The Secret Gift (6 page)

“ ’Tis why at clan gatherings you’ll find thousands of MacDonalds or Fergussons or Campbells,” added Aggie. “Strength in numbers, you know.”

Libby found herself very grateful that her mother hadn’t come from a city the size of Inverness or Edinburgh. It would have taken her probably twenty years to get through all the Mackays there. Here, in this small village, the task would, she hoped, be much easier. “Well, then, it would seem I’d better start at A. Mackay and work my way through to Z.”

Little more than an hour later, fed, bathed, changed, and suitably dressed for visiting, Libby made her way into the village.

From her Web research, Libby had learned that the village of Wrath had a population of approximately three hundred and fifty, twenty-seven of whom composed the one school’s student body. The village’s biggest claim to fame was its location; it was the most northwesterly village on the Scottish mainland, was the site of a nineteenth-century Stevenson lighthouse, and a far more ancient privately owned castle.

The rest of the population was fairly evenly divided in age, with slightly more than a third in the “over-fifties.” It was that age group in which Libby had the most interest, for any cousins or acquaintances of her mother would more than likely be found there. And even if there weren’t any direct family, it would be the older generation who would best be able to tell her if they recognized the man in the photograph.

Libby drove slowly along the village high street, taking in the small whitewashed cottages that lined the narrow roadway on either side. There was the post office she’d passed the night before, a petrol station and garage, a grocer and general store, a hardware store, the pub, and a smattering of other gift and craft shops. There was also a “chip shop” for takeaway meals and a quaint little café.

It was Saturday, and blessedly the weather was mild, the sun bright against a blue sky, with only the slightest chill in the air. The sweater and turtleneck she wore were more than adequate to keep her warm. She pulled the car into the small parking lot of the post office, which was attached to the grocer and general store. She had to smile at the sign that hung above the front window. It said simply
THE STORE
, quite obviously needing no further distinction. What better place, she decided, to begin acquainting herself with the local residents?

A small bell tinked above her head when she pushed open the door. Behind the counter, a woman of perhaps sixty looked up, peered at her with that sort of curious look reserved for strangers, then offered a soft smile.

Libby returned the smile and closed the door behind her. A rack of tourists’ pamphlets lined the wall, and Libby made at browsing them while the woman behind the counter accepted payment from her other customer, thanked her, and wished her well. When she’d gone, the proprietress looked back to Libby, who had turned her attention to a shelf of homemade preserves.

“Good day to you t’day, miss. It is a fine one, aye?”

Her voice was melodious and immediately reminded Libby of her mother.

She nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“A fair sight better than that spitting bit o’ rain we had yes’treen.” She nodded in agreement with her own comment, looking Libby’s way more closely. “Anything in particular you’re after looking for? Postage stamps, perhaps? Postcards? We’ve a rack of them here by the counter.”

Libby took this as an opportunity to engage the woman in closer conversation. She approached the postcards and started looking through them, noting images of standing stones and castles and brilliant sunsets over glittering lochs. She chose one, an image of a herd of sheep crowding a single-track road. The caption beneath it said, “Rush Hour in Scotland.” She would send it to Rosalia at the shop.

“You’ll be wanting postage for the card, then?”

Libby smiled, nodded.

“Where will you be posting to, then? ’Twill determine the amount of postage you’ll be needin’.”

“The United States,” Libby answered.

“Oh, I thought you might be American. From what part?”

“New York,” Libby answered, and then added, “But I was born in Boston.”

“Ah, New York,” the woman nodded. “I’ve always wanted to go there, just once, to see it. It must be so exciting to live there, so many people and things to see.”

“Yes, it can be.”

“Is it true when they say you can stand on top of the Empire State Building and see some eighty miles away?”

“I have heard that is true.”

“Can you imagine that? Why, that’s nearly from here to Inverness!” She shook her head incredulously. “Will you be staying long in the village, then, or are you just passing through?”

“I’ll be staying at least a little while.”

“Isn’t that lovely? Where are you staying, then?”

“At the Crofter’s Cottage.”

“Ah, the sweet
Sassunach
sisters’ place. Yes, they run a nice house there, they do. They’ll take care of you right well. Well, ’tis glad I am you’re staying even for a little while. Most pass through the village on the way to someplace else. But there’s much to see here, too. Well, I certainly hope you’ll enjoy your stay here in the village. We’re not nearly as foreboding as the name implies. In fact, quite the opposite. I’m Ellie Mackay, by the way.”

The woman held out her hand, and Libby shook it. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Mackay. I’m Libby Hutchinson.”

“Welcome, Libby Hutchinson. If there’s anything I can do for you, all you need do is ask.”

Libby nodded. “Actually, I’ve come to the village on a bit of family research.”

“Have you now? Well, I’ve lived in this village all my life. Perhaps I could be of help, although I’m afraid I dinna recall any family named Hutchinson ever having lived here.”

“It is my mother’s family I’m looking for. She was born here, before she emigrated to America over thirty years ago. Her name was Matilde. Matilde Mackay.”

Though she tried hard to mask it, the change in Ellie Mackay’s expression was almost instantaneous. The sunny smile faded to a look of cautious speculation. “Indeed,” she said, her voice trembling a little. “Matilde Mackay, you say? And you’re her daughter ...”

“Yes. She would have been about thirty years of age when she left the village.”

She stared at Libby, chewed her bottom lip, then shook her head slowly. “I’m afraid I cannot say I ever knew of any Matilde Mackay.”

“You’re certain?”

She looked away, making a pretense of neatening an already neat display of candy bars. “Yes, quite. Will the postcard and postage be all, then?”

Libby simply nodded.

Ellie rang up the purchases quickly, accepted the pound note in payment, and returned the change. “Perhaps you’ve got the name of the village wrong. If you asked your mum again ...”

Libby shook her head, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I cannot do that. My mother has passed away.”

“She’s ... ?” Ellie looked genuinely saddened by the news. Too saddened for having heard the news about the passing of a total stranger. “Oh, I’m so sorry, child.”

Libby wanted to press her, but she sensed she wouldn’t get very far. The woman almost seemed afraid to talk to Libby all of a sudden. So instead Libby thanked her, and turned to leave. As she closed the door and stepped back out onto the footpath, Libby couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something there, something she wasn’t being told.

Libby was met with the same response all along the village’s high street, at the hardware store, the petrol station, and even at the pub. No one, it seemed, could ever recall anyone named Matilde Mackay. Or was it that no one seemed willing to admit that they did? She’d even put in a call to the Register Office in Edinburgh, which told her that they could locate no record of her mother’s birth—not in Wrath Village ... not anywhere in Scotland.

But there was still the underlying sense that something was there.

By the time Libby had reached the end of the village’s main street, the sky was darkening with the coming of dusk and the wind was blowing in hard off the sea, tugging at her hair. Lights had begun to glow from cottage windows, while quiet laughter and the blare of a television spilled out from the pub’s open door.

Libby had nearly decided to give up for the day when she noticed a little church up the hill overlooking the village. Built of stone, harled and whitewashed, it had a small steepled bell that was apparently still used to summon the villagers to Sunday service by way of a rope that trailed down to the painted blue door. Headstones and crosses tilting at odd angles littered the grassy yard inside the simple stone fence that encircled the sanctuary. Many of the stones were bleached white from the salty sea spray that blew in from the bay.

The gate gave a mournful squeak as Libby entered the churchyard and walked along the narrow pathway. There was a calmness to the little enclosure despite the sea wind and she lingered amidst the headstones, reading the names, the dates, the thoughtfully composed inscriptions. Some of the stones were so weathered, she could no longer read the names, others had toppled from the effects of time, lying where they’d fallen. She noticed a number of Mackays amongst those buried and found herself wondering whether any of them could be her mother’s family.

Her
family.

Libby walked to the church door, trailing her fingers along the rough end of the rope bell pull. She grabbed the door handle, even though she expected it would be locked, and was surprised when the door swung open easily.

Inside, the church was small, with a beamed ceiling and rows of wooden benches spaced evenly beneath the arched windows. Though dusk’s shadow had darkened the light inside, Libby could easily imagine the sunrise beaming brilliantly through the windows as the minister stood in his pulpit preaching to his congregation.

There was a plaque on the wall that stated the church had been built in 1750, replacing an earlier church that had been located further outside the village. Libby walked along the flagstoned center aisle, stopping at the first row of benches. She rested a hand against the bench, the wood polished smooth by generations of parishioners who had sat through Sunday services. She could picture them, the men dressed in their Sunday best, mothers cradling babies in their arms while the older children sat alongside, fidgeting in their places. Every footstep she took seemed to echo with whispers of the weddings, christenings, and funerals that had taken place in this small sacred place.

She spied the baptismal font carved out of stone. Could her mother have been christened at that same font while the villagers looked on? Would she ever truly know?

The frustration had tears welling in her eyes and Libby let go a slow, unhappy sigh. Perhaps she should just go back to the States, back to her studio walk-up on West Seventy-sixth Street, with its view of the corner Chinese takeout whose menu she knew by entrée number. Whatever it was, whoever was pictured in the photograph, had been unknown to her all her life. Perhaps this legacy that her mother had left her was simply meant to remain a mystery forever.

“Hallo?”

Libby turned. A figure stood framed in the doorway behind her.

“Sorry to disturb. I was just checking things for the night. I didn’t think anyone was here.”

Libby got up, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. I was just leaving ...”

He stepped forward to meet her, an older man, with graying hair and soft, kindly eyes. “I’m Sean MacNally, the minister here. Was there”—he peered at her—“something you were looking for?”

“I thought so.” She stopped, shook her head. “But apparently it doesn’t wish to be found.”

“And are you certain you’ve looked everywhere, Miss ... ?”

“Hutchinson. Libby Hutchinson.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hutchinson.” He motioned toward the door. “Come, it’s getting dark in here. Let us have a wee walk, and perhaps you can give it one last try.”

Libby spent the next hour with the minister, telling him her story over a pot of tea and a tuna sandwich in his cozy kitchen. Like any good clergyman, he simply listened while she talked, offering a nod here, a smile of encouragement there. He was easy to talk to, asking her to call him by his first name, and Libby soon found herself talking about more than just the photograph and the odd crystal stone. For the first time, she talked about her mother’s passing, and the feelings she had fought hard to keep locked away.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she finished, shaking her head. “It is as if my mother never existed, but I know there must be some connection to this village. She had to have left me that photograph and that stone for a reason. I’ve come all this way and I just feel as if I’ve failed her ... again.”

Sean looked at her. “Why don’t you come back to the church in the morning? Although the Register Office should certainly have had record of your mother’s birth, there could be any number of reasons why they couldn’t locate it. Being so remote, our parish has retained many traditions of the past, particularly in continuing to keep the records for the parish as they have been kept throughout history, handwritten in register books. Every birth, marriage, and death since the church was built has been recorded and is archived there. If your mother was born anywhere in this parish, she’ll be there. And we will find her.”

The phone rang only a second before the fax machine clicked on.

Graeme grabbed the cordless, hitting the
TALK
button as he put it to his ear. The fax on the desk beside him began whirring a page through.

A moment later he was greeted by his mother’s cheery voice.

“Hello, darling. Just thought I’d call to see how things were going ...”

Graeme watched for the page emerging from the machine. “Shall I assume this fax is from you, then?”

“Ehm ...” She hesitated, her voice becoming decidedly less cheery. “I thought I might give you fair warning rather than having it sprung on you unexpected.”

Brilliant. He couldn’t bloody wait.

Even as he said this to himself, Graeme could see the familiar wasplike logo of
The Buzz
newspaper slowly spitting out of the bottom of the fax machine.