Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  What all these had fought for, what some of them had given their lives for, it lived on!

  Of course, things could have been different, perhaps should have been different, and may yet be different again. Scotland may not have presently been an independent political entity. But the Scots knew themselves as a people, proud and strong and, yes, independent. No one could rule their hearts. They lived in no mere northern extension of England, they dwelt in Scotland!

  I could hear their voices from the field of Bannockburn echoing silently north and west across the Highlands, in all directions to the sea—to the Atlantic of the Western Isles, to the Orkneys, to the Moray Firth, to the North Sea off Aberdeen and Dundee: This is proud Caledonia!

  Along with Byron’s “Lochnagar,” I read Burns’s “Caledonia” again and again as the type of this heroic outlook of history, climaxing triumphantly with the words read throughout Scotland by every Scottish boy and girl: “Thus bold, independent, unconquer’d, and free, Her bright course of glory forever shall run, For brave Caledonia immortal must be.”

  As I walked, with the valley of the Coe below, the heather’s nuanced colors had nearly reached their glory, a subtle robe of Caledonia’s regal majesty spreading over otherwise barren slopes.

  I stooped to pluck a tiny sprig, then sat down and gazed at the blending of purples and whites.

  In one of life’s many mysteries, it is death that brings life, winter that leads to spring. As quickly as the bloom of heather comes, it fades and gives way to the harsh realities of its own death. In flower it serves no useful function. Only in after years, as decaying blooms pile upon one another, layer upon layer, century upon century, millennium upon millennium, does the heather, like the tiny blossoms in my hand, gradually solidify into that miraculous substance known as peat, which contains within its bosom the invisible fire of life, the heart of the Scot. The dying purple bloom of ages past thus yields up its life for a more useful end, that its long-dead blossoms might warm the homes of the Scottish Highlands for a thousand cruel northern winters yet to come.

  In the same way, with the fading blooms of their gallant reigns, short-lived in Mary’s case, and fired but briefly in the imagination of the Bonnie Prince, was born a lasting vision of national pride and freedom for the country they loved. It was a vision like the heather-symbol of their homeland—everlasting and glowing bright through ongoing centuries.

  What a fit token was this tiny plant, I thought, for the young queen and the boy prince whose rules were so poignantly brief. The purple garment of their royalty burst into glory but for a moment, quickly to be extinguished by the sword of Elizabeth’s executioner and the sword of Cumberland’s cruelty. As short-lived as were those their radiant hours, however, out of the fading bloom of the Stewart dynasty in the years following Culloden was born a hope that gave new meaning to the very land that neither could conquer, and infused a yet deeper life into Caledonia’s consciousness.

  The Queen and the Prince were reborn every year in the heather—their royal robes flowering afresh, though, as in their lives, always but for a fleeting remembrance. Yet it was a memory that would always return. For as long as time existed, the Scots would forever sing, “Will ye no come back again?” Neither sword nor winter could kill the legend.

  As I left Glencoe midway through the afternoon, playing the CDs of my expanding collection, the music of pipers, accordians, fiddles, and tin whistles wove a magical spell, now with a ballad, now with a dance tune, now with sad lament of poignant historic Burns’s verse, infecting me with a full sense of pride, contentment, and significance. Never, I thought, was the folk music of a nation so perfectly one with the evocative sensations caused by the land itself. If these Highlands, these streams, these forests, these bare and rocky mountains, these jutting and jagged seascapes… if they could produce music of themselves… if out of their very essence the sounds of symphony could arise from the places where hidden melodies haunted the ground and rocks, and lift their strains to the heavens—surely that glorious symphony would be a combination of the melodies, rhythms, instrumental combinations, ballads, and harmonies the musicians of Scotland had given her people through the years in song.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Home” Again

  Hail! To the mountains with summits of blue;

  To the glens with their meadows of sunshine and dew;

  To the women and men ever constant and true,

  Ever ready to welcome one home.

  —John Cameron, “The Mist Covered Mountains of Home”

  When I returned to Port Scarnose on Monday, I felt almost as if I were a different person than the woman who had left five days before. I arrived late in the day, about seven-thirty in the evening. It was so much like coming home it was almost frightening.

  How could I feel so at home in a place I had never heard of less than a month before?

  On the floor lay two envelopes that had been put through the door while I was gone. Without even opening them I knew who they were from.

  I opened the first, a blank envelope. Marie, read the sheet inside. I hope you had a wonderful visit to Edinburgh. Things here were dull, dull, dull without you! I hope you will come by and let me know when you are back, and I can take you up on that rain check for dinner. Iain.

  Then I opened the second, the monogrammed envelope. The message was similar. Dear Marie, I hope you still want me to call you by name. Please come by and let me know when you are back. I very much want to see you. Alasdair Reidhaven.

  It was the first time the duke had used his name with me. It was going to be hard to think of him as Mr. Reidhaven rather than “the duke,” even harder to think of him as Alasdair.

  Could you ever really call a duke by his first name?

  I put on water for tea, and ate oatcakes and jam and read awhile and then went to bed, glad that I had gone, but happy and content to be back.

  As I drifted to sleep, the last thought I remember was the question of which of the two I would go visit first the next day.

  The question answered itself the following morning.

  The first person I knew I had to see was Gwendolyn.

  About ten-thirty I packed up my harp and the tape recorder and set out for the Urquharts. Dear little Gwendolyn, she nearly knocked me over with a hug when she saw me at the door. Even her ordinarily subdued aunt smiled.

  “Did you bring your harp, Marie?” asked Gwendolyn.

  “I did. It’s in the car. Would you like to play?”

  “Yes, please!”

  Five minutes later Gwendolyn was at my harp lost to the world, oblivious to the tape recorder beside her, making some of the most beautiful and haunting music I had yet heard from her fingers. It brought tears to my eyes as I listened. I knew I was participating in the expression of a musical gift I might never see again.

  I went to see Iain that afternoon. I wanted to tell him about my drive to Edinburgh. It was hard knowing how to begin.

  “I went the way you suggested,” I said as we sat in his kitchen with a pot of tea and oatcakes and biscuits on a plate between us.

  “Some of that scenery is so stark and desolate. Didn’t you find it so?” he said. “Yet beautiful in its own way.”

  “I stopped somewhere south of Braemar, where the road turns south and winds through those lonely hills. I found myself thinking about many of the things you’ve said to me.”

  I paused. I smiled a little nervously. I didn’t know what to say.

  “I hope I haven’t—” began Iain. I heard the concern in his voice and saw a look on his face I hadn’t before. I realized he might have misunderstood.

  “No, it was nothing like that,” I said. “Don’t worry—you haven’t offended me. They were good thoughts, or perhaps I should say, necessary thoughts. I thought about Jesus and the rich young ruler.”

  Iain glanced up at me with a questioning expression.

  I smiled. “Sorry,” I said. “I suppose I have a confession to make. I snuck into church
last week and hid in the back where you wouldn’t see me. I heard your sermon about Jesus and the rich young ruler.”

  Iain was stunned. In one of the rare times since I’d met him, he was at a loss for words.

  “And what you said then,” I went on, “and other things you’ve told me… everything just culminated, I guess you would say, as I was driving.”

  Iain listened patiently.

  “I came to no resolutions,” I said. “All I would say, I suppose, is that God has my attention. I’m not sure what it all means.”

  “Well,” he said at last, “it is always good when we are thinking, even if we can’t see where the path is leading. My only word of encouragement would be not to rush whatever is going on inside you. In our personal journeys of growth, time is an important ingredient. Things take time to resolve themselves.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I will remember that. But what about the rich young ruler? He didn’t have time. Jesus put a life-changing decision before him and he had to decide right then. His delay meant that he turned and walked away. So how does what you just said apply to him?”

  Iain nodded thoughtfully.

  “That is a very good question,” he said after a moment. “Honestly, I have never thought about it in the context of the rich young ruler. I don’t have an answer. I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “So tell me about Edinburgh. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Oh, like you wouldn’t belive. It was a trip of revelations—historical, spiritual, in so many ways. I finally read Burns with meaning. I see clearly how his poetry lies at the root of the great Scottish pride that is so evident everywhere and is responsible for the legendary and heroic perspective Scots have of their history. It is all beginning to fit together for me at last.”

  “Fit together… what?”

  “Everything… the history, the music, the spirituality… the magic. It’s a grand tapestry! It’s all about the heather, by the way.”

  “The heather—how so?”

  “Scotland’s history—it’s all about the heather, and Mary Queen of Scots, and Bonnie Prince Charlie. It’s what the heather means.”

  “This I simply must hear!” Iain laughed.

  I recounted all my touristy and revelatory activities and we visited for another hour.

  As I was leaving, Iain asked me about the rain check. We made arrangements for a second dinner date on Friday evening. He said there was a place he wanted to take me in Banff, about fifteen miles away, with a spectacular view of the seacoast. He said he would pick me up at five-thirty.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Rose Garden

  Oh, there’s meal and there’s ale whaur the Gadie rins,

  Wi’ the yellow broom and the bonnie whins,

  There’s meal and there’s ale whaur the Gadie rins,

  At the back o’ Bennachie.

  —“The Back o’ Bennachie”

  After more than an hour with Gwendolyn, and an hour and a half with Iain, I was nearly visited out for the day. I went back to my cottage and lay down for a while, then spent the rest of the day reading and taking a long walk along the shore to Crannoch and back.

  The next morning I drove to the castle and left a brief note for the duke with Miss Forbes at the front door. All it said was, Duke Reidhaven, I wanted to let you know that I am back in Port Scarnose. Marie Buchan.

  I wasn’t even back to my car yet across the parking area when I heard the door open again behind me and footsteps come crunching across the gravel toward me.

  I stopped and looked back.

  It was the duke. He wasn’t exactly running, but he was hurrying. He held my note in his hand.

  “Marie… Marie, please!” he called after me. “Do you have to go?”

  I waited. He slowed and came toward me, breathing heavily. Whatever had been the cause of his sudden change of mood the last time I had seen him, it was gone now.

  “Could you come in for a while?” he said. His face wore an expression of such boyish eagerness, I truly thought he would crumble if I said no.

  “I suppose,” I said, smiling. “I didn’t want to presume.”

  “Presume!” he said, almost in disbelief. “I have been waiting days to see you again. Please, won’t you stay for a visit?”

  “Of course,” I replied, turning away from the car. “I have nothing urgent on my schedule,” I added, laughing.

  “Oh, good! Come—have you had breakfast?” he asked, leading me back toward the castle.

  “Just tea and a few oatcakes, but—”

  “Good! I’ll have Alicia prepare us something.”

  “Something light,” I said. “I’m not a big morning eater.”

  “Of course, something light! Tea and scones and butteries.”

  He led me inside, had a few words with Miss Forbes, then took me along a corridor, still on the ground floor, and a few minutes later we emerged outside again at the back of the castle.

  “I want to show you the gardens,” said the duke. “They’re not visible from the front. I’m very proud of them.”

  He led me from the door over a stone path across a mown lawn, and through a “doorway” through a giant thick hedge that must have been seven feet tall. We emerged into an extensive rose garden, with paths winding through it in several directions. Invisible from the other side of the hedge, it was like walking into another world. There were so many hundreds of blooms that the air itself hung heavy with fragrance.

  “Oh, it’s spectacular!” I exclaimed. “From the other side of the hedge I would never know this was here. It’s lovely. Who tends all this for you?”

  “Actually I do most of it myself,” replied the duke. “I love gardening. Roses especially. Keeping up this rose garden is one of my most enjoyable pastimes.”

  “What else do you do?” I asked as we slowly wound through thegarden’s paths. “I’ve never met anyone from the aristocracy before—what do dukes do?”

  He laughed. It was a good laugh, a gentle laugh, a nice laugh. He was changing, relaxing, becoming more comfortable and at ease right before my eyes. I tended to think of myself as timid. But compared with the duke, I was the belle of the ball! He was really inward and withdrawn. To have hidden from me, not even showing his face, at our first meeting… now that was being a serious introvert.

  Yet now he was opening up, slowly, like a flower blossoming.

  Was it because of me, was it the harp, was it the music, was it simply because someone—it could have been anyone—was showing an interest in him and was drawing him out of his lonely existence?

  “What do dukes do?” he repeated, still smiling. “Probably not as much as they should.”

  “Do you travel?” I asked.

  “Not much. You have to have someone to travel with, and I don’t. Mostly I see to my business interests.”

  “What are they?”

  “Property. The estate has vast holdings that have been in my family for generations. Managing them is on my shoulders now, like it was on my father’s and my grandfather’s before me. Of course, it is different than it used to be, but still there are hundreds of individual properties, a great deal of forest acreage, several home farms that cultivate hundreds of acres of barley and oats and raise cattle and sheep. It is an extensive operation.”

  “I had no idea. I just thought… I guess I just thought that you had this castle and lived here and… well, I didn’t know what you did. And you manage all that yourself?”

  “There are dozens of people who work for me. I have a business manager who oversees it all from the Buchan Estate offices in town. But I am involved at the decision and administrative level inmost of what goes on. I have offices both here at the castle and in town, though I do most of my work from here.”

  “And you have no other family?”

  “A few distant cousins scattered through England and Scotland, but they are very obscure relations, not even considered legally such in the lin
e of succession, so to speak. I was the only son of an only son. I do, however, have one sister. She and I are the only ones left.—And, by the way, your name, Buchan… are you a long-lost relative come back to trace your lineage or something, to discover your roots? Do you have family in Scotland?”

  “Maybe, but I know nothing of it. It is purely coincidental. I didn’t even know that this region of Scotland was associated with the Buchan name.”

  “That is quite a coincidence.”

  “What about you—I heard that you were married, but—”

  The words just popped out before I realized it.

  “Oh—good heavens!” I said, glancing over at the duke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.” There was a look of pain on his face. But just as quickly, he tried to put my embarrassment to rest.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Think nothing of it. You are right—it was a brief marriage. My wife died in childbirth.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” I said.

  He nodded in acknowledgment.

  “And… the child? The child died as well?”

  I felt cheap and dishonest asking that after what I’d been told about Gwendolyn. But I had to know.

  He winced slightly at the question. “There was a daughter,” he said vaguely, leaving me to wonder how he meant the words to answer my question. Knowing how the villagers talked, he probably knew that I knew. But we didn’t talk about it further.

  We walked on in silence awhile. I regretted having taken the conversation down that path just when the duke had been relaxing and talking more freely.

  “This is a beautiful rose,” I said, pausing to bend down to a bush full of yellow blossoms tinged at the edges with red. I put my nose to one and inhaled. “And so deliciously fragrant!” I exclaimed. “What is it called?”

  “It is one of my favorites,” answered the duke. “It is a hybrid tea rose called Broadway. It is very hard to find. I had to order it from the States, then I propagated several additional plants from it. The combination of color and fragrance, and the perfection of the shape of the blossom—it is truly a stunning rose.”