The Cottage

by Michael Phillips

  She, on the other hand . . . her whole life was a succession of secrets. Whatever had taken place with her father and mother, how they had met, why they had left the Fellowship . . . she knew nothing about it.

  She had perpetuated the secretiveness. When she left home for junior college, then later at the university, followed by her friendship with Maddy, she never let anyone all the way inside.

  She was secretive toward Hugh too. She sometimes complained that she didn’t really know him, that he did not open up and share his feelings.

  Who was she to talk? She didn’t either. She had done exactly the same to Hugh as she had accused David of doing to her. Secretiveness was as intrinsic to her being as her DNA. She maintained her protective shell thick and intact.

  Her angry outburst played itself over and over in her mind. What had she expected, for a perfect stranger to show up at her door and announce, Hi, I’m David. I’m the chief?

  Unpleasant as it was to face, she was a bold-faced hypocrite. There was nothing else to call it. She had expected a level of openness from David that she had never given to anyone.

  26

  The Center

  Loni rose, left the breakfast room, and wandered about the Cottage with her mug of tea in hand. A few minutes later she found herself slowly climbing the stairs and walking into the private office and sanctuary of Macgregor’s grandfather, her own great-great-grandfather Ernest Tulloch, the room about which so many morbid legends had swirled through the community.

  Seeing it like this, sensing the spirit of the man who had occupied it, much of what Sandy had told her stole back into Loni’s memory.

  Pervading the room were subtle scents that reminded her fondly of her own childhood—oak, varnish, and leather mingled with the faint aroma of books, dust, paper, ink, and hints of wool from the Persian rugs on the floor.

  She sat down at the rolltop desk, such an exquisite twin of the one in storage back in Pennsylvania. It was piled with books and papers, Bibles and notebooks, much the same, she assumed, as it had been when Ernest’s widow had sealed the room after his death. The ink in two glass inkwells had evaporated, leaving behind only dry, cracked reminders of earlier times when writing was done with real ink. Beside them lay three fountain pens. She picked one up tenderly, removed its cap, and examined its gold nib for a moment, wondering what words or thoughts Ernest had written with it.

  Two Bibles lay in front of her. A large King James with the Greek text beside it was open to Philippians, chapter 4. Her eyes went immediately to the verse underlined on the page. The words were familiar, yet suddenly alive with meaning, as if Ernest rather than the Apostle Paul were speaking them:

  “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”

  Her eyes strayed to the small Testament beside it. From the heading on the page she saw that it was a translation by a man named Moffatt. The significance of the passage from Second Timothy 4 could hardly be mistaken—again, as if Ernest himself were speaking from decades long past:

  “My time to go has come. I have fought in the good fight; I have run my course: I have kept the faith. Now the crown of a good life awaits me.”

  What a statement for a man to make as he sensed his earthly life coming to an end—whether a first-century Jew named Paul or a twentieth-century Scotsman named Ernest.

  Though he had been gone for more than fifty years, mused Loni, Ernest Tulloch was still here. The room had been locked for half a century. Yet sitting here now, no time had passed. He might as well have been shuffling through these papers a few days ago, reading in these books one last time, putting things in order, writing in one of several notebooks or reading these two poignant passages as he reflected on his own life.

  She was experiencing yet another time warp, not this time out of her fast-paced city life but into the heart and mind of her great-great-grandfather.

  What truths and secrets did the life of Ernest Tulloch have to reveal?

  Absently she opened a few drawers of the desk, exactly as she had when poring through the one in the barn back home. How different were the contents. Yet in another way, how much the same, for they each told a similar story of the passage of time. Here she found no mysterious key or necklace, though by now her appetite was sufficiently whetted to hope that Ernest had somewhere left writings she might discover.

  The thought had scarcely passed through her brain when her hands fell on a thick packet bound by a drawstring labeled Letters to and from Brogan. Here indeed was a treasure trove—letters from her great-grandfather to his father.

  Almost reverently she opened the folder and withdrew several of the envelopes. The postmarks were American. She scanned several that were obvious carbon copies of letters Ernest had written his son. One in particular brought tears to her eyes as she read the affectionate outpouring of a father’s love. Keeping out that single touching letter, she replaced the rest, refastened the packet, and set it back on Ernest’s desk.

  A row of books stood between two bookends on the top shelf of the desk. Loni recognized several as among her own grandfather’s favorite devotional writings: The Journal of John Woolman, Kelly’s Testament of Devotion and what appeared to be its German counterpart, Heiliger Gehorsam. Then next to them, The Imitation of Christ and The Collected Works of Henry Drummond. Two were the exact same editions she had brought from the desk in Pennsylvania, abundantly underlined and annotated, twin copies of the same books. Several other German titles completed the small collection: Das Leben Am Zentrum, Wahre Spiritualität, and Die Groβte Sache in Der Welt.

  She did not think the Whales Reef Tullochs were Quaker, yet here were several of the same books so highly regarded by her own grandfather. Along with these were three volumes, each bearing the same odd title, Unspoken Sermons by the man MacDonald. Was this preacher MacDonald the same novelist Isobel Matheson had spoken of?

  A photograph album on the desk full of family pictures and small portraits also bore further investigation. A thick notebook beside it drew her eye, lying partially obscured by papers and files behind the two Bibles. She withdrew it from its hiding place. Its cover, in large handwritten script, displayed the words Germany Letters. Intrigued, she opened it. Inside the cover she read, Letters from Pomerania, 1897–98, Ernest Tulloch. A few moments’ perusal revealed it as a collection of transcripts of letters, apparently written by young Ernest to his parents.

  Loni turned to the first entry. Dear Mother and Father, she read, I have so much to tell you after only a few days here on the farm. Herr von Dortmann is an amazing man. He is not a mere farmer but a true philosopher and a man of depth and wisdom. Already he treats me like a son, though he loves his own young son, Heinrich, with an affection wonderful to behold. I can tell that I will learn much from this man. . . .

  Loni leafed through the volume, pausing here and there to read snatches of Ernest’s reflections from his time working on a farm on the Continent.

  Herr von Dortmann has given me a book that he says changed his life. It is called Das Leben Am Zentrum, or Life at the Center. It is in German, of course, and though I can dig out most of the meaning, my German is not so perfect that I am not greatly anticipating obtaining an English translation when I return home. . . .

  Loni set the notebook of letters aside. Her eyes again scanned the books on the desk. There was the very book mentioned in the letters, along with its English translation. She took down the German edition—its binding old and loose, the pages yellowing. The inscription inside the cover revealed it as the very book given to Ernest by the German farmer with the date 1897, so worn and with tiny English translations sandwiched in the margins that it must have been read a dozen times.

  She replaced it and now took down the volume beside it, the devotional Testament her grandfather in Pennsylvania was so fond of and a copy of wh
ich she had discovered in the matching desk in the barn. She could only surmise that Ernest had passed on his personal copy to Brogan at some point and replaced it here in his study with this newer one.

  Loni opened it to the first page. Even as her eyes fell on the words, she could hear her grandfather’s voice reading them aloud to her and his dear Anabel:

  Deep within us all there is an amazing inner sanctuary of the soul, a holy place, a Divine Center, a speaking Voice, to which we may continuously return. Eternity is at our hearts calling us home unto Itself. It is a dynamic center, a creative Life, a Light Within which illuminates the face of God and casts new shadows and new glories upon the face of men.

  What an amazing thing, thought Loni, that this same book, which had in such a short time become a classic of Quaker literature, would find its way into her life from three different sources.

  As she continued to gaze about, Loni’s eyes took in a dozen or more framed photographs—all the family, she assumed, of Ernest Tulloch, though they were unlabeled. The older couple must be Ernest’s parents, two wedding photographs, no doubt, of Ernest as a younger man with his first wife, Elizabeth, then with his second wife, Sally, and a number of photos of Ernest with three young men, obviously his three sons, and their sister. A quotation, also framed, hung on the wall among the photographs, written out on parchment in an ornate script. Slowly Loni read the words:

  I went up to my study. The familiar faces of my books welcomed me. I threw myself in my reading-chair, and gazed around me with pleasure. I felt it so homely here. All my old friends present there in the spirit ready to talk with me any moment when I was in the mood, making no claim upon my attention when I was not! I felt as if I should like, when the hour should come, to die in that chair, and pass into the society of the witnesses in the presence of the tokens they had left behind them.

  —George MacDonald

  How wonderful to imagine that perhaps Ernest Tulloch had indeed died in his favorite reading chair.

  Loni’s spirit grew yet more peaceful. Something was here, something deep, powerful, unknown . . . something that to know would be worth any price, something that to know would be the greatest treasure in the world.

  This was no mere office, but a chamber of reflection, a sanctuary of communion with God. What was it Isobel Matheson had called it—The Bard’s Chamber? Just as Sandy Innes had also said. Every inch revealed the character of the man who had occupied it. She realized that she had entered the inner sanctum and prayer closet of Ernest Tulloch’s soul.

  Had this study been preserved, perhaps not only for her but nevertheless specifically for her, its life and spirit kept hidden but alive, dormant, awaiting the appointed season for its renewal and rebirth into a new generation?

  If so, her first duty was to awaken it within herself. Loni began to pray.

  God, what does it all mean? Open my eyes and heart to comprehend the legacy that is here. What would you speak to me through the memory of this man I never knew yet whose blood flows in my veins? Breathe wisdom into me through this chamber of solace that links the past and the present, and perhaps the future as well. Breathe into me the life that inhabits this sanctuary. And make clear to me what you want me to do about this island and its future . . . and about my own?

  Her heart was full . . . of what she could not have put into words.

  She smiled at the reminder of the rumor of the dead body. One thing that was certainly not here was death. This study contained more life than any room she had ever been in.

  27

  Sidewalk Meeting

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “Maddy . . . hey, Maddy!” called a familiar voice from across the street.

  With an inward groan, Madison Swift turned from the door into Capital Towers in Washington’s business district. A sharply dressed man about her own age dashed toward her through the morning traffic.

  There were only three people she allowed to address her by the informal “Maddy”—her mother, her sister, and her friend and assistant Loni Ford.

  That Loni’s boyfriend, Hugh Norman, was not one of that select circle, however, did not prevent his presuming on his relationship with Loni to carry himself more casually toward Maddy than she liked. The liberties he took extended beyond mere conventions of address. He came by to visit Loni unannounced and expected her to drop whatever she was doing for as long as he was inclined to stay. He made himself at home in her office like he owned the place. He considered himself entitled to special privileges throughout the entire floor, using the staff restrooms and lounge and lunch area whenever he liked. He had gone so far as to open Maddy’s closed door and barge into her office without waiting for an answer to his knock when she and Loni were in conference.

  What annoyed Maddy most about Hugh was the unspoken condescension he conveyed toward their profession as a whole. The obvious superiority he felt as a congressional aide over the likes of mere businesswomen was palpable. He didn’t try to hide his view that his work was more important than theirs. This was Washington. Politics defined the capital. He was of the elite who ran this town. Why shouldn’t he come and go anywhere in it he pleased?

  Maddy knew she possessed a cynical streak. Hugh was probably not really such a bad guy, as political types went. But she had met so many exactly like him that whatever tolerance she had left had worn thin.

  A host of such thoughts flitted through her brain in a second or two as she waited. It would be useless to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Hugh would just follow her inside and up to her office. She would rather deal with him on the sidewalk.

  “Hey, Maddy . . . glad I caught you,” said Hugh as he ran up.

  “You’re out early,” said Maddy. “I thought you congressional aides kept cushier hours.”

  “Had a breakfast meeting with some donors.”

  “The life of the mover and shaker, eh?” said Maddy. Her sarcasm was altogether lost on her audience. “What’s on your mind, Hugh? I need to get to work. Or was this just a chance hello on the street?”

  “Not entirely. I need to talk to Loni. Any word when she’ll be back?”

  “Just what I’ve told you three times already—I don’t know. She will be back when she’s ready. She has a lot on her plate.”

  “I’ve tried to call several times, but I keep getting her voice mail.”

  “And you won’t get through. She doesn’t have an international cell.”

  “I really want to talk to her. Some opportunities have come up this week, big developments and a major turning point in my future . . . our future. She and I need to make plans. Say, I just had a thought. I’ll go up with you and try to call from your office. You must have a number for her.”

  “Why don’t you call from your own office?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “A personal international call on the congressman’s dime just wouldn’t be kosher.”

  “But it would be okay from mine?”

  “Well . . . sure—it’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re not a congressman.”

  “You’re right. But I do have work to do.” Maddy moved toward the door.

  “So could I use your phone to call Loni?”

  Maddy turned back to face him.

  “No, Hugh. It’s my office. It’s where I work. And all this is beside the point anyway. I don’t have the number for Loni’s house there. I’ll see you later.”

  Maddy walked into the building, leaving Hugh on the sidewalk gazing after her with a bewildered expression.

  Maddy took the elevator to the seventh floor. She arrived at her office at twenty minutes before eight o’clock. A glance toward her fax machine revealed a single sheet that had come through during the night.

  She picked it up and read the brief message, then smiled.

  Stay as long as you like, girl! she said to herself. Not that I don’t miss you, but what Hugh doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

  A
nd as far as the big lout of a Texan was concerned, thought Maddy, nothing would please her more than to uncover some dirt on him.

  28

  On the Moor

  WHALES REEF, SHETLAND ISLANDS

  Loni went out about two o’clock, her great-grandmother’s journal again in hand, along with one of Ernest Tulloch’s books she wanted to peruse. After the swings of emotions of the last twenty-four hours, she hoped some words of wisdom from the venerable upstairs study would give her some perspective and remind her of her purpose here.

  She sought the same stone where she had read earlier. Twenty or thirty minutes later she was again engrossed in the story from the previous century.

  Gradually Loni lost track of time. At length a faint baa-ing interrupted her reading. Glancing up she saw fifteen or twenty sheep scampering toward her.

  She laid the journal on the stone and rose. Within seconds the small horde had surrounded her and were bumping and jostling against her legs. They were more rambunctious than Sandy’s flock.

  “Hey!” she laughed as she stooped over to pet a few woolly backs. “What’s all this?”

  Whether they sensed that she was a new object for their affection or they were merely curious, they clustered and bumped more closely than was comfortable. From the uneven footing, and the surprising strength of some of the larger rams against her, Loni lost her balance.

  With a cry she toppled over several of them, sending the flock scurrying out of harm’s way.

  The next thing she heard was footsteps running toward her.

  “Miss Ford!” cried David, hurrying down the incline behind his sheep. “Are you all right?”

  Loni half lifted herself around to face him. “You came just in time to see me at my undignified worst,” she said. “I’m fine, I think—taken by surprise mostly.”

  “Are you hurt?” asked David, stooping beside her.

  “I don’t think so,” said Loni, trying to stand. “Let me just . . . Ouch! I must have twisted my ankle. Your sheep are friendlier than I expected.”