Logan sat back in the rear seat of the Austin as it left the small town and headed up the steep coast road.
If he hadn’t been one who had trained himself to take in stride whatever life chanced to throw him, he might have been knocked off balance a bit with the sudden turn of events. As it was, he sat back and reveled in his good fortune.
His fortuitous stumbling upon the very people he sought had momentarily been lost upon him as he and the old lady had first exchanged glances. For when his eyes met those of Lady Margaret, a very odd and unfamiliar sensation passed through him. Even if he had tried, he couldn’t have explained what it was he felt. He might have made a faltering attempt to describe it as like being suddenly stripped naked before one who knew you better than you knew yourself, as if the lady had been able to perceive to the very depths of his being. It seemed in that passing moment of time as if she had possessed the ability to read him more accurately than if his whole life had been boldly printed upon his shirt front—better than Skittles, better than his mother, better even than himself. He had an unnerving premonition that possibly he had opened the door to more than he bargained for.
But just as quickly the sensation passed. Logan was not of the temperament to ponder such things deeply. He was content to allow it to pass without further reflection. And if there was any truth to the unsettling foreboding, if she did know of his motives or his duplicity, the pleasant smile which followed immediately made clear that she would never have held any of these things against him. The only acquiescence he gave to the uncomfortable feelings her penetrating eyes had elicited was an unconscious and barely perceptible faltering of his self-command.
It was only the beginning of an afternoon filled with unexpected sensations. But at the moment Logan climbed into the automobile, the remainder of this landmark day still lay ahead of him. As he settled into his seat, he took a few moments to regather his equanimity. And now as Allison maneuvered the Austin up that oft-trod road southeast of town, Logan’s eyes took in the wonders of the rugged seascape terrain on his left.
In a few more minutes they turned off the road to the right, away from the sea, through a slight wooded area, still climbing, until suddenly looming before them was the great, gray-brown ancient castle known as Stonewycke. They sped through an ornate open iron gate, and for a moment all his worldly savoir-faire fled. Even a modern sophisticate such as Logan could not help being awed by the four-hundred-year-old ediface.
And with the awe came a fleeting sense of defeat. Suddenly things were happening he hadn’t planned on. Who was he, a mere mortal, to think of pitting his puny wiles against this place? Here for the first time an impression of history came over him. The walls of this fortress had withstood storms and armies and revolutions, and the lives and deaths of hundreds of mortals no better nor stronger than he. Yet here it stood, outlasting them all. Logan had faced up to many obstacles in his life—poverty and failure among them. But here was something he could never hope to conquer—inanimate, yet commanding.
He struggled to clear his head. These kinds of thoughts would never do.
But then a voice, soft and dreamy, seeming to float down from the heavens, caught his attention as if his very thoughts had been read:
“Child of loud-throated war! the mountain stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age:
Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. . . .”
Logan glanced around and saw that the words had come from Lady Margaret. The peculiar feeling he had had when he first met her in town tried to intrude upon him once more. But this time he shook the spell away, and looked back toward the castle.
He was himself again. He had to be wary. Something about this place, and especially something about that lady, was unnerving him. He couldn’t let that happen. This was business. This was his big chance. He’d just have to call to his aid all those years on the tough streets of London. Why, this place couldn’t throw anything at him in a year like what one day in the big city did. He had to keep his head about him.
“Nice poem, m’lady,” he commented, in a tone perceptibly more distant than he had thus far used.
“William Wordsworth wrote it about another castle,” Lady Margaret replied. “But to me it has always captured the soul of our Stonewycke.”
“That’s what you call the place?”
“The name goes back to the time of the Picts. But the castle’s only been here less than half that time.”
Suddenly Allison braked to a jerky stop at the doorstep of the great mansion.
“How does it stand after four hundred years?” asked Logan.
“You are familiar with the history of our home I see, Mr. Macintyre,” said Lady Margaret, evidently pleased.
Only then did Logan realize his blunder. “Oh, no more than most,” he quickly replied, hoping to repair his error. “You said it had been here less than half of the last thousand years, so I naturally figured—”
“I see,” she replied.
I had better be more careful, thought Logan. I don’t want to arouse any suspicions this early in the game. It had been a lucky break to stumble upon the Duncans as he had, even if it was a small town. But he couldn’t trust to luck, not with something this important at stake. He had to use his wits and his brains. And he needed to think of something fast, some reason for being here, for no doubt at dinner there would be questions flowing his way.
His hosts ushered him into the mansion through huge oaken doors, which were easily twice his height and seemed as thick as his head. I’d better not have to make any quick escapes, he thought wryly.
The larcenous side of Logan’s nature could hardly help noting the finery that greeted him as he stepped across the threshold. Some of the pieces in the entryway had to be nearly as old as the house itself. That hall tree, for example, if it was authentic, might be worth a thousand pounds. And nestled on a shelf in the middle of the ornate antique piece stood a gilt-edged vase—he couldn’t even venture a guess as to its probable value. Then there was the artwork. While they passed down a long corridor, he glanced into several rooms to his right and left. In one his eyes focused on a magnificent portrait of a highland chieftain that reflected a distinct Raeburn touch. Logan had a passing knowledge of art, for in his line of work one usually managed to acquire at least a cursory knowledge in a wide variety of potentially useful fields. If that painting was an original . . .
He did note, however, from the very moment he entered the place, that it was not opulent in its display of finery. Now that he looked around further, in fact, everything was quite simple. And that very simplicity convinced him that what he did see could be nothing but the real thing. The place had no hint of anything fake about it. And these people must be the real thing, too. People didn’t have to flaunt their wealth or position when the blue of their blood ran as deeply as the Duncans’.
From the corridor they stepped into a large parlor, and all at once it seemed to Logan that they had stepped again back into the twentieth century. The room was furnished with several low comfortable sofas, three rocking chairs, a couple of slender-legged tables, and three electric lamps in two of the corners and against a third wall. Magazines and newspapers were strewn about, and a large console radio stood along the adjacent wall. This was clearly where the family spent a great deal of time. A roaring fire blazed in a huge hearth that occupied nearly the entire far wall.
“Some digs,” said Logan with a low whistle.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Macintyre,” said Allison. “I’ll go and find my parents.” Then turning to Nat, she added in what the young boy thought was a snooty tone, “Nat, you go tell Claire we’ll have a guest for dinner.”
None too pleased at having to leave Logan, whom he considered his own personal discovery, and even less pleased at being ordered about by his big sister, Nat nevertheless complied. Then Allison followed him from the room.
After the departure of the young people, Logan found it extremely difficult to make himself comfortable as Allison had encouraged him to do. He was not quite ready to spend an extended amount of time alone with this intimidating lady, despite the fact that it was she he had come to Port Strathy to find. He would no doubt be able to like her; she seemed pleasant enough. But her effect on him thus far had been disconcerting and he could not help being—he hated to admit this—just a little afraid of her.
Had he been alone and at liberty to do so, he would probably have laughed outright at the very suggestion of such a thing. Why . . . she was just a frail old lady, after all! There could not be a sinister fiber in her entire being. On the contrary, she struck him as thoroughly kind, gentle, and compassionate. He had no doubt imagined the whole thing—probably a hangover from his seasickness! Had he given the matter deeper consideration, he might have discovered that it was these very qualities of virtue which caused his inner self to squirm. But Logan did not consider such things deeply, least of all introspective matters to do with his own emotions. Instead, he strolled toward the hearth and pretended to be engrossed in the procedure of warming his hands.
“For all her grandeur,” the voice he had been hoping not to hear said, “we do have a time keeping this old place warm.”
“I can imagine,” replied Logan, hoping the conversation would drift to topics no more threatening than the weather. “Installing central heating would be rather a difficult task.”
“We have done so in the sleeping quarters,” she said. “It would have been too hard on the children without it. I don’t know how I survived it as a child.”
“Then you’ve been here all your life?” He knew he might regret this line of questioning, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Not exactly. I had a sojourn in America. A rather long sojourn, actually. But I shan’t easily forget my childhood here.”
“You sound as if you love the old place.”
Lady Margaret laughed a bright, merry laugh. The tones were almost musical, and obliterated all sense of her great age in a single instant.
“The love of Stonewycke is rather a family inheritance,” she said, in the same melodic voice, which sounded cheery and youthful. “You’ve heard of some families which inherit a family curse? Well, we Stonewycke women pass along a deep regard for this home, this estate, these people, and this land. At least—” she paused momentarily, and the hint of a cloud passed rapidly across her brow as Allison’s face suddenly came into her mind. She left the sentence unfinished, glanced up at Logan, smiled, and just as quickly the momentary shadow disappeared and she resumed. “It runs in the blood, like genes and chromosomes and personality traits. But do forgive me; I laughed only because your comment struck me as so understated.”
“I suppose having a place where you belong is pretty important,” offered Logan, suddenly feeling a hint of the discomfort returning.
“Yes it is. But in all the places I’ve been, sometimes almost beyond memory of this, where my sense of belonging began, I’ve learned over the years that there is something even more important . . .”
She paused thoughtfully, then walked toward one of the rocking chairs and sat down, rocking gently back and forth as she continued to speak. “And where might be such a place for you, Mr. Macintyre—if it’s not too forward of me to ask?”
He didn’t mind her asking. What he minded was the feeling that she must certainly already know the answer.
“I should have said,” he replied, “that belonging must be important to some people. In my case, I prefer to keep my options open, so I’m free to move about. I suppose I haven’t found a place where I want to belong yet.”
“I detect a Glasgow ring to your accent, and even, strange as it may seem, a bit of cockney.”
This lady doesn’t miss much, thought Logan. She’d make an honest fellow nervous. He was going to have to be very careful.
“Born in Glasgow,” he answered. “Been in London the last seven years.”
“But still no roots?”
“I’ve plenty of time.”
“Yes . . . I suppose you do,” she answered thoughtfully. Had she felt a little freer with their new acquaintance, she might have added, “But time, Mr. Macintyre, is a fickle commodity. It can deepen the hurts, or it can heal them, depending on what you do with it.” As it was she said nothing.
The tone of her words disturbed Logan, but he was saved from having to ponder it further by the arrival of Allison. At her side was a lovely woman whom Logan immediately took for her mother. She was three inches taller than Allison, slim of figure, and carried herself in a manner worthy of her station. Her auburn hair, streaked lightly with gray and pulled back in a simple bun, framed a face of delicately chiseled features. Though there was a youthfulness about her, delicate crowsfeet at the corners of her eyes hinted at her forty-two years. She was dressed simply in a navy woolen skirt and pale blue sweater. Logan was again struck by the understated simplicity of this family. But Mrs. MacNeil required no ornaments to announce her breeding. It flowed unmistakably with her every move and proclaimed to anyone perceptive enough to notice it that she had been born to the grandeur of Stonewycke. Had Logan read his Glasgow newspapers more closely, of course, he would have realized that things are not always as obvious as they appear.
She stepped toward him and held out a hand, smiling, “Mr. Macintyre, I’m so pleased to meet you. Allison has told me how you helped them on the road today. It was very kind of you.”
Logan stepped awkwardly forward to take her proffered hand. The American accent which spilled fluidly from her mouth came so unexpectedly that, when coupled with the easy grace of her manner, the sophistication which had seemed so refined in London among the Ludlowes and Cochrans fled him.
“I . . . well, it was no real trouble,” he stammered. “I had nothing better to occupy my time.”
“We’d still be stuck in Port Strathy,” put in Nat, who had come back into the parlor behind his mother, “if you hadn’t come along.”
“Well, we couldn’t have that,” laughed Mrs. MacNeil. “And we are certainly happy you have accepted our hospitality.”
“I’m sure the honor’s entirely mine, ma’am,” answered Logan, recovering his possession.
“Dinner won’t be for some time,” she added. “Perhaps you would enjoy having the children show you about the grounds in the meantime.”
Logan replied enthusiastically to the suggestion. Allison, however, begged to be excused from the excursion.
So Nat, who could not have been more fully pleased with the turn of events, led their guest back outside. Breathing in a great draught of the country air, Logan disguised his sigh of relief as a delight for the out-of-doors. More relieved than he would have imagined for the respite from the conversation, he decided this would be the perfect opportunity to question the youth away from the scrutiny of the adults. Thus he could better prepare himself for the more formidable assault of the masters of Stonewycke.