The Inheritance
Page 37
Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of an automobile engine on the gravel outside. She rose and went to open the front door. A white-clad young man was approaching the house from a delivery van. He was carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers—red, white, and blue, with three American flags protruding above them on slender flagpoles amid the flowers.
Loni burst out laughing at the sight. It was so thoroughly American, so completely incongruous to the entire mood of the place!
Was this someone’s idea of a joke?
There appeared to be at least three dozen carnations and—oh no!—chrysanthemums! They were set in a tacky white vase whose shape was intended as a replica of the Statue of Liberty.
“Are ye Miss Ford?” said the man in thick Shetlandic.
“I am,” replied Loni.
“American, by the look and sound o’ it?”
“I’m afraid so,” answered Loni. In light of the garish floral display, she felt oddly embarrassed to admit the fact.
“These are for yersel’ then, mum.” The young man handed her the bouquet. “’Tis a letter for ye in the envelope. Good day tae ye, mum.”
Loni lugged the vase inside and set it on the kitchen table. She sat down and opened the envelope. A typed, faxed letter was enclosed:
I hope you arrived safe and sound, she read. I also hope these flowers find you, along with this faxed note. I had to search high and low in Lerwick, wherever that is, to find a florist who would deliver them to your island. They had a special American bouquet for the 4th two weeks ago—I guess there are lots of Americans over there. They said they had plenty of the flags left, and I thought it would make you feel right at home—
A sudden sneeze interrupted her reading. Loni reached for a tissue, then continued.
I had no idea what directions to give them other than that you were at some “cottage” on Whales Reef. Great news—Congressman Finney’s chief of staff will be on maternity leave from now through the end of the year. He wants me to fill in for her! It’s temporary but an opportunity to take the next step up the ladder. That means I will be in the thick of his reelection campaign. Hurry back. Can’t wait to tell you all about it!
Love, Hugh
Loni set the letter on the table with a smile. She appreciated the thought, but she had better put the flowers outside before a serious allergic reaction set in.
She filled the vase with water and carried it back out to the front of the house. There she set them to one side of the door. She would enjoy them, but outside.
Hugh’s words reminded her that she had not yet finalized her plans to return to the States. One thing was certain—the idea of leaving the following morning was out of the question. She would call and postpone her return flight.
She still had not even been into the village. All she knew of it was through the window of Dickie Sinclair’s taxi. She had much more to learn about her ancestry and this place her Tulloch relatives called home.
She would walk into town tomorrow.
90
The Key and an Old Journal
Beginning to grow sleepy, Loni went out for a walk to the shore. The sea air would wake her up and also clear out any remaining effect on her sinuses from the chrysanthemums.
When she returned to the house, she took out her journal and pen and began the overwhelming task of describing the memorable visit she had had with Sandy Innes.
She had scarcely begun recording the story of Ernest Tulloch’s funeral when her thoughts were interrupted by a distant peal of laughter from inland across the moor. It was faint, coming from a great way off, yet was full of life. She knew it as the same laughter she had heard when the taxi drove past the hotel the previous afternoon.
As the melodic sound died away, Loni flipped to the back pages of her journal. A quizzical smile came to her lips as she scanned her Husband List. How could she have omitted something so obvious?
To the bottom of it she now added the single word Laughter. She looked at what she had written, then added: Laughs easily and often, though not too much, and knows how to make others laugh.
She turned back to the page she had left a moment earlier. Writing further about her conversation with Sandy, however, was too daunting. She had to let it settle a little more first.
It was at last time to explore the letter box she had brought from the desk in her grandfather’s storeroom. She was ready to learn whatever secrets it had to reveal.
Laying pen and journal aside, she walked to the hearth. The box sat where she had placed it on the thick, white marble mantel above the fireplace.
She took it down and returned to what had already become her favorite chair in the house. Carefully she removed the tiny key from the chain around her neck.
For a second time she unlocked the box and slowly lifted back the lid.
There inside were the letters exactly as she remembered them.
She removed the entire stack. Beneath them lay the brown leather book she had glimpsed earlier. Older and with an ornate design embossed on the cover, it was remarkably similar to her own journal.
She lifted the book out of its resting place where it had lain for so many years. As she did, her eyes fell on an object that made her suddenly forget the letters and book altogether.
In the bottom of the box was a large, nearly black, and partially rusted iron key some four or five inches long. It was the biggest key she had ever seen in her life. She reached in and took hold of it. The feel of the cold metal sent a tingle up her arm. Was this the key to the mystery room upstairs, the locked study of Ernest Tulloch?
There was only one way to find out!
Loni leapt to her feet, ran from the room, and, with the key clutched in her hand, bounded up the oak stairs two at a time. Reaching the landing, she slowed as she turned to approach the locked door.
What would she discover behind it?
If Macgregor Tulloch had killed his Norwegian wife and left the body inside, she might as well find out and get it over with.
With trembling hand, Loni inserted the key into the keyhole in the middle of an ornate brass faceplate. It slid in effortlessly.
She turned the key.
A metallic clank echoed through the house as the dead bolt slid back. A second revolution of the key released the latch.
With the key protruding from the door, Loni tried the handle. It gave way to the pressure of her hand.
The door swung open.
Heart pounding, Loni stepped tentatively inside. The sight before her took her breath away.
As she walked into the room, locked for so long, sensations filled her much like being in her grandfather’s workshop. She found herself surrounded by tradition, craftsmanship, and learning. One thing that had definitely not been hidden away in this room was a dead body!
Everywhere she looked were books. The room was filled with furniture whose styles she knew well—a sideboard, chairs, and a roll-top desk that appeared to be an exact duplicate of the one back in Pennsylvania—faded Persian rugs on the floor, tapestries, and paintings on the wall. And the rich aroma of antiquity.
She had stepped fifty years back in time, yet she also felt strangely as if at long last she had come home.
Twenty minutes later, Loni slowly descended the stairs and returned to the great room. Her spirit was calm. The quietness of the ages had stolen over her.
She sat down again. The letter box and brown leather book lay on the low table beside the chair. She took the book in hand and opened it. The Journal of Emily Hanson was printed inside the cover.
According to Sandy’s tale, this was the journal of her great-grandmother!
Loni turned back the leaves to the first page. It was dated 1924.
I am so excited, she read in a compact and precise feminine hand. I have just learned of an opportunity to travel as a lady’s companion to the Shetland Islands in Scotland . . .
Loni could hardly believe her eyes. This was an account of her great-grandmother’s coming to Scotland
eighty-two years before!
Trembling with the thrill of anticipation, Loni began to read. Within minutes she was completely engrossed in her great-grandmother’s story.
She read late into the night.
91
Sleepless in Scotland
ABERDEEN, SCOTLAND
A groan of mingled frustration sounded in a dark hotel room. A great paw of a hand reached for the bedside light. Its owner rolled over.
The clock on the table read 2:18 a.m.
An expletive echoed off the walls. The Texan sat up, reached for the bottle on the nightstand, and poured the crystal glass beside it half full of single malt, then swallowed it in a single gulp.
“Whiskey’ll cure anything that ails you . . . everything except jet lag!” he muttered.
Jimmy Joe McLeod flipped on the TV and did his best to sit up in bed with two undersized pillows stuffed behind him. He remote-controlled his way through the paltry offering of channels. He finally settled on world weather, which circled back around to the floods in Texas every six or eight minutes and thus held some moderate interest for him. But the sleep-inducing power of continuous weather reports was negligible. He could probably watch Japan’s stock report, in full swing by now, but he was a confirmed Dow Jones man. The Nikkei held no interest for him.
After thirty minutes he gave up the attempt. He rose, taking bottle and glass with him, and walked across the room to where his briefcase sat open on the couch. He pulled from it the file on Whales Reef. This was not the file—compiled by his own people—that had first come to his attention five years ago, showing oil reserves, land ownership, proposed sites for a refinery, and all the details that made this particular island such a potential gold mine.
This new file had been faxed to the hotel yesterday. He sat down, poured himself a full glass of Scotland’s fabled aqua vitae, the “water of life,” and began perusing the sheaf of papers. He found a list of the ownership and tenancies of the entire island’s property, along with a complete dossier on the four principal players in the protracted probate investigation that had recently been concluded.
Macgregor Tulloch . . . grandson of Ernest Tulloch . . . prior to his death, owner of all island property except church and a house with acreage known as the Old House . . . deceased 2005.
He knew all about the old Tulloch coot. Blamed fool must have been living in the past century not to care about being rich! Hardly mattered now. Who could have known the old geezer was going to drop dead? If he’d known that, he’d have gone after the heirs a long time ago.
David Tulloch . . . owner of Old House and its attachments and land . . . son of Angus Tulloch, fisherman, deceased . . . great-great-grandson of Ernest Tulloch through fourth child and third son, Leith . . . age thirty-five . . . initially assumed inheritor of island property and chieftainship of clan . . .
“Chief! What is that all about?” said Jimmy Joe to himself. And who was this old fellow Ernest, and why did everything trace back to him?
Hardar Tulloch . . . leading fisherman of island . . . great-great-grandson of Ernest Tulloch through daughter, Delynn . . . age thirty-eight . . . claimant to Macgregor Tulloch’s estate with legal proceedings pending contesting recent court findings and advancing his claim as rightful heir . . .
His people had apparently taken this Hardar fisher fellow under their wing and were engaged with their solicitors in validating his claim. If things went his way and probate was reversed, they would have him in their pocket.
Alonnah Emily “Tulloch” Ford . . . at present named by probate court as Macgregor Tulloch’s heir . . . great-great-granddaughter of Ernest Tulloch through eldest son, Brogan . . . age thirty-two . . . executive assistant employed by Washington, D.C. firm Capital Investments . . . no known connection to Shetland Islands . . . unknown red herring in the mix only recently come to light . . . in all likelihood can be induced to sell . . .
Red herring was right!
How had she come into the picture at the eleventh hour when no one had known of her existence? If only they’d been able to get to the old codger before he kicked the bucket! Though who could tell? he mused—might turn out for the best. He’d never met a woman he couldn’t sweet-talk out of the gold fillings in her teeth!
McLeod took a long, slow swallow of whiskey as his eyes continued to scan the sheet in his hand.
An uncommon name, Alonnah. Seemed he’d heard it before . . .
Nope, couldn’t quite place it. Something was struggling to rise from his subconscious of a past he had all but forgotten.
That name . . . Alonnah . . . why did it strike a familiar chord in his memory?
Ah well, he thought, probably nothing.
92
Another Visitor
Loni Ford awoke to her third day in the Shetlands with the peaceful sound of the sea once again in her ears.
She rolled over in bed with a contented sigh. She was enjoying herself far more than she had anticipated. Thoughts of the previous day slowly flooded her with pleasure: the visit with Sandy, his wonderful reminiscences of her great-great-grandfather’s funeral, her opening the locked study and discovering the priceless treasures contained within, then ending the day reading her great-grandmother’s journal until she could stay awake no longer.
She had already delayed her planned departure back to the States. Maybe tomorrow she would think about how long to stay. But not today.
Twenty minutes later, Loni descended the large oak stairway, her great-grandmother’s journal in hand, and followed her new morning routine—building a fire, putting water on for coffee—she might even try the tea again—and setting out oatcakes, butter, and jam.
Soon she was enjoying what Sandy Innes would call a feast.
An hour later she was seated with her feet up in front of a wonderfully glowing fire of peat, again reading her great-grandmother’s journal. On the low table beside her sat a large mug of tea, properly flavored with milk. She read for perhaps another hour when she was startled out of her reverie by musical chimes. No clock in the house made a sound like that. It must be the doorbell.
Loni rose and walked to the entryway. She opened the door. There stood a man she had never seen before, about her own age, perhaps a year or two older. He was even taller than her, with unruly curly brown hair falling over his ears and forehead.
“Good morning!” he said with a smile. “You are, I take it, Miss Ford?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Loni, returning his smile. Her eyes flitted to the vase of carnations and chrysanthemums she had set outside next to the door.
“I noticed them too,” said the man. “Quite a lavish bouquet, I must say . . . and very American.” Then he added with a hearty laugh, “My trifling little offering certainly pales alongside that!”
It was the same infectious laugh Loni had heard on the island twice already.
Her visitor handed her a small sprig of purple heather tied with a tartan ribbon.
“I picked this for you,” he said. “It seems a rather paltry gift now, but it is all I have to offer. I am David Tulloch. I came by to welcome you to Whales Reef.”
Books by Michael Phillips
Fiction
THE RUSSIANS*
The Crown and the Crucible
A House Divided
Travail and Triumph
THE STONEWYCKE TRILOGY*
The Heather Hills of Stonewycke
Flight from Stonewycke
Lady of Stonewycke
THE STONEWYCKE LEGACY*
Stranger at Stonewycke
Shadows over Stonewycke
Treasure of Stonewycke
THE SECRETS OF HEATHERSLEIGH HALL
Wild Grows the Heather in Devon
Wayward Winds
Heathersleigh Homecoming
A New Dawn Over Devon
SHENANDOAH SISTERS
Angels Watching Over Me
A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton
The Color of Your Skin Ain’t the Color of You
r Heart
Together Is All We Need
CAROLINA COUSINS
A Perilous Proposal
The Soldier’s Lady
Never Too Late
Miss Katie’s Rosewood
CALEDONIA
Legend of the Celtic Stone
An Ancient Strife
THE HIGHLAND COLLECTION*
Jamie MacLeod: Highland Lass
Robbie Taggart: Highland Sailor
THE JOURNALS OF CORRIE BELLE HOLLISTER
My Father’s World*
Daughter of Grace*
On the Trail of the Truth
A Place in the Sun
Sea to Shining Sea
Into the Long Dark Night
Land of the Brave and the Free
A Home for the Heart
Grayfox
A New Beginning
The Braxtons of Miracle Springs
THE SECRET OF THE ROSE
The Eleventh Hour
A Rose Remembered
Escape to Freedom
Dawn of Liberty
AMERICAN DREAMS
Dream of Freedom
Dream of Life
Dream of Love
The Sword, the Garden, and the King
Heaven and Beyond
Angel Harp
Murder By Quill
From Across the Ancient Waters
Angel Dreams**
SECRETS OF THE SHETLANDS
The Inheritance
Nonfiction
The Eyewitness New Testament (3 volumes)
The Commands
The Commands of the Apostles
George MacDonald: Scotland’s Beloved Storyteller
*with Judith Pella **with Chris Schneider
About the Author
Michael Phillips is a bestselling author of a number of beloved novels, including such well-known series as SHENANDOAH SISTERS, CAROLINA COUSINS, CALEDONIA, and THE JOURNALS OF CORRIE BELLE HOLLISTER. He has also served as editor of many more titles, adapting the classic works of Victorian author George MacDonald (1824–1905) for today’s reader, and his efforts have since generated a renewed interest in MacDonald. Phillips’s love of MacDonald’s Scotland has continued throughout his writing life.