The Secret Gift (13 page)

Libby found herself holding her breath as she waited for him to go on.

“The stone you wear is very old,” Ian began. “Older than any recordable history can be traced. ’Tis legend which tells us the stone was given to the first Mackay chief by a mermaid.”

“A mermaid?” Libby said.

“Aye. She lives, they say, in
Loch na Maighdean Mhara,
across the moor from the village. Many claim to have seen her, even in recent days, sunning herself on the rocks. She is the Mackay guardian spirit, and her stone became the guardian stone of the Mackay clan. It was passed chief to son for hundreds of years. Over the ages, it has been used at various times and in various ways, for healing, as prophecy, all in preservation of the clan. There was one such occasion no less than some two hundred and sixty years ago, when a clan chieftain was mortally wounded in battle. He was on the very brink of death, they say, and the stone was dipped into the water that was used to wash the man’s injuries. Miraculously, he recovered. ’Tis said he lived long enough to see his great-grandchildren running across these very hills.”

Ian had the true voice of a storyteller, and Libby found herself completely caught up.

“You must have noticed sometimes that the stone seems to change, coloring like an ember or a piece of ice.”

“Yes,” Libby nodded, fascinated. “I thought it was my imagination.”

“Well, some, mostly those skeptical of its powers, insist it is merely some sort of natural reaction of the stone. Others believe that it portends events of importance to the clan—births, times of danger, even deaths. Obviously such an instrument, if it were true, would be of great value to a Mackay enemy, and there are those who have tried to steal the stone for their own. But always the stone would return, usually following the mysterious death of its captor. But whenever it returned, it brought with it a period of great prosperity to the clan. Only once before did the stone completely vanish. The chief’s heir had carried it into battle and was thought lost, the stone lost with him. The clan fell into dark times, with much strife and tragedy. Until the day a beautiful lady came to this place, carrying the missing stone with her. From then on, the stone no longer was known as the Mermaid’s Stone, or even the Mackay Stone. It became known as Lady Isabella’s Stone, for ’twas she who returned it. With her, the stone was no longer passed father to son”—he looked at her closely—“but was kept safe by each laird’s wife.”

Libby looked at him. “So you are saying the stone was missing before I brought it here with me now?”

Ian merely smiled, he didn’t answer her, just then went on with the telling of his tale. “Now, Matilde Donn was a crofter’s daughter, and when she came of a certain age, she took a position of employment at the Castle Wrath, working about the house, in the kitchen, above-stairs. Her favorite place, however, was the library, and she’d sneak away whenever she could to read.”

Libby nodded. “My mother always loved to read.”

“It would stand to reason. She had an ancestor who was a great Gaelic bard. He’s buried in the old church, you know.”

Libby looked at him. “Ian, who is the man in the photograph I showed to you?”

He smiled. “He is Fraser Mackay. He was the last Mackay laird’s only son and heir.”

“So then how did my mother come to—?” Libby looked at them both, suddenly remembering Ian’s words:
no longer passed father to son ... but was kept safely by each laird’s wife.

The laird’s wife.

“Are you saying that my mother was, that she was married to this Fraser Mackay?”

Ian breathed deeply. “Matilde told me, told everyone, they had been married. One thing is for certain. There was no doubt she had a bairn growing in her belly when she left the village some thirty years ago.”

“What?” Libby looked from Ian to Betty. The woman’s expression had softened, her eyes dark with compassion. She nodded slowly.

“You’re saying—?”

“Aye, lass. You’re the child your mother was carrying. You are the Mackay heir.”

Libby went short of breath. Her chest felt tight and she blinked, trying to focus her thoughts. “But this cannot be. My father was Charles Hutchinson. I have a birth certificate with his name on it.”

And then Libby remembered something, something that had seemed insignificant at the time but that now was ominously noteworthy.

Shortly after Libby had taken the position at Belvedere Books, she’d had to apply for a passport for her work, in case she might ever have to travel out of North America for a sale. She remembered she’d had to call her mother to ask her for a copy of her birth certificate, and her mother had seemed almost reluctant to send it. In the end, she’d finally said she would check with John Dugan, the family lawyer, for a copy.

Remembering that now, Libby looked down at the image of the man who smiled out from the photograph, looked at him as if it was the first time she’d ever seen him. And suddenly she knew why he’d looked so familiar to her.

It was his eyes.

They were the same eyes she had seen staring back in the mirror all her life.

She looked at Ian. “Where can I find him? Where can I find this Fraser Mackay?”

“I’m afraid you cannot, lass. Young Fraser’s parents, the old laird and lady, were unaware of their son’s relationship with Matilde. Given the fact that she was one of their housemaids, they wouldna likely have welcomed the news. Most certainly Fraser’s mother, Lady Venetia, wouldna have welcomed it. Lady Venetia was a proud woman. The laird had met her while on the Continent, and her father was some sort of Dutch count. She had very definite ideas about bringing the Mackay lineage to a distinction that would rival that of the other great Scottish families. Knowing this, Fraser convinced your mother to marry him without first telling either of their families. I’m sure he thought that once the deed was done, his parents would have to welcome their new daughter-in-law and their expected grandchild. But in the end, it didn’t matter. Lady Venetia simply refused to acknowledge the marriage.

“According to another of the housemaids”—Ian glanced at his wife—“in fact it was my Betty here, it was a most terrible scene. Fraser suggested Matilde return to her parents to allow him to talk to his family alone. He hoped he could convince them to accept her. It was the last time anyone ever saw him.”

“What do you mean?” Libby blinked, trying to understand. “What happened to him?”

“It was reported that they’d apparently gone sailing out by one of the isles off the kyle. There was a storm. The boat capsized. The laird and Lady Venetia, they were rescued from the sea by a pair of passing fishermen. Young Fraser, however ...”

“He drowned?”

“It is a powerful stretch of sea, and many a sailing craft has met her demise upon its unforgiving current. His body was recovered over a fortnight later, washed up on one of the nearby beaches. In any case, it left your mother, and her family, in a terrible predicament. They were tenants of the Wrath estate, as we all are here in the village. Out of anger for their loss, the laird and Lady Mackay evicted your mother’s family from their farm and then burned the place to the very ground so they could never return. Anyone who was found to help them, even if they so much as sheltered them for a night, they, too, would be evicted from their homes. Your mother and her family, they had no choice but to leave. That is why no one in the village would speak to you of your mother, lass. Because those who were here then remember well those dark times, and even now, some three decades later, there is still the terrible fear.”

The fear of Lady Venetia Mackay’s wrath.

Because of the five-hour time difference between the United Kingdom and the States, Libby had to wait until later that afternoon to place a call to John Dugan.

Lunch had been ready and waiting at the Crofter’s Cottage when Libby had returned from the village. Libby had tried to remind the two sisters that they ran a bed-and-breakfast, not a bed-and-breakfast-lunch-and-dinner, but they just couldn’t seem to help themselves. They set out a place for her at every meal, inquired as to whether she liked various dishes, planned their meals around her. And the baking! Fresh batches of shortbreads, scones, and biscuits appeared daily. It was like having two identical doting grandmothers at once.

As she sat there surrounded by a spread of cold-cut sandwiches, salad, crisps, sliced peaches, and shortbread still warm from the oven, the two sisters must have sensed that Libby’s thoughts were elsewhere. They didn’t pry, just offered her a dish piled high with portions of each of the aforementioned items and a seemingly bottomless pot of tea as they chatted about the latest village gossip—the upcoming whist tournament at the Village Hall and old Hugh Mackay’s goat, who had apparently roamed over to the neighboring croft and eaten Farmer Bain’s wife’s knickers, which had been out drying on a clothesline.

“Well, at least the beast got a substantial meal out of them,” Maggie chirped. “He’d have starved if he’d tried that over at Bessie MacNeil’s cottage.”

“That skinny thing? She’s a walking stick, she is!” Aggie dissolved into a spell of giggling so girlish it belied her graying hair. “ ’Tis like comparing a smorgasbord to little more than a dry biscuit!”

Normally Libby would have enjoyed listening to them, the cadence of their voices and their wry, lyric mirth. But her attention kept drifting to the clock on the wall and the absolute slothfulness with which it was ticking.

Finally, at precisely two o’clock, Libby stood and took her dishes to the kitchen.

“Would you mind if I used the phone?” she asked as the sisters set to work at the kitchen sink.

“Of course not, dear. Calling the car hire company again?”

“No. I need to make a call to the States.”

“Oh, no trouble. It is just there, on the wall.”

“Actually,” Libby said, eyeing the phone, “it’s sort of a private call.”

“Oh.” Aggie looked at her as if she just couldn’t fathom such a thing as a need for privacy.

Maggie, who wore a mint-green apron to protect her mint-green dress from the dishwashing suds, jumped to attention. “There’s another phone, in the office where we keep all the business records. You can close the door so the kitchen noise won’t disturb you.”

Libby nodded and smiled in appreciation. “Thank you.”

The “office” was little more than a closet, large enough to just fit the antique writing desk and chair she found inside with the shelves of papers, books, and supplies that hung above it. There was no window, and in fact, she had to lean back against the desk in order just to close the door. Dropping into the seat, Libby took up the phone and started punching in the overseas exchange.

After a slight delay, she heard the phone on the other end of the line begin to ring.

“Good morning. John Dugan’s office, Kathleen Spencer-Brown speaking. May I assist you?”

Kathleen Spencer? Libby had gone to school with her, although they’d moved in completely different social circles. Kathleen had been with the teased-hair, Madonna-ite navel-showing, Daddy-bought-a-brand-new-car-on-her-sixteenth-birthday set. She’d spent the whole of their high school years lip-locked to Jimmy Brown, team quarterback and unquestionable hunk. Obviously, from the name she’d just given, she had managed to keep him lip-locked long enough to get him to the altar.

“John Dugan, please,” Libby asked, in no mood for revisiting high school memories.

“May I ask who’s calling, please?”

Damn.

“Isabella Hutchinson,” she replied, purposely trying to disguise herself with the first name she’d never used in school.

“I’m sorry, Miss ... Libby? Libby Hutchinson? Is that you?”

Damn, damn, damn.

“Yes. Hi, Kathleen. I wondered if that was you. How are you?”

“Oh, fine. Busy, busy, busy. I’m working part-time here now that the kids are in school. Mr. Dugan was willing to let me off at three each day so I could be home in time to meet the school bus. You know how that is ...”

Libby could almost hear the thoughts cranking through Kathleen’s brain as she realized that Libby, after the very public wedding fiasco of six months ago, and still obviously using her maiden name, probably didn’t know how it was to have to meet the local school bus at all. “Yes, well, may I speak with Mr. Dugan, please?”

“I’m sorry, Lib. He’s not in at the moment.”

Lib?

She tightened her jaw. She could not wait for him to call her back.

“Look, Kathleen, I had that same job the summer after high school, so I know perfectly well that he is in. In fact he’s sitting in his office, at his desk, with his cup of coffee on a coaster to his right, a half-eaten jelly donut on his left, and the morning edition of the
Globe
open before him. Isn’t he?”

There was a pause. Kathleen obviously didn’t know what to say.

“I am out of the country, and I only have a very small window of opportunity where our time zones are compatible. This is that window, Kathleen. Right now. I need to speak with him urgently.”

A heavy sigh. “Hold on.”

Kathleen, she could tell, was not pleased, but she left Libby to listen to the strains of Elvis’s “Heartbreak Hotel” on Muzak as she waited. Dugan always had loved the oldies. She even found herself softly humming along when, a moment later, she heard the line pick up again.

“Hello, Isabella.”

John Dugan, Ipswich-by-the-Sea’s most notable attorney-at-law was the only one, other than her mother, who had ever called her by her full first name. Even sitting as she was an ocean away, Libby could picture him clearly, in his dusty office with stacks of paperwork and lawbooks piled fort-like around him. His thin, graying hair would be combed over the balding spot he tried so hard to hide, and his tie would be crooked even though he’d only just started the day. There would be a dusting of powdered sugar on his lapel from the donut he was having for breakfast, and his fingers would be smudged from the ink of his morning paper. When she’d worked for him, Libby had spent most of her workday fighting a never-ending battle to tidy up behind him. She rather doubted that Kathleen Spencer-Brown would demean herself to follow suit.