“What about those weird rhymes she makes?”
Alasdair sighed and nodded. “Yes, there is that, too,” he said. “Her voice almost casts a spell. No one questions that she is other than a paragon of virtue and truth. She can direct a conversation with such subtlety and cunning that people believe whatever Olivia wants them to believe.”
“Alasdair, I am so sorry. I had no idea.”
“In any event,” Alasdair went on, “I had to know and understand for myself. The conclusion I finally reached, as I recall the look and what it seemed she was trying to say, and where she had placed her hand, was that the cause of death could well have been a burst appendix. She had been complaining of stomach pains for weeks. We thought it was from the pregnancy. But now I wonder if those were the warning signs. By then it was too late for an autopsy. The doctor was unresponsive to the idea. Nothing conclusive was ever known. The complaints of abdominal pain are in Dr. Mair’s records. But he dismissed my theory. He, too, had fallen under Olivia’s spell and began to alter his interpretation of events against me. It was said that I had been a troubled youth and that now the true nature of my dark character had resulted in murder. Olivia can weave a story such that facts take whatever shape she wants them to. When she was a girl, I marveled at her ability to bend people to her will. It was more than mere persuasiveness—it had a dark side, too, those rhymes were often in the form of curses and hexes. She was but a girl, but people all through the village were afraid of her. She was always getting me into trouble for things she had done. I honestly do not know if she is herself aware of what her powers of control have made of her.”
“Why would she do this to you?” I asked. “It sounds like she has a vendetta against you.”
“It was not that way at first. But that is what it has become. I am not exactly sure how to answer you. Eventually it became her mission to destroy me in the eyes of everyone in the community.”
“But why? You are her own brother.”
He smiled sadly. “I think the root of it is that I was the one person in the world she could not manipulate with her cunning. I know some of her secrets and she hates me for it. Once I was old enough to begin standing up to her, when I saw her using her wiles to manipulate events or twist facts to get her friends to do her bidding, I just laughed.”
He became silent for a moment and a faraway look came into his eyes.
“Until…” he added, then shook his head. “Until a day came when I could no longer laugh. I knew the games she played with people. She was the same with our parents. They never knew when she was lying through her teeth. But I knew her better than anyone. I think I knew her better even than she knew herself. I was the one person she could not con. She hated me for it. Deep inside where she lets no one see, she is not only cunning, she is utterly unforgiving. She despised me because she knew I was the one person who could expose her for what she was. The only way to keep that from happening was to destroy my credibility. The events surrounding Gwendolyn’s birth at last gave her the chance she had been waiting for for years. And for reasons of her own, she also hated my wife.”
“What reasons?”
“Olivia was jealous of us, jealous of me that I had inherited the castle and the title, jealous of my wife for being able to bear children. Taking Gwendolyn away from us both was Olivia’s revenge. Olivia is barren, you see. She could never have a child of her own. Taking Gwendolyn gave her a daughter to raise as her own. She was looked upon by others as the perfect adoptive mother, sacrificial, compassionate, rescuing the poor child from a dreadful fate. She was able to spread enough lies to prevent me from seeing the child again. She even used the court system.”
“How so?” I asked.
“She had an injunction filed against me. I would have had to break the law to see my own daughter. Can you imagine the humiliation of such a thing?”
“Goodness! I had no idea.”
“I was not even allowed the privilege to name my own child.”
“You didn’t give her the name Gwendolyn… you or your wife?”
Alasdair shook his head. “I discovered that Olivia had already named her,” he said, “and witnessed the birth certificate with the doctor while I lay in bed ill after the birth. No one consulted me concerning the name. That is probably one of the reasons even now that it is difficult for me to say the name. Gwendolyn is a lovely name. But it is not my name for my daughter. And though her name is technically Gwendolyn Reidhaven, she is known to everyone, and to herself, as Gwendolyn Urquhart. My role in her life has been carefully, almost surgically, excised. To poor little Gwendolyn, I do not exist. But that is not the worst indignity of all.”
“I do not understand. What is?”
Alasdair drew in a long breath. As he let it out, the pain was palpable.
“That she calls Olivia’s husband Daddy, and calls Olivia Mummy. I have not heard it with my own ears. If I were to hear it, I cannot tell what I might do. But I have heard that it is true. Max is not around much. He works on the oil rigs offshore. I have heard that he takes on extra duty.”
I didn’t say that I had heard Gwendolyn call Olivia Mummy.
“That’s awful,” I said.
“I have been relegated to a nonperson in Gwendolyn’s life. She does not even know her real name. She fears me, as all the children in the village fear me. Can you blame me for isolating myself away and becoming a hermit? When I go out, wherever I go, knowing what people think of me, knowing that I am despised, that people think I am a rapist and murderer, that they think some diabolical curse of the devil is on me. Good heavens—what people think of me is sometimes more than I can bear. It is an indignity that destroys a man’s manhood, his sense of worth, his sense of who he is.”
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? I gradually isolated myself more and more, until…”
He paused and tried to take a steadying breath.
“Can you imagine—”
His voice broke and a cry that was almost an involuntary sob of anguish came from his lips.
Alasdair turned away. I could tell he was fighting tears, sniffling and breathing heavily. My heart was breaking!
I rose and walked slowly to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. At my touch, his body heaved. Still looking away, he grasped my hand and squeezed it as if it were a lifeline. He sat, looking away, and I stood beside him for a long time in silence.
“Alasdair,” I said softly at length, “would you like me to go? Would you rather be alone?”
Again it was silent.
Slowly his head began to nod. Still he had not turned back to face me.
“Yes… yes, perhaps that is best,” he said, his voice quavering and so soft I could but barely hear it.
I waited a moment longer, then gave his hand a squeeze and turned and left the room by the door through which we had come in. As I closed it, my heart nearly broke to hear behind me one of the most terrible sounds in the world—the sound of a man crying in grief for his child.
It took me awhile to find my way through the maze of corridors. I was glad I knew my way around enough to get to one of the outside doors without encountering Miss Forbes or any of the other staff. Long before I felt the fresh air on my face I was crying, too.
I ran across the gravel entry to my car. A minute later I was on my way driving back through the woods away from the castle.
Chapter Forty-three
Sobering Question
Before we heaved our anchor,
Their evil speech began,
That you no more should see me,
The false and faithless man;
Droop not thy head my darling,
My heart is all thine own;
No power on earth can part us
But cruel death alone.
—Hector MacKenzie, “Health and Joy Be with You”
I was crushed by what Alasdair had told me.
I wept all the way back to the cottage. I ran inside and fell on the bed and so
bbed and sobbed. It was all so terribly sad!
There was so much pain everywhere, so many hurts and misunderstandings. I had no idea what the full truth even was. All I knew was that I ached for them all because I had learned to love them. I had even learned in a way to care for Olivia Urquhart. I was dreadfully confused.
And there was poor little Gwendolyn right in the middle of it.
How right Iain had been. People needed to be reconciled—fathers and daughters and brothers and sisters. There was too much heartache in the world for people not to forgive!
Without realizing it, I began talking as I lay there crying, hardly realizing at first that I had begun to pray, praying from the depths of my heart, praying to God as a Father not as a religious image or caricature—as the Father of a family of which I was part, a family of humanity, a family of brothers and sisters, a family in which there was too much pain.
“God,” I said through my tears, “please bring healing and reconciliation between Alasdair and Olivia and Gwendolyn! If there is any way you can use me, I am willing, even eager.”
The moment the words were out of my mouth my tears began to subside and my spirit calmed. I began to breathe more steadily. Within five minutes I was sound asleep.
When I woke up it was midafternoon. I thought I had heard something. As I came to myself, I wondered if it had been a knock on the door.
I rose from the bed and went out to the lounge. Through the window I saw Olivia Urquhart walking away from the house along the pavement.
I hurried out and ran after her.
“Mrs. Urquhart!” I called.
She stopped and turned.
“I’m sorry. I was asleep,” I said as I approached. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I just came by to say that you may bring the harp if you like,” she said in a businesslike tone. “Gwendolyn is pining away for it. I have not changed my mind about what I said before, but I have no objection to Gwendolyn playing your harp.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said. “I will bring it over later today and leave it for Gwendolyn to play!”
I went back inside, dashed my face with cold water to wash away the remnants of tears and sleep, then sat down and played my harp for perhaps an hour. It was different playing this time, knowing that in a sense I was saying good-bye to my longtime friend for a while.
Perhaps for a long time.
Finally I was ready to send it on, I hoped, to the greater work of bringing joy to a young girl’s heart. Somehow I hoped, though I could not yet see how, that either I or my harp, or even the mysterious music from inside her, might be a bridge between Gwendolyn and her father. But how to achieve reconciliation and healing with Mrs. Urquhart standing in the way determined to prevent it, that I didn’t know.
Then it occurred to me what Alasdair had said, about no one asking his point of view. I didn’t want to be guilty of that. I needed to be open to the truth, whatever it was, wherever it led. That meant I needed to hear her point of view, too.
Suddenly from deep out of the past, my father’s words returned to me:
Don’t charge off condemning someone, or defending someone, unless you know the whole story. You may find yourself defending someone you wish you hadn’t and who isn’t as innocent as you first thought, or condemning another who isn’t as guilty of wrong as you assumed. Drawing conclusions too soon, and without full information, will only result in your getting egg on your face. Nothing in human relationships is as clear as it seems.
Perhaps it was time I told Olivia Urquhart what I knew, and what I didn’t, and let her tell me her perspective of the events surrounding Gwendolyn’s birth.
Who was I to have coincidentally developed a relationship with all three people in this sad family?
And why?
Yet, was that one of the reasons I had come to Scotland? Perhaps, like Ranald had said when we were talking about Scotland’s music, the harp as well as the music had invisible qualities that worked for peace and healing, and perhaps even reconciliation, by touching the deepest longings of those who heard it.
If I was ever to know the full truth, I had to hear both sides.
What if Alasdair was putting a spin on what he told me, just as he said his sister did with her interpretation of events?
Wherever this led me, I had to find out more.
Chapter Forty-four
The Other Side
Her beauty’s skin deep, an’ that’s a’,
It’s the velvet that covers the claw,
She’s a honeyless floo’r, she’s as light as the stoor,
Ye may trust her an hour, an’ that’s a’.
—“She’s Bonnie an’ Braw an’ That’s A’ ”
I took the harp over to Mrs. Urquhart’s in the early evening.
Gwendolyn was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Urquhart asked me to set up the harp, which I did. She thanked me dispassionately and I left. I thought about trying to talk to her right then, but decided not to.
I needed more time to think.
By the following morning I was convinced that talking to Olivia was the right thing to do. Now that thoughts of leaving this place had begun to stir within me, I had to get to the bottom of the situation… for them… for me.
All night, on and off, I thought about it. By morning I was determined to know the truth, if truth was even possible in a relational dispute as complicated and as emotionally charged as this one. Confrontation was not my style, but I was determined to not let Mrs. Urquhart close the door in my face again without getting some answers.
I walked over to her house about ten-thirty in the morning. All the way I kept reminding myself of what to do, drumming up my courage so I wouldn’t turn around. Olivia Urquhart was intimidating. I was not looking forward to this.
I got to the house, drew in a deep breath, and walked up to the door and rang the bell.
When Mrs. Urquhart opened it and saw me, her eyes narrowed imperceptibly. She did not smile.
“Mrs. Urquhart,” I said, “I want to talk to you.”
“I told you, Ms. Buchan, that I do not—”
“I want to talk to you, Mrs. Urquhart,” I interrupted. “You told me things about Alasdair… Mr. Reidhaven… the duke… I don’t even know what I’m supposed to call him—but I have to know if those things are true.”
“Are you doubting my word?” she asked slowly.
“I don’t know what to believe. He has told me some things. You have told me other things. All I know is that it cannot be right to keep a girl from knowing her father. He tells me that is your doing, not his. He says that whatever his mistakes of the past, he has wanted to know Gwendolyn but that you have prevented it. If it is true, that seems a cruel thing to do, Mrs. Urquhart. You tell me he has abandoned her. He tells me you have prevented all contact. Both perspectives cannot be true. So I want to hear your side of it. I am willing to listen to whatever you want to tell me. If it is true, I want to know why you have kept Gwendolyn from her father. You probably think this is none of my business, but I have come to care about both of them very much.”
Mrs. Urquhart’s eyes flashed, though the rest of her features remained calm. I could tell she was furious. She glanced back into the house, her mind obviously working quickly.
“All right,” she said. “I will come round to your cottage in an hour.”
With that she closed the door. Again I was left alone on her porch.
I walked back, breathing more easily now that the tense exchange was behind me. I put on water for tea and waited.
Punctual as fate, exactly one hour later Mrs. Urquhart’s knock came on my door. I opened it expecting to see her breathing fire. I was astonished as she greeted me with a kindly smile.
“Come in,” I said.
She followed me inside.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked, leading her into the lounge. “I have water just boiling.”
“That is very kind of you, uh… Marie. May I call you Marie?”
“Of cour
se,” I replied as I brought in the tea things. The sudden friendliness of her tone caught me utterly off guard.
“You said you had some questions,” said Mrs. Urquhart in a soft voice as she sat down. “Ask whatever you like and I will try to set your mind at ease.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Mostly I just want to know about Gwendolyn and Alasdair. Is it true that you have kept him from being involved in her life?”
“Not in the least, dear,” she replied. “I long for the day that Gwendolyn can know him again. But Alasdair is a troubled man. Surely you can see that. He is much better now, thank God. But he is still not able to care for a young girl. I have only taken Gwendolyn in temporarily because she needs the stable influence of a home and family.”
“But did you get the courts to prevent his even visiting her? He said you filed an injunction against him.”
“That was a long time ago. I only did it for Gwendolyn’s safety. Alasdair forced me to use the court. I would never have done so otherwise.”
“Have you removed the injunction?”
“Not in a technical sense. But whenever Gwendolyn wants to see him, now that she is twelve, she may do so.”
“But does she even know about him? How would she ever ask to see him if you do not encourage her to? She is just a child. It seems that she will do whatever you want her to.”
“There is much you do not understand, Marie,” said Mrs. Urquhart, her voice growing yet softer. She smiled, almost a sickly sweet smile, and stared straight into my eyes. I could feel myself growing sleepy, almost as if I were under a spell. “I did all for Gwendolyn’s best,” she said. “I did all in love, Marie. Only in love. I know whatis best for her. She has suffered much at her father’s hand. There are things you cannot understand. You do not know Alasdair as I do.”
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