The Cottage

by Michael Phillips

  The tall girl tried to hurry past while the two were distracted by the popular Davis Jackson probably making a date with equally popular Audrey Stanton.

  A voice sounded behind her.

  “You’re not one of us, you know,” said one of the girls. “You never were. You don’t belong here. Why don’t you just go back to where you came from?”

  Blinking hard, she reached the classroom and tried to hurry inside.

  “She can’t,” said the other loudly. “She doesn’t know where she came from. No one does! She’s an o-r-p-h-a-n. Ha, ha, ha!”

  The sound of their laughter echoed in her ears as she closed the door and hurried to her desk at the back of the room, trying desperately to stop the rush of tears flooding her eyes.

  20

  Outburst

  As if coming out of a thick fog into the light of day, Loni’s eyes came back into focus. There stood David with a sheepish expression on his face.

  “You . . . you’re the chief!” exclaimed Loni.

  “I’m afraid so,” replied David, trying to smile.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It never seemed to fit into the conversation,” answered David apologetically.

  “You didn’t think I had a right to know?”

  “Of course, I just didn’t—”

  “Didn’t what?” interrupted Loni.

  “I didn’t want to add to your pressure right now.”

  “How would it have done that?”

  “Because of the confusion about the inheritance. When I came to the Cottage, I simply wanted to extend my welcome as a resident of the island, not someone you might somehow consider . . . well, a threat.”

  “You should have considered the truth. Whatever I might have thought about you would have been better than hiding it.”

  “Please, Miss Ford,” said Audney as she came forward. “I shouldna hae opened my big mouth. ’Tis my fault. I’m sorry tae hae said—”

  “It’s not your fault, Audrey.”

  “Audney, miss.”

  “Whatever. It’s not your fault that this . . . Mr. Tulloch . . . this chief of yours tried to hide the truth from me. He wasn’t honest. I’ve lived with secrets all my life and I hate them.” She turned and walked away.

  “Miss Ford,” said David, taking several quick steps after her, “honestly I meant no harm. If we could just talk—”

  Loni spun around. Her face was flushed.

  “I do not want to talk about it!” she said. “Just leave me alone. I need to think. Maybe I should go home and just let the big fisherman have the inheritance. I don’t want it. I never wanted it. I don’t know why I even came here.”

  “Ye canna, miss,” implored Audney, hurrying after them. “Ye canna gie it tae Hardy.”

  “If I am the heir, why can’t I do what I please?”

  “But ye canna do that. ’Tis the worst thing ye could do.”

  “So it could go to your chief instead?”

  “Aye, he’s the rightful heir. A’body on the island kens it.”

  “Apparently the court doesn’t agree,” said Loni. “The lawyer in Lerwick told me that Mr. Hardar Tulloch would be next in line after me.”

  “That canna be, miss. Tell her, David . . . why winna ye tell her?”

  Loni turned again to David, her eyes flashing. “Yes, Mr. Tulloch, what do you have to say for yourself? No doubt you think you deserve the inheritance?”

  The silence that followed was awkward. David did not answer.

  “Tell me, Mr. Tulloch,” repeated Loni. “Should the inheritance rightfully be yours?”

  “That is not for me to say, Miss Ford,” he replied. “Legalities decide such things, not what you or I or Hardy or even Audney or anyone on the island may think.”

  “I’m asking what you think.”

  David drew in a sigh, then spoke in a cautious and measured tone. “Then I would say that it would be wise for you to be very careful. I would suggest that you go slowly and make no rash decisions. Everyone you meet may not be what they appear.”

  “And it would seem that you are the perfect example.”

  David did not reply.

  “Are you going to tell me what you think about the inheritance?” persisted Loni.

  “I would rather not.”

  “You insist on being secretive again?”

  David said nothing.

  “You keep being chief from me, and now you won’t answer a simple question. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m sure the other Mr. Tulloch will do his best for the people of the island. And he doesn’t keep secrets from me.”

  “Ye canna think that, miss,” said Audney, again her voice urgent. “Ye dinna ken him the way I do. Tell her, David. Tell her what Hardy is.”

  Again David remained silent.

  “And it just so happens that he and I are having dinner tonight,” Loni added. “It will give me a chance to discuss plans for the island.”

  Loni walked quickly away, back in the direction she and David had come from. Audney and David stared after her in stunned silence.

  “I’m sorry aboot blurtin’ oot aboot ye bein’ chief, David,” said Audney at length. “I didna ken ye hadna told her. When I saw the two o’ ye together, I jist—”

  “No bother, Audney—forget it,” said David. “Miss Ford knows who I am now.”

  “But why wouldna ye tell her aboot Hardy?”

  “It’s not my place, Audney. I won’t speak against the man.”

  “Then what are we goin’ tae do? Ye heard what she said.”

  “I don’t see that there’s anything we can do about it. If Miss Ford declines the inheritance, then we will be back where we were before and the court will have to decide.”

  21

  Isobel Matheson

  Overwrought and paying little heed to where she was going other than vaguely trying to find her way back to the Cottage, Loni walked through the precincts of the Auld Hoose, having no idea who lived in the place, before striking eastward across the island.

  Confused and still angry, she walked inside the Cottage and threw herself onto the couch. A few tears came and went. She tried to read but to no avail. Finally she went upstairs, flopped onto the bed, and mercifully fell asleep.

  Shortly after lunch, sitting in the living room thumbing absently through one of the guidebooks she had bought in the village, she heard an outside door open in the kitchen, then close. Soft footsteps followed across the floor, then the faint creak of a cupboard door.

  She rose to investigate. Walking into the kitchen, she saw a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. Her unknown visitor was as startled as Loni was.

  “Oh my . . . excuse me, miss!” exclaimed the woman, noticeably flustered. “I didn’t know you were home. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just bringing over a few things for you.”

  “Bringing me . . . from where?” said Loni.

  “From the Auld Hoose, miss. I’m your housekeeper, you see . . . I am Isobel Matheson.”

  “I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Matheson. I am Alonnah Ford.”

  “It’s miss, miss. Neither my brother nor myself are married. Though when folks call me missus, I usually say nothing. It keeps them from feeling sorry for me, if you know what I mean. But I thought you should know how things stand.”

  “I see. Are you the one I have wanted to thank for the nicely stocked kitchen when I arrived?”

  “Mostly the chief, miss.”

  Loni bristled but ignored the reference.

  “He told me what to bring,” the housekeeper went on. “He wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home.”

  “You say you are my housekeeper . . . you worked for the former laird, then?”

  “Aye, miss.”

  “Where do you stay? I mean, do you live here?”

  “Aye, miss—that is, we did, my brother and myself—in the west wing.”

  “Why have I not seen you about?”

  “We’ve been at the Auld Hoose, m
iss. You know, the chief’s house across the island.”

  “Why there?”

  “The chief thought it best at first, miss.”

  “Were you under the impression I would not want your services?”

  “We didn’t know, you being the new laird and all, and an American with your own way of doing things. The chief didn’t want us to be in your way. He thought it best for us to stay with him until you were settled and decided what you wanted.”

  “About you and your brother, you mean?”

  “Aye, and Mr. Dougal—he’s the laird’s gamekeeper. He tends the laird’s animals—your animals now, as it would seem—though he took some of them, and the dogs, to the Auld Hoose when we heard you were coming.”

  “Why was that?”

  “The chief didn’t want them in your way, miss. Dogs can be a nuisance, you know, barking and running about. And you know how it is with dogs having to get used to strangers. So he thought it best if they weren’t here. Not everyone wants dogs sniffing and licking and bothering like dogs do. The chief was trying to think of what he could do to make it pleasant for you when you arrived.”

  “And the food in the kitchen—that was the chief’s idea too?”

  “Aye, miss.”

  Loni drew in a thoughtful breath and exhaled slowly. “Well, I have no idea what I should do either,” she said. “I don’t suppose there are job descriptions for new lairds.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, miss.”

  “One thing is certain,” said Loni with a light laugh, “I’ve never had a maid before.”

  “I’m a housekeeper and cook, miss.”

  “Oh, of course . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Will you be wanting our services, miss?”

  “I don’t even know how long I will be staying myself. I don’t suppose I can answer your question yet. I will not be living here. I’m not sure how much there would be for you to do after I return to the States.”

  “What will become of the Cottage, miss?”

  “I honestly have not thought about the implications. Everything’s happened so fast. But . . . would you like to have tea? I would like to know more about what you and your brother did for the laird.”

  “Shall I fix you a pot, then, miss?”

  “That sounds nice. I am still very much an amateur when it comes to making tea.”

  “Very good, miss,” said the housekeeper, happy to have a familiar job to occupy her hands. She moved quickly to the counter and filled the water boiler. “Shall I bring it to you in the breakfast room?” she asked.

  “Perhaps you misunderstood—I thought we would have tea together.”

  “Together, miss?”

  “Yes. Let’s sit in the Great Room.”

  “You want me to have tea . . . with you, miss?”

  “Is there something unusual about that?”

  “My brother and I never had tea with Mr. Tulloch. He was the laird, you see. We would never have taken tea in the Great Room.”

  “The old British feudal spirit. Well, you shall have tea with me, Miss Matheson, and we will have it in the Great Room.”

  Five minutes later, sheepish yet with the hint of a pleased smile, Isobel Matheson entered the Great Room bearing a tray lavishly outfitted with tea and an assortment of biscuits and cake from the refrigerator.

  “That looks lovely,” said Loni.

  The housekeeper set the tray down and poured out a cup for Loni. She glanced about uncertainly.

  “Pour yourself a cup, Miss Matheson,” said Loni. “Please, sit down and be comfortable.”

  “Where would you like me to sit, miss?”

  “Wherever you like. This is more your house than mine.”

  “Don’t say such a thing, miss. You are the laird now. You have to be mindful of your station, if you take no offense at me speaking my mind. You’re not the same as other folk now.”

  “If you say so!” laughed Loni. “I can see I have more to get used to than I realized.”

  As they drank their tea and nibbled at digestive biscuits, Loni found her eyes scanning the bookshelves of the large room.

  “By the way,” she said, “another thing I have wanted to ask is where the Elizabeth Goudge books came from?”

  An embarrassed expression came over Isobel’s face. “I’m afraid they are mine, miss. I hope you don’t mind. I can take them away if you like.”

  “No, of course not. I don’t mind at all. I’m enjoying one myself at the moment.”

  “The laird let me keep some of my books on his bookshelves—on your bookshelves, I mean. He thought they looked nice with the others.”

  “They do look nice. Are all these in the bookcases yours?”

  “No, miss. Just a few. Some of the others are old and very rare, as I understand it. They came with the Great Tulloch’s wife from England in the 1800s, along with much of the china and silver and Delftware and porcelain you see in the cabinets over on the far wall. She was a wealthy lady, they say.”

  “This room is certainly full of very beautiful things,” said Loni, “as is the whole house. I find Chippendale and Georgian and Victorian cabinets and chairs and sideboards and desks everywhere I turn. It is all very exquisite. In its own way this house is a museum, not to mention the paintings and tapestries and vases . . . and of course the books. So do you keep all your books here in the Great Room?”

  “Oh no, miss. I have more in my own room.”

  “What other authors do you read?”

  “I’m also keen on Mrs. Oliphant and O. Douglas and Diana Mullock and Silas Hawking. And of course Edna Lyall and George MacDonald.”

  “I hope you don’t mind if I sample some of your books while I am here.”

  “I would be honored, miss. There’s nothing better than sharing a favorite book.”

  “Perhaps you will show me the rest of your collection one day. Was your boss . . . the laird, I mean—Mr. Tulloch—a reader?”

  “Not that I saw, miss. He valued the books for their learning and such like, but I do not think he was a great reader. They say the Auld Tulloch was terribly fond of books. I think many of the books are his, the MacDonald stories mostly, though I’m told he kept most of his library in the room at the top of the stairs, before it was locked and . . .” Isobel stopped and glanced away.

  “You were about to say something, Miss Matheson?” said Loni.

  “Nothing, miss.”

  Loni smiled. “I believe you are right about the Auld Tulloch, as you call him, being fond of books,” she said. “It is easy to tell that from his study upstairs. It is lined with books from floor to ceiling.”

  “The locked room, miss?”

  “Yes,” said Loni, smiling again.

  “You’ve been inside it, miss!” exclaimed the housekeeper.

  Loni nodded.

  “How?”

  “I brought the key from America.”

  “Was there . . . ?” began Isobel, her face whitening.

  “A dead body?”

  “Aye.”

  “No,” laughed Loni. “Just books, as you suspected, and everything you would assume a learned man’s study should contain—probably exactly like it was fifty years ago. I understand it has been locked ever since Ernest Tulloch’s funeral.”

  “Aye, never opened that I know of.”

  “Would you like to see it, Miss Matheson?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if I should,” replied the housekeeper nervously. Her tone, however, betrayed eagerness.

  “I don’t know why not. Come,” said Loni, rising.

  Tentatively Isobel followed her out into the foyer and up the stairs. A minute later she was standing in the mysterious study, gazing about in wonder.

  “What a lot of books,” she said softly. “It is a shame Mr. Macgregor wasn’t able to use it himself.”

  “And all these years the key lay hidden in a desk exactly like this one,” said Loni.

  “Where was that?”

  “In the back of my grandfath
er’s barn—recently, that is. Before seventeen or eighteen years ago, I don’t know where it was.”

  “No one knew what became of it, miss,” said Isobel. “That means you are the Keeper of the Key.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “It’s an old family legend about the locked room being the Bard’s Chamber and its key being held by the Keeper of the Key.”

  As she spoke, Loni recalled Sandy’s story of Ernest Tulloch’s funeral.

  “And now the key is back home,” she said, “and here we are in the mystery room—the Bard’s Chamber, as you say.”

  They looked about a few more minutes, then returned downstairs to their tea.

  “I notice that you speak clear English,” said Loni when they were again seated. “Are you from the Shetlands, Miss Matheson?”

  “Aye. My brother and I have cousins on mainland Scotland. But we also have American roots. Our mother prided herself in teaching us proper English.”

  “How interesting. How did that come about? Most people trace their roots from America to Britain or Europe, not the other way around.”

  “Aye, miss. Our mother was a genealogist—she was interested in such things. She was fascinated with America and knew of Lady Margaret’s story, about her going to America and her daughter marrying a Matheson, just as my mother had herself.”

  “I’m sorry—who is Lady Margaret?”

  “She was from an old Scottish family with an estate called Stonewycke just inland from a village on the northeast coast called Port Strathy.”

  “Stonewycke . . . what an interesting name. What does it mean?”

  “I couldn’t say, miss, though I think it goes back to Viking times. Our mother took my brother and me to visit Lady Joanna at Stonewycke when we were young.”

  “Lady Joanna?” said Loni, growing more confused by the minute.

  “Aye, Lady Margaret’s granddaughter. She was from the United States like yourself, Lady Joanna that is. She came to Scotland just like you, not knowing her family roots. She married Alec MacNeill of the Port Strathy MacNeills, but we were related to her through her American father. She was Joanna Matheson, you see. But on her mother’s side she descended from the Stonewycke Ramseys and Duncans through her grandmother Maggie Ramsey Duncan—that’s Lady Margaret. So our connection with Lady Joanna was a distant one, which our mother discovered by tracing our genealogy. Lady Joanna treated us as if we were closer than mere distant cousins. She found it wonderful that we were related to her American father. I think it pleased her that our mother had discovered our American roots, and that the connections went in both directions, if you know what I mean.”