at their companions. Logan played a straight game, not caring whether he won or lost, just making sure he kept his stake in readiness for the real game, which would come later. He was simply lubricating the pursestrings for the time being.

  Tonight Logan had a difficult time making himself forget how much he liked these simple country folks. It was especially hard to forget that Buckie had helped save his life. He would make it up to them all, he reminded himself. Now, he had to have the money, and this was the only way he knew to get it. He’d give them all a more than fair chance to win every shilling back later. But his once-benumbed conscience had been raising it’s head more often of late, and it took more than a concerted effort to squelch its insistent reminders that what he was about to do was wrong.

  “I’m rather tired of poker,” he said at length, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. “What about something else?”

  “What did ye have in mind, mate?” asked one of the men.

  “You ever hear of Glasgow Red Dog?”

  “Canna say I have.”

  “Any of the rest of you?” asked Logan, looking around the table.

  They all shook their heads.

  “It’s simple enough really. And everyone makes just as much money as he wants. You’re not even playing against each other, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Sounds too easy,” said Buckie, with a skeptical expression.

  “It is! But it’s a good way to make a lot of money. That is, if you’re sharp. But everyone’s playing with the same chances. Shall I explain it?”

  Shrugs and nods followed. Logan pulled out the cards Jesse had given him.

  “Here, Buckie,” said Logan, “try it. I’ll deal you five cards, just like in poker.” He did so. “Now, you look at your hand, and if you think you can beat the card I’m about to turn up, in the same suit, then you place a big bet, anywhere from a shilling up to the size of the pot. If you win, you collect the amount of your bet from the pot on the table. If you lose, your bet stays on the table.”

  Buckie surveyed his cards. He had a queen, a jack, two nines, and a six.

  “What do you have?” asked Logan. Buckie laid his cards down on the table. “Well, that’s a fair hand, Buckie, but not great. What do you think your chances are of beating this top card in the same suit?”

  “I dinna ken,” said Buckie slowly. “I’d say, maybe fifty-fifty.”

  “And how much would you bet?” asked Logan.

  “I’d say a shillin’.”

  “Well, then, let’s see how you’d have fared.” Logan turned over the top card of the deck. “An eight of clubs. Your nine of clubs wins. You would then take a shilling out of the pot . . . or however much you had bet.”

  Nods of approval and general laughter spread around the table.

  “What do you all say?”

  “Let’s gi’ yer game a try,” said Buckie.

  “Okay,” said Logan. “Everyone put in a shilling to start. Then from now on you can bet from a shilling to whatever’s on the table.”

  Each tossed a shilling into the middle of the table and Logan dealt each man five cards. Each then took their turn betting, all starting with shilling bets, followed by Logan’s displaying the top card off the deck against each hand. Two of the men won, four lost, including Logan; as the second round began, the pot stood at eight shillings, and Logan passed the deck to Buckie.

  “Your deal,” he said, and the game continued.

  With every successive hand the pot grew larger, occasionally dwindling temporarily when a five or ten shilling bet was won, but steadily rising. With every hand, Logan’s bet remained the same—one shilling—never varying.

  At the end of an hour, the table contained some four pounds.

  It was now the turn of a farmer by the name of Andy McClennon. He surveyed his hand for some time, obviously in doubt, then looked at his own money in front of him, an amount of about four and a half pounds. The cards in his hands were good ones, and at length he said, “I bet the size o’ the pot!”

  Exclamations followed and raised eyebrows. It was the first such bet that had been made.

  “The size o’ the pot, man. Ye’re loony!” said Buckie.

  “I got nothin’ smaller than a ten, Buckie, an’ three faces!” said Andy excitedly. “Hoo can I lose?”

  The dealer turned over the jack of hearts. Andy’s face fell.

  “Blimey!” he shouted in a disgusted voice, throwing down his ten of hearts onto the table. “The one low suit I had!”

  “Sorry, Andy,” said Logan, and general condolences were mumbled around the table.

  By this time, with the judicious use of his stake money and his slight winnings from the preliminary poker game, Logan had slowly boosted his cash to approximately five pounds. For the next several rounds the mood at the table was subdued, each man greedily eyeing the money on the table, but at the same time somewhat sobered by Andy’s plight. Three hands later, the first of the moments Logan had been waiting for had come. Having carefully scrutinized every card on the table before him, and holding an ace, two kings, a jack and a nine, he knew there was only one card still out—the queen of diamonds—which could beat his hand—his own nine of diamonds. Deciding the risk to be worth it, he took the chance.

  “I bet four pounds,” Logan announced.

  “That’s nearly all ye got in front o’ ye, Logan,” reminded Buckie.

  “Ye done nothin’ but one shillin’ bets all the game,” said Jimmy, hardly hiding his perplexity.

  “Just a difference in styles, I guess,” said Logan.

  “An’ yet noo ye’re layin’ doon four pounds!”

  “This is just my time to live dangerously,” said Logan with a laugh. “Come on, Andy, turn up the card.”

  Andy flipped over the top card—a king of spades. Logan’s black ace was higher.

  “If that don’t beat all!” exclaimed Jimmy. “It’s
like he knew what was comin’ all along.”

  “You all saw that Andy was dealing me straight,” said Logan, gathering in his winnings, leaving eight pounds in front of him, and only four in the center of the table.

  Disbelieving shakes of the head followed. However, concurrent with Andy’s dejection were several eyes twinkling with renewed enthusiasm. If Logan could do it—and they all saw that the game was fair—so could any one of them. And there was still plenty of money to win. Logan had been right. You could win just as much as you wanted.

  Once again bets of five or ten shillings began to flow, with now and then a one-pounder thrown in. The size of the pot ebbed and flowed, steadily rising over the course of time. And once again, hand after hand Logan’s bet remained the same—a single shilling.

  Still he bided his time, waiting for another opportunity, watching the cards being played like a hawk, memorizing each as it was displayed, then carefully eyeing his own hand. He now had enough in front of him to go for broke—when the right moment came. He could not be over-anxious. He couldn’t even risk it if a single card was out. He’d have to wait for what Skittles always called a lead-pipe cinch.

  After another hour, the moment came. His own stash stood at about eight and a half pounds. The pot was now something slightly over seven.

  The hand he’d been dealt was not all that strong on the surface of it—a king, two jacks, a ten, and a seven. It happened, however, that as Jimmy, immediately to his right, was dealing, he was the last man to play. Therefore, when time for his bet came, twenty-four cards were displayed on the table. With his own five, more than half the deck was known to him. Every heart above his seven of hearts was out, as were all the spades over his ten, and so on.

  When his turn came, therefore, Logan was confident.

  “I bet the size of the pot!”

  “Ow!” whistled Jimmy. “Not again! Logan, ye’ll put us oot o’ the game!”

  “Or maybe myself!” suggested Logan with a wry grin.

  “Somehow I doobt that,” said Andy sarcastically. He didn’t exactly think this clever fellow from London was cheating. But he didn’t like the idea of his betting nothing but one shilling until . . . wham!—the pot was suddenly empty.