Joanna MacNeil sat at her mahogany desk in the dayroom pouring over the accounts one last time.
After a few more moments she set down her pen, propped her chin in her hand, and sighed deeply. Operating an estate like this had never seemed difficult in the fairy tales. Their family had moved up the hill to the castle after eleven years in a little cottage, just as she and Alec had dreamed. They had now been here nine years. Joanna loved Stonewycke and was no less happy than she had been in her homey cottage. She in no way regretted the move, especially knowing that her grandparents could no longer live here alone.
It was just that at times it could be such a burden.
The requirements of her position still surprised her, and she occasionally found herself lapsing back into her midwestern American timidity. Though she had been here twenty years, had picked up the local dialect noticeably, and thought of herself as a true Scot in every sense of the word, it still usually took her aback when one of the local women curtsied to her in town, or made way for her to pass in a crowd. At such times it was with a jolt that she had to remind herself who she was and of all the people who depended upon her.
Is this really me? she found herself asking. But then she reflected on how the Lord had led her to Scotland, and how she and Alec had met. What changes God had worked within her own heart for her to become the confident woman He had made! He had miraculously healed her grandmother and reunited her with her husband, and Joanna’s own grandfather Dorey. When she remembered these things, her heart was filled with thanksgiving—even for the tedious paperwork which lay upon her desk.
Thank you, Lord, she said softly. And teach me greater thankfulness of heart for these details which keep Stonewycke going.
Suddenly the door behind her burst open.
“Mother, I’ve found it!” exclaimed Allison, hurrying toward her mother.
Joanna turned, smiled at her daughter’s enthusiasm, and before she had the chance to say a word, found a magazine thrust onto the desktop before her. With obvious satisfaction the girl opened it to a full-page advertisement of an extremely pretty, not to mention a very expensive, evening dress. Most certainly made of satin, though the sketch made it difficult to tell, it was rather simple in design with a draped neckline trimmed in sequins, and a fitted bodice and skirt. Simple, that is, until it reached the knees, where it flared to remarkable fullness. Joanna had the good sense to keep to herself the first impression that such a dress was much too mature for her seventeen-year-old daughter.
“It’s beautiful, darling,” she said.
“It will be perfect for the Bramfords’ ball!” replied Allison in high-pitched excitement. “Oh, Mother! please say I can have it!”
“Well, perhaps with a few adjustments,” Joanna replied diplomatically. “We can show this to Elsie and see what she can do.”
“Elsie . . . adjustments!” exclaimed the girl. “Mother, I want this dress—just like it is. And I don’t want Elsie to make it!”
“What do you have against Elsie?”
“Mother, please! You wouldn’t make me go to the Bramfords’ in a homemade dress?” Allison’s pleading tone sounded as if such would be a fate too horrible even to contemplate.
“Elsie does very professional work.”
“It would be different if she were a designer,” argued Allison. “But she is only a dressmaker, hardly more than a common seamstress.”
“Allison, have you bothered to notice the price of this dress? It’s fifty pounds. For many of our people, that’s half a year’s wages! In these times when there are so many who are suffering, I simply can’t condone such frivolity—”
“I knew you’d say that!”
“It’s true, dear.”
“But when the nobility display their wealth, it gives the common people hope that things aren’t really so bad.”
Joanna had heard that worn excuse so often she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when the words came from the lips of her own daughter. How many in the aristocracy used just such an argument to justify their unnecessary opulence, and to waylay their guilt when their eyes could not disregard the widespread poverty around them? Times were hard throughout all of Britain, even all the world. But those in a position to help often did least of all.
“Allison,” said Joanna after a moment’s reflection, “I sincerely pray that you will give your words deep thought, and that the day will come when you will realize how empty they are. When we transferred the land to the people of Port Strathy twenty years ago, that was the thing which bound the nobility to the people who looked to them for guidance and sustenance. Giving our wealth, not displaying it, is our calling. In the meantime, we cannot pay that kind of money for a dress. These are hard times not only for the working class, but for us as well. Elsie can make the same dress for a third the cost.”
“Without adjustments . . . ?” queried Allison who, seeing the war inevitably lost, hoped she might still reap a small victory.
“I’ll have to give that more thought.”
“I am seventeen.”
Joanna smiled and took her daughter’s hand in hers. “I know that, dear. And you are a lovely seventeen, with or without the dress. But I will keep it in mind.”
“The ball is next month.”
“I’ll let you know in a few days.”
Allison scooped up the magazine and exited, leaving Joanna once more alone. Unconsciously she found herself praying for her daughter. She is so young, Lord, and has so much to learn . . .
Her thoughts trailed off with no words to complete them.
Sometimes she wanted to shout at Allison out of her pent-up frustration: “Why can’t you see! Why must you do everything your own way? Why can’t you listen to what we have to teach you?”
Usually she refrained. But the unsettling realization that her daughter did not share the beliefs and priorities of the rest of the family was never far from Joanna’s mind. And the older she grew, the more the distance seemed to widen between the mother and the daughter she loved so deeply.
Allison had always been the kind of girl who had to figure things out for herself. Her methods were, therefore, often fraught with obstacles and unexpected curves. When the first bicycle had come to Stonewycke, as a seven-year-old she had insisted on learning to ride it on the steepest path on the estate. Two years earlier, despite repeated warnings, only by sticking her entire hand into the hive did she learn the dangers of the bee. But as her adolescent years began to teach Allison the ways of life on more profound levels, the perils became far more hazardous and long-lasting than skinned knees and bee stings. Though Joanna firmly believed that the values of her childhood were still rooted deep inside her daughter, they became increasingly difficult to observe on the surface. One by one she seemed to be holding these values up for scrutiny, examining them, testing them, doubting them, suspicious that anything appropriate for a child could possibly be strong enough to hold her up now. Like youths in all ages, it never occurred to her that many men and women, older and wiser and with problems and anxieties more severe than hers, had discovered in those timeless principles sustenance and hope to carry them through all the dark valleys of life. Allison’s young eyes seemed blinded to all but Allison herself. This fact did not so much hurt Joanna’s motherly pride as it made her ache for the distance it placed between Allison and her Maker. And to make matters worse still, Allison kept such a close wall around her true self that even her mother could often no longer venture within. In fact, Allison’s alienation, when displayed, seemed more directed toward her mother and Lady Margaret than anyone else, even though she had always been close to these two older women.
The girl was a paradox, that much was certain! At times she could be so warm and loving and affectionate, especially toward her great-grandmother. Then suddenly, without warning, an altogether different mood could sweep over her, during which she was cold, even embittered, toward those she loved most.
Joanna rubbed her eyes as if finally noticing the headache which had been threatening for the last two hours. Well, a new dress for Allison was simply another burden to add to the steadily growing pile. And was there a small twinge of guilt because she didn’t have the money to buy her daughter the dress she wanted? Would the dress perhaps convince Allison that . . . ?
No! Joanna quickly put a stop to that seductive train of thought. Even if they had the money, she could never allow it to be spent irresponsibly. And it was a moot question regardless. There was absolutely no room in the present accounts for such a costly dress.
Indeed, the fairy tales never specified just how much money it took to run a castle. Of course, there were no Depressions in fairy tales, either. The color red was showing more and more often in the ledger these days, and last year they had begun opening the House for public tours to bring in a little additional cash. To further conserve funds, without at first realizing the consequences, they had stopped maintaining the little-used east wing of the house, with the result that it had practically gone to ruin. A carpenter had recently informed them that if something was not done—and done soon—to save the roof, it would be lost and could bring down a good portion of the adjoining wing with it.
When they had enacted Anson Ramsey’s Transfer Document twenty years ago, turning over a large part of the estate to the people of the valley and drastically reducing their yearly cash income, they had never foreseen what a problem money would one day become. However, the people of Port Strathy, and the sons and daughters who had inherited the good fortunes brought upon their families by the current two generations in the Ramsey line, had never forgotten. They loved Lady Margaret and Lord Duncan and Lady Joanna and Lord Alec with a love enjoyed by few in their position. Consequently, when the net of hard times began to draw itself about the valley, the people pulled together—commoners and landowners alike—to help see one another through. Many were the small offerings of fruit and produce and fish brought up the hill “t’ the Hoose,” as it was still called. And with the first news carried to the village that the east wing of the castle was in need of repair, a hundred men were on hand shortly after daybreak the following morning.
Perhaps, sighed Joanna as she reflected on it, the loss of Stonewycke would work for Allison’s ultimate good. Perhaps it was because she had always had too much that she now came to think wealth and privilege a right.
Yet at the mere thought of losing Stonewycke, a deep pang of despair swept momentarily through Joanna. She could not imagine life without Stonewycke. For good or ill, the place was woven deeply into her very being. Homeless and alone she had come to Scotland that day so long ago. Now she had been grafted into the years of her family’s heritage and was an intrinsic part of the ongoing flow of Stonewycke’s history. Yet times were hard, and growing harder every year. Who could tell what they might be called upon to do?
If only they could hang on to the estate until the old folks were gone! She and Alec could be happy anywhere. She knew that. She sometimes wondered if Alec would prefer living the simple life of a country vet rather than as the laird of a great property. He still refused to let anyone call him “the laird” in his hearing. He would always be just plain Alec to the people of Port Strathy. Could it be for the best to let Stonewycke go? Joanna wondered. Could that be what God wanted?
“Dear Lord,” Joanna murmured aloud, “you mean more to me, to any of us, than this parcel of land and trees and stone. I would gladly give it all up to do your will, to serve you and these people you have given us more fully.”
Joanna paused. Whenever she turned to the Lord in prayer, her thoughts unconsciously strayed to the daughter who tugged so constantly on her heart.
“Oh, God!” she cried out, “I would give up Stonewycke, even my own life, if somehow by it you could reach Allison!”
Joanna bowed her head, but no more words came from her lips. Only her heart silently cried out, interceding where her tongue and conscious mind could not.
“You have it in your hands, don’t you, Lord?” she said after another few moments of silence. “In my mortal mind I am unable to see how you will work it out. But somehow you will provide for my daughter’s needs, and also for this land. Somehow, you will bring an answer . . .”
How fortunate it was that Joanna depended on her Father in heaven! The eyes of her infinite God saw beyond the contrite woman praying at her desk, beyond the teenage girl poring over a fashion magazine, beyond the aging matriarch lying down for a rest after her afternoon’s walk on the beach, beyond the inanimate granite walls of an ancient castle. His all-seeing eye did not stop there. It reached beyond the expanse of the quaint northern village of Port Strathy and the valley surrounding it. It reached beyond the rugged highlands and grassy glens, to the lowlands of Scotland, and farther down, to the very heart of that chief of all cities hundreds of miles to the south.
God’s faithful answer, as so often is the case, would come from a most unlooked-for source, from a place that Joanna, even in her most wildly imaginative mood, could never have suspected. And if she could have had a glimpse of the provision of God in answer to her prayer for her daughter and for her beloved Stonewycke, she would not have recognized it as from Him.
Joanna’s silent cries did not float into an empty universe to dissolve into nothingness. Even before the plea had left her aching mother’s breast, it had taken root in the loving heart of God, who heard, and whose answer was already on the way.