“Weel . . . what’ll it be, Jimmy?” said Buckie, anxious to get on with it.
Slowly and dramatically Jimmy lifted the card and threw it down in front of Logan.
“Ten o’ diamonds!” exclaimed Buckie. “Tough t’ beat, Logan!”
“Not for a king of diamonds,” returned Logan, laying down his entire hand on the table beside the ten.
“Somehow I knowed it!” said Andy. “I jist knowed it!”
“Weel, lad,” said Buckie, with a sigh, “I guess that’s the end o’ this game, seein’ as hoo Logan has all oor hard-earned cash.” They all began to rise, and Buckie gave Logan a friendly slap on the back. “Ye’re the luckiest bloke I e’er seen!”
“I’d be happy to give you fellows a chance to get even,” offered Logan, stuffing the sixteen or so pounds—mostly in coin—into the pockets of his coat.
Buckie laughed. “Na doobt . . . na doobt! But ye always seem t’ come oot on top!”
“Like you said,” replied Logan, “I guess I’m just lucky.”
“An’ I already dipped sorely int’ this week’s grocery cash,” Buckie went on. “I’ll hae the de’vil t’ pay wi’ me wife as’t is.”
Logan could not keep a pang of guilt from rising, but he quickly dismissed it with the thought, I’ll make it up to you fellows. Just you wait and see. I’ll find that treasure, and I’ll do right by you all.
Andy McClennon, dour of disposition and in much less friendly tones than the others, added, “Seems t’ me ye made fairly certain we’d no hae the means t’ get e’en wi’ ye.”
“I can assure you—” Logan began, but Buckie did not give him the opportunity to finish.
“Come on, Andy,” he said, laying a hand on the poor crofter’s shoulder. “Dinna be a sore loser. ’Twas a fair game. We all knew what we was gettin’ int’. Logan’s as guid a man as one o’ oor own, an’ I’ll be hearin’ nae different. Noo, what aboot those drinks ye mentioned, Logan?”
“What! I mentioned no drinks.”
“Dinna they do that in London?” said Buckie, winking knowingly at Jimmy. “Why, here in Strathy, man, the winner buys fer e’eryone!”
Logan laughed heartily. “Well, you’ve got me there, my friend,” he said, glad to be able to buy his way graciously out of the potentially awkward situation with only a few pints.
The laughter and Buckie’s good sportsmanship seemed to appease any further unrest, except perhaps in Logan’s inexperienced conscience. Rising and shoving their chairs back, the rest of the group ambled over to refill their glasses, for Roy was not in the habit of serving his guests at their tables unless absolutely necessary. Bringing up the rear, Logan passed the small table where a lone customer sat, quietly sipping a brandy. Catching Logan’s eye, he gave him a sly half grin.
“Those yokels don’t even know what hit them,” said Ross Sprague in a soft, almost conspiratorial tone.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Logan in a tone made more defensive by the guilt he was trying to repress. “There was nothing crooked about that game. We all had the same chance.”
“Except that you knew the game. I can spot a sharp a mile off.” But as Logan opened his mouth to speak, Sprague held up his hand. “Oh, don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“To what do I owe that honor?”
“You and me live by the same motto, young fellow,” Sprague replied. “It was stated very succintly by an American actor, W. C. Fields: ‘Never give a sucker an even break.’ Why, you had that game in the palm of your hand. That last hand—you couldn’t lose! Well done, I must say.”
Logan shrugged noncommitally. “Leave it to an American to sum it up so well.” He started forward once more.
“Have a drink on me, kid,” Sprague called after him.
Logan nodded his thanks, but after the encounter, his ale did not taste very good. He didn’t like to think of friends like Buckie as “suckers.” He didn’t like to think that he might live by such a motto, even if he had never quite put it in those words. And since he didn’t like to think of such things, he didn’t.
Instead, he poured more than his usual measure of Hamilton’s foul-tasting brew down his throat, and for the time at least, it dimmed the pangs of his conscience.
He didn’t return home that night.
Somehow the thought of that unaffected loft where his simple, honest ancestor had dwelt was not appealing to Logan just then. Instead, he staggered up the street, where Sandy Cobden, against his better judgment, rented him a bed for the night. Logan made his way up the stairs weak-kneed, fell upon the bed, and drifted into a restless sleep, filled with the kind of dreams dragons might have while perched upon their ill-gotten treasures. In fact, at one point a dragon came into his dream, dressed in a grand tuxedo, with a plain fisher wife on his arm, carrying in her other hand an empty basket, which he knew had been intended for groceries.
But even in his sleep, when the dragon turned his direction, Logan shut the eyes of his mind even tighter, refusing to look at its face.
33
The Party
Logan called for Allison at five o’clock sharp.
He was invited by Joanna into the formal parlor where they engaged in a very awkward conversation for several minutes before Allison finally made her entrance.
He hadn’t realized until that moment what a lovely woman she was. He had always known she was pretty, but tonight she seemed to have matured far beyond her seventeen years. Before, she had been an attractive girl, but now her budding womanhood was given full reign. Some of it, to be sure, was affected by Allison. But what struck Logan was the natural beauty and grace which could not be feigned, a hint of the loveliness and poise of her handsome mother. Logan could only think that what she tried to put on with grown-up airs only detracted from what naturally dwelt within.
Her golden, silky hair was piled in curls atop her head, some of them falling daintily about her face. Tufts of baby’s breath were tucked about the curls like a crown. Her gown of periwinkle blue strongly resembled the one she had discovered in the catalog, only its stark severity had been softened by demurely flowing butterfly sleeves that fell to her mid-arm, and a satin belt around the waist, clasped with satin rosebuds. The overall effect had been to Allison’s satisfaction, the price to Joanna’s, and thus a very stunning compromise had been negotiated. An ancient strand of pearls that had been her great-grandmother’s graced her lovely, porcelain-smooth neck.
At that moment, Logan did not feel so bad about his winnings of the other night. He had been to Aberdeen and had purchased a tuxedo, if not the finest evening attire to be had in that provincial city, certainly more than adequate for whatever he would encounter north of London.
There was little call for a florist in Port Strathy, but Logan had engaged Dorey’s willing assistance to fashion a corsage of creamy white orchids, nurtured with love in the laird’s own greenhouse. He fastened the blossoms about Allison’s tiny wrist.
When he helped Allison into her rabbit-fur stole, he noted a tear glistening in Joanna’s eye. He wondered if it was simply the sentimentality of a mother seeing her daughter looking so grown-up, or if it had other more remote origins. Was she having last-minute misgivings about letting her precious daughter go off with a man they barely knew? She had given her approval, but perhaps was now having second thoughts.
Well, it was too late for that now, and perhaps Joanna sensed that fact as well. For she bid them goodbye and did not even remain in the doorway while Logan maneuvered the Austin down the long drive and out through the iron gates.
The Bramford estate, located a few miles southwest of Culden, was one of those early Victorian country homes which, from the passage of years, could have either taken on a quaint historical charm, or have become a run-down white elephant. In the Bramfords’ case, due to yearly maintenance and an ongoing familial interest in the estate, the former was happily true, and the home was one of the more elegant in the entire region.
The continued foul
weather had prevented much in the way of outdoor festivities, and even as Logan and Allison stepped out of the Austin, leaving it to be parked by an attendant, dark clouds could be seen massing overhead. But that hardly dampened the party spirits of the young people gathered inside. Music, heavy with brass and drums, blared from the ballroom, creating a scene quite alien to the affairs the same room had seen in the days of Queen Victoria. The youths danced in a fashion that left Lady Edwina Bramford, who was positioned by the door greeting guests as they arrived, with a bewildered look on her highly refined face. She smiled thin smiles at the constant stream of arrivals, most of whom she did not even know, wondering how long her motherly duties would force her to remain in such close proximity to this unseemly display of modern merrymaking. She was from the old school, where young ladies did not wriggle around thus on the dance floor, and where gentlemen politely asked the favor of a young lady before a dance, not with a slick, “Come on, baby, let’s dance.” There had hardly been a polite word spoken, in her estimation, all evening. And these were the flower of the nation’s populus, the offspring of the very best—lords and ladies, financial magnates, military leaders. What was the world coming to if the children of the land’s elite had completely forgotten how to behave?
Thus, when Logan and Allison walked toward the ballroom door, it was little wonder that she was pleasantly surprised. Allison would have strode into the room without giving the woman a passing glance, but Logan took Lady Bramford’s hand, kissed it respectfully, and bowed with what she could only consider very gallant taste.
“I am honored, my lady,” he said when introductions had been made.
“We are pleased you could come, Mr. Macintyre,” replied Lady Bramford. “I haven’t heard your name mentioned, but you must know my son from Oxford.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of his acquaintance, nor that of the remainder of your esteemed family.”
“Mr. Macintyre is a friend . . . of my family,” broke in Allison, feeling an explanation was due before Logan was accused of party-crashing. “I hope it was all right for me to invite him.”
“Of course, Allison, my dear,” replied Lady Bramford. “I’m certain any friend of your family must be of the most sterling character.”
At length Allison steered Logan onto the dance floor. A five-piece band was beating out Fred Waring’s version of the 1927 hit My Blue Heaven, and the glossy parquet floor was alive with other dancers shimmering in brilliant color and displaying the wealth they represented. There were many friendly calls of greeting to Allison who, in return, waved and generally behaved as if the Bramfords’ ball had been given exclusively for her benefit. And, whereas the greetings had been largely lodged at Allison, the curious glances and muttered comments of Who is that she’s with? . . . quite a handsome chap, don’t you think? were reserved for Logan. The looks sent his way by a number of the young men, while not exactly hostile, were nevertheless guarded, as if to imply, He’s too suave . . . he must be up to no good. The girls, on the other hand, all wondered where Allison had found such a gorgeous man outside their circle, some asking themselves whether he might be fair game or whether Allison had him already sewed up.
Saundra Bramford, as hostess, took the opening initiative with the new arrivals.
“Allison, dear,” she said, approaching them graciously, as if she were a model for one of the new fashion magazines. All the years of training and dental work had paid off, for her natural homeliness was hardly evident beneath the exterior gloss. When she turned her head toward Logan and smiled, showing perfect caps, he might not have noticed her striking resemblance to her lumbering football-playing brother. But unfortunately, Eddie Bramford turned up almost at the same instant, accentuating the similarities in comic paradox—where he was thick and imposing like a mountain, she was thin and imposing like a tree. Yet despite their handicaps, they remained a good-natured pair.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” Saundra went on. “It’s such a long ride, and in this abominable weather. And you even managed to bring a guest.” Here she smiled at Logan.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Allison replied as if it really didn’t matter anyway. “This is Logan Macintyre. Logan, these are our hosts, Saundra and Eddie—I should say Edward—Bramford.”
“Macintyre . . .” mused Eddie. “Didn’t you play for King’s College.”
“I’m afraid not,” Logan answered politely, not elaborating on the fact that he had played nothing for any college, had never so much as set foot on the campus of an institution of higher learning.
“Now don’t you go talking rugby, Eddie,” Saundra scolded. “You said you were cousins . . . ?” she prompted, wanting to know immediately where Allison and this good-looking Logan Macintyre stood.
“No relation whatsoever,” said Allison.
“I’m in the employ of the MacNeils,” Logan offered, part of him warming up to the challenge of keeping up the charade, another part curious to see how Allison might handle herself if he revealed just what a low fellow he was. He had agreed to come with her, but he didn’t want to give her too much control over him.
“What line are you in, Macintyre?” asked Eddie.
Logan opened his mouth to answer, but it was Allison’s voice that rushed in ahead of his.
“He’s in investments,” she said.
Logan snapped his mouth shut, wondering just what he would have said given the chance. As it was, he could not call Allison a liar, so he was forced to play the game.
“Investments,” parroted Bramford. “A sticky business these days.”
“We’ve weathered the crisis quite well.”
“And what firm would that be?”
“Oh, look!” broke in Allison conveniently, “Punch—I’m simply dying of thirst!” She grabbed Logan’s arm and dragged him toward the refreshment table.
Logan handed her a glass of the sweet red liquid but Allison stared into it as if it were the furthest thing from her mind. As Logan set the glass back on the table, his lips bent into a smile. Why not? he said to himself. He took her hand and tugged her toward the dance floor.
“Shall we dance?” he said. It was more of a command than a question.
She started at the initial gesture and glanced toward him, not a little bemused. In picturing this evening beforehand in her mind, somehow she had never envisioned what it would actually be like to have Logan Macintyre take her in his arms and dance with her. She had thought about what she would wear, about which perfume to choose, about what her friends would say, and about how she might flirt with Logan just enough to raise the attention of, say, Charles Fairgate. But of the moment when they would inevitably move around the dance floor, holding one another close, keeping time to the strains of the music, her face but inches from his shoulder—that was a moment she had not fully considered. Perhaps she was afraid of the effect such a moment might have on her.
The band had just begun playing Girl of My Dreams, and Logan gripped her waist for the waltz with rather more strength than she was accustomed to. She wondered if he was angry, but when he spoke his voice was smooth and pleasant.
“I think, Ali, my dear,” he said, “that you should have gone for broke. Why stop at a mere investment broker? You could at least have given me an earldom.”
“I thought you’d thank me,” she replied.
“Thank you?”
“I only thought to save you undue embarrassment.”
He chuckled softly in her ear, which was resting very near his lips. Embarrassment for whom, he wondered—herself or me? But he said nothing further. He had invested too much in this suit to see the evening degenerate into an argument. Besides, he wanted to enjoy himself. This young vixen was not altogether without her charm. Whatever her motives had been, he decided, she had apparently resolved to make the best of the situation, for she snuggled closer to him as the tune progressed. For all their discord of a few days earlier, they seemed to move like a single dancer, in almost perfect unison.
Wary as they had been of one another, neither had to be forced to enjoy floating over the dance floor. Nor did they say a word for some time. On they danced, and Allison had just rested her head softly against Logan’s chest and shoulder when Logan felt a firm tap on his shoulder, intruding into his contented thoughts.
He loosened his hold on Allison and spun around to behold an uncomfortably familiar face out of his past. Suddenly the years fell away in his mind, and he was fifteen, sitting in a card game, trying out his skill against the wealthy son of a lord. And after seven years, his adversary—though older and wiser, and now a man—had not changed. If anything, his dark and arrogant good looks had become even more pronounced.
Charles Reynolds Fairgate III! thought Logan, managing to keep his expression as cool as ever. If he recognizes me, the jig’s up! He would love nothing better than to expose me now after he couldn’t make the charges stick the last time!
“I hope you don’t mind, old chap,” said the man who had caused Logan several anxious days in jail. He nodded toward Allison, and Logan was momentarily relieved. Perhaps, this far away, in this setting, after seven years, he won’t recognize me, thought Logan. But then almost as if reading his mind, Fairgate’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “Have we met before?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Logan replied, thrusting out his hand. “Macintyre’s the name.” He cringed inwardly even as the name left his lips, but he could see no way to avoid it. He only hoped Fairgate’s memory for names was as fuzzy as it apparently was for faces. Besides, back in those days, Logan went by so many aliases that perhaps he could sneak his real name by with minimal risk.
“Hmm . . .” muttered the young lord thoughtfully. Then in a different vein, “Allison,” he said, “I’ve been waiting for a dance with you.”
“By all means, Charles.” She stepped away from Logan, betraying a twinge of disappointment, which surprised her more than anyone, and into Fairgate’s arms.
Stranger at Stonewycke Page 27