“And how’s everything at home?” asked Allison.
“All’s fine, but wet, at the hoose, but we’ve already lost two or three hunnert acres o’ the new plantin’. ’Twas poor timin’ fer a flood.” As he spoke, Fergie had been driving at a healthy clip, but as he finished, he slowed to nearly a stop. He stood, gazed off ahead of him and to his left, and then continued. “I didna think I’d get back on the Culden road. Look oot there.” He pointed down the valley toward the sea; where yesterday had been green farmland, now stood a huge, brown lake. Any traces of the road were completely obscured.
“We’ll go as far as we can, then skirt aroun’ t’ Braenock. I ken a few sheep trails an’ sich like. It’ll take hours, but we’ll eventually strike the Fenwick Harbor road. We can be thankful I brought a wagon, not an automobile.”
“Sheep trails, Fergie!” said Allison dismally. “Can even a wagon travel on them?”
“If worse comes t’ worst, I tossed a couple saddles in back an’ we can unhitch the horses an’ ride. Leastways we willna drown.”
“Did you happen also to toss in some dry clothes and rain gear back there?” asked Logan, almost facetiously, hardly relishing the misery of spending several more hours in their soaking party clothes.
“Aye,” answered Fergie, quite pleased with himself, “Lady Joanna fixed us up right weel. There’ll be a deserted cottage or twa where ye can change.”
They traveled along a somewhat decent surface of road for about half an hour, the rain still pouring relentlessly. But even in that short time they gained considerable elevation and seemed to have left the flood far behind. But then the road veered left again, beginning a gradual descent toward the valley, now a lake, then disappeared. Fergie led the horses eastward, off the road. Now their way became so rough with potholes, mud, rocks, and shrubbery that it took nearly an hour to traverse a mile; the three passengers bounced mercilessly against the hard board seat of the wagon, but Fergie doggedly encouraged the two horses forward.
At last they ascended a small rise and there in a shallow hollow before them, on the edge of Braenock Ridge, stood a small stone cottage, meshing perfectly with the barrenness of the moor and the bleakness of the weather. Even inhabited, it could not have been much to look on, but now it was like recalling a sad memory. In places the mortar between the stones had long since crumbled away, leaving gaps in the walls which made the boarded-up windows appear even more pathetic and hopeless. Adjacent to the cottage stood the remains of what had no doubt once been a cattle byre. Only three stone walls still stood, and any thought of a roof was long since gone. Over the cottage, however, a roof still remained. But even it was sagging, and would collapse before many more years, leaving this poor home but an abandoned shell like so many thousands of others scattered throughout the poorer regions of that northern country.
The moment they walked inside, it was clear that, even though the structure of a roof was still present, the thatch upon it was in such poor repair that it could not hope to keep out such a rain. Numerous muddy puddles on the floor marked the presence of each hole above. The dirt floor was in hardly better condition than the ground outside, except that there was no wind, and one small corner did remain which had somehow escaped time’s destruction. Allison entered first, made her way through the maze of puddles to the only dry spot to be found, and changed into the corduroys, plaid flannel shirt, fresh socks, and heavy boots her mother had packed for her. Then, throwing a mackintosh over her shoulders, she stepped outside while Logan went in and changed into similar attire, provided from Alec’s oversized wardrobe. Greatly to their relief, Fergie suggested that they take a few extra moments to enjoy the cold meals Lady Joanna had included.
The dry corner of the hut, while not cozy by most standards, seemed to welcome the three travelers, who unwrapped sliced cheese, fresh baked bread, oatcakes, and crisp red apples, accompanied by a flask of hot tea to wash it all down. When the humble but delicious fare had been consumed, no one seemed particularly anxious to brave the elements quite so soon again. Fergie leaned against a wall and lit his pipe, but had barely taken three puffs before he was sound asleep. Logan reached over, removed the still smoking pipe from his hand, and set it on the dirt floor beside him.
Allison hugged her knees to her body to ward off the chill.
“Perhaps I should try to build a fire,” Logan suggested.
“You’d never find any wood dry enough,” said Allison, taking up the flask of tea and refilling their cups. “Perhaps this will help.”
“Thank you.” Logan stared at the dirt floor a moment, then said, “Is this Stevie Mackinaw’s cottage?”
“How do you know about him?”
“Jesse Cameron told me a few things.”
“Oh. I had forgotten you were friends.” Her tone contained a hint of its old hauteur, but she must have been aware of it too, for her next words were more mellow. “Lady Margaret was quite close to the Mackinaws when she was a girl. They lived a little ways from here, farther up onto Braenock. This was the old Krueger place, I think. She used to come out to both places a lot, from what she’s said.”
“Yes. Jesse mentioned that. She also said she thought Stevie Mackinaw was in love with your great-grandmother. But the feelings must have been only one-sided.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” sighed Allison. “Everyone—especially the crofters—loves her. It was probably even more so when she was young and beautiful. Did you know it was love that forced her from Scotland?”
“No. I haven’t heard much about your family’s history.”
“Lady Margaret married Grandpa Dorey against her father’s wishes; he was furious, vowed to get back at them, even once tried to kill Grandpa.”
“And that’s what forced them away?”
“My great-grandmother sailed for America, but Grandpa Dorey stayed behind to clear his name of a murder in which James Duncan had implicated him. He was to follow later, but his father-in-law schemed against their plans until in the end, each thought the other was dead. This is how my mother explained it all to me. Neither my great-grandmother nor Grandpa Dorey talk much about it, but my mother has spent hours getting the facts from them, writing it down so the story of their love for each other and the legacy of their sacrifice for the land and for Stonewycke won’t ever be lost. In fact, all my life I have memories of my mother quizzing my great-grandmother and great-grandfather for details. Pictures of them sitting side by side in front of a fire, talking, as it seemed to a little girl, for hours on end. It’s been something that has been really important to my mother. I think she almost looks upon it as her mission in life to preserve the legacy. As if it were Lady Margaret and Grandpa Dorey—or Maggie and Ian, as they were known when they were young—who were the central characters of the story, and her role was more to make certain their story was preserved and passed on to future generations.”
She stopped and was silent for a few moments.
“So what happened?” asked Logan. “Lady Margaret was in America, and . . . ?”
“It drove Grandpa Dorey mad. Lady Margaret remained in exile for forty years, thinking there was nothing left for her here.”
“What made her finally come back?”
“Actually my mother came first, while my great-grandmother was in a coma in America. My mother knew nothing about the family in Scotland. She came here blindly, merely hoping to fulfill her grandmother’s last wish before she lapsed into unconsciousness.”
“She knew nothing about the family or the inheritance which would have been hers?”
“That’s why she says she got more than she bargained for.”
“I guess so—quite a bit more!” Logan took a swallow of his tea as he considered Lady Joanna’s stroke of fortune.
“But none of that means anything to them.” Allison’s words were mixed with reproach, with the old tone returning once more. But to the more sensitive observer, there was also an unmistakable touch of envy, of which even Allison was unaware. “W
hy, the prestige of Stonewycke means nothing to them. They gave away half the estate to the tenants. There was even a treasure—”
“A treasure?” Logan’s voice was so calm that Allison could not have guessed that he had nearly dropped his cup at her words.
“When she returned home, Lady Margaret looked where she had hidden it before she left Scotland, but it was gone. And no one ever made any other attempts to locate it—not to say that it even exists! But it just proves all the more how little they all care for our family position. They’d all be just as content in some fisher’s hut! My own parents lived in nothing more than a little cottage for years. I was born there, can you imagine? I’ve lived at Stonewycke only half my life.”
“Are you saying your great-grandmother may have imagined the treasure?” Logan could not help it if the question was ill-timed. He had to ask!
“You know how old people’s memories are,” Allison replied. “What does it matter?”
“Nothing . . . certainly—nothing at all!” replied Logan hastily, perhaps a bit too hastily. “Simply a curiosity.” He tried to interest himself in his tea for the next few moments, his racing thoughts circling once again about the person of Lady Margaret.
No, the old lady’s memory is just fine, he told himself. There must have been a treasure—must still be a treasure. She had seen it. She had placed it somewhere. And now it was gone.
That was no surprise to Digory MacNab’s great-great-great nephew, who had read the old groom’s letter and confession. But this was a new bit of news, to learn that Lady Margaret had hidden the treasure before she had been forced out of the country. Could it be possible that only she and Digory had known of its existence originally? Why wouldn’t she tell her husband on their parting, for surely such a valuable find could have helped save him from the clutches of James Duncan?
Logan wondered if he’d ever have the chance to find out the entire story. He couldn’t go about asking too many questions. He would have to content himself to pick up bits and pieces however he could. He hoped that one of those pieces would lead him to the treasure. Nothing else mattered.
Or did it?
Suddenly the thought of Allison came back into his mind. Had the events of this day changed anything? With the mere mention of the treasure, all at once his thoughts had flown off wildly, completely forgetting the brief moments of intimacy they had shared. It was as if he had become two separate persons—the old Logan, still intent on nothing but the treasure, and the part of him which could hardly ignore a growing attachment to this place and its people, Allison in particular. And even Allison, he recalled, had suddenly reverted to tones reminiscent of her old self the moment she began talking about her family. Was this part of the curse of the treasure to which Uncle Digory had alluded, Logan wondered? While everyone sought the treasure for the wealth it would bring, was it, in fact, a messenger of evil? What was the treasure, anyway? Was it something which could bring fulfillment and peace and lasting meaning to life? Or was it instead something which, as Digory had said, would best serve the family legacy by being thrown into the sea or destroyed? What could be the real treasure?
Again Logan dragged his thoughts back to the present. Once again thoughts of the treasure had pulled him away from Allison, in just a few seconds of time. What a strange lure it had on him!
What did matter now? Only the treasure? Or were there new factors to consider? He tried to dismiss the matter from his mind. He didn’t want to have to think about how these new relationships might figure into his scheme. He hadn’t planned on them—nor had he planned on Allison. A few weeks ago in Glasgow when he had concocted all this, he saw himself simply walking into Port Strathy, finding the long, lost treasure, and waltzing out again with no one being the wiser and himself being a good deal richer. But now for the first time he began to wonder just how easy it was going to be to walk away from here.
Logan’s thoughts were interrupted as Fergie suddenly started awake. “Hae I been sleepin’?” he exclaimed. “Ye shouldna hae let me drop off like a fool bairn,” he continued in a fluster. “We must be goin’.”
They all rose, packed up everything, clutched their raingear as close to their bodies as possible, and shouldered their way back out into the storm.
The rain had abated somewhat, but their way—now a sheep path, now simply open moor with treacherous peat bogs to beware of—became increasingly difficult to navigate the farther across Braenock Ridge they went, making for the higher ground of the road across Strathy Summit to their northeast. They had been on their way from the cottage no more than an hour when Fergie finally stopped the animals.
“Can’t go no farther wi’ this wagon,” he announced. “We’ll hae t’ come back fer it when the weather clears.”
Fergie stepped down and proceeded to unhitch the wagon and saddle the two horses, while Allison and Logan gathered supplies and strapped them on behind one of the mounts. The young couple rode together, while Fergusson, weighing nearly as much as the two others combined, rode the other horse. The portly factor took the lead, a sight to see astride his animal, his ponderous bulk bouncing and swaying with every step, while Allison, with Logan behind her, followed.
Once they left the wagon behind, the going became easier, for the narrow paths and steep inclines of the high moor were far more suitable for horseback than for the awkward vehicle. The flooded valley was by now far behind them, but even the high country had not been left untouched by the storm. Great portions were covered with water, little streams were going every which way, and Logan occasionally found himself being splashed by water and mud from the horse’s heavy hooves.
Once they abandoned the wagon, they no longer had to go all the way to the Summit road, and they struck due north instead, directly through toward Stonewycke from the back side. At one time there had been a rather worn trail, though steep in parts, which they were now following. As they went, gradually Allison and Logan began talking again, and it seemed they were about to fall back into the free and easy manner of the earlier part of the day. However, Allison was cold and tired and growing extremely weary of this journey, which it seemed would never end. She had begun to wish she had never been invited to Saundra and Eddie’s ball in the first place.
A pause had come in their conversation and Allison had drifted into a somewhat irritable mood from the cumulative effects of the weather and her exhaustion. Oblivious to the flying mud and inexperienced rider behind her, she began unconsciously to pick up the pace whenever their way allowed.
“Ali, must you splash through every puddle!” said Logan at length, his tone cheerful, while he reached up to brush a fresh splat of mud from his cheek.
“What right have you to complain?” she snapped in reply.
“I was only joking,” he laughed, not aware of his peril at the mercy of her changing mood. “I haven’t a single complaint about this day.” As he said the words he loosened his grip from the edge of the saddle and placed his arm around her waist, hugging her close.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she barked in an outraged tone.
“I don’t know . . . I just—” he faltered, bewildered by her outburst.
“Just because you stole an unguarded kiss from me, Logan, at a time when my defenses were down,” she said snappily, “does not mean that you now have total license with me.”
“I had no intention—” he began, but broke off, stubbornly refusing to swing pliantly with her moods. He didn’t need to defend himself, he decided. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked instead.
“Things may have gotten out of hand today, but—”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Well, it’s easy to forget yourself in that kind of situation,” she answered matter-of-factly, as if now she had come to her senses. “But I’m not some empty-headed trollop like that Angela Cunningham, who would positively swoon at the merest nod from a man.”
“You can’t be stewing over the party? I thought those games were behind u
s. We had decided to be friends.”
“Friends,” she smugly informed him, “don’t go pawing at one another.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said with an air of defeat. He wasn’t sure if she was right or not, but he saw no sense in arguing further. He had learned from past experience that the haughty Allison was not open to reason. And he didn’t want to get into any more shouting matches with her. Even if she reverted back to her old self, it didn’t mean he had to.
For the next ten minutes the only sounds either could hear was the clop-splash . . . clop-splash of the horses’ hooves, and the steady raindrops falling on the ground and puddles all about them. Neither said a word.
At length Allison sighed. “Logan,” she said, realizing she had perhaps been a little unfair, “I . . . I—” she wanted to apologize, but it was new territory for her. “Well . . . we’ll be getting home soon, and . . . I have to maintain . . . you know, there’s a certain dignity expected with my . . . the position I’m in. And I’m just not certain . . . that is—”
“Say no more, my lady,” Logan broke in, with no rancor in his voice. “We are entering the real world, as we feared. And in that world, you are an heiress and I the offspring of a mere groom. You know, of course, that I don’t give a fig for such distinctions of class. But I understand that they have been with you all your life.”
“Life . . .” she murmured, repeating him, but with a pensive tone. Then after a moment, she added more emphatically, “I hate it!”
“What, Ali?” he asked as the wind had carried off her words.
“Nothing,” she answered glumly. “How can you be so understanding?”
“I’ve seen something special in you today, Allison MacNeil,” he answered earnestly, “but I have also seen a very confused and mixed-up young lady. I’m willing to be patient until you sort out the two.”
“How kind of you!” she snapped sarcastically. Then she dropped her head, confused and possibly a little ashamed, and added, “Oh, forget it!”
They fell silent again, and remained so until the gray walls of Stonewycke broke through the gray mist of the storm.
Stranger at Stonewycke Page 30