David stood to stoke the fire and then returned to his place across from Loni.
“World War I put an abrupt end to most activity at the hotel,” David went on, “which coincided with William’s death in 1915. His son, Ernest, inheriting the small island empire his father had built, was different from old William in almost every way. His passion was the land and its people, not the money or his father’s investments.”
“Reminds me of someone I have met recently,” said Loni.
“Stop interrupting my story, and please don’t crack any jokes. It hurts to laugh. My ribs, remember!”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“Okay, then . . . as much as he disliked the hotel, old Ernest recognized the good his father had done for the people and the fishermen. He also recognized the economic benefit to the island the hotel provided. He hoped that in the long run its emphasis on Shetland’s natural wonders would outweigh the social glamour for which it had been known during the nineties and early years of the twentieth century. Ernest enjoyed being a laird more than a businessman, making sure homes and buildings and fences and the harbor were in good repair, improving the roads and so forth. He built a new ferry landing and helped finance increased service to and from the mainland. He also devoted his attention to developing flocks of sheep on the island, finding markets for their wool, and being the best landlord possible to the people of the island.
“He married Shetlander Elizabeth Clark of an old Lerwick family. They had three children—two sons, Brogan and Wallace, and a daughter, Delynn, whose birth in 1904 cost Elizabeth her life. And obviously this is where you come into the story.
“Ernest was devastated by Elizabeth’s death. But he remained a devoted father. As Brogan, Wallace, and Delynn grew, though he tried to instill his values into them, one of his sons, as the story goes, could not but be enamored by the social goings-on of the hotel.”
“I take it that you are speaking of Brogan?”
David nodded. “The glamour of the groups that came and went was intoxicating to Ernest’s young heir.”
“So how does his second wife, Sally, whom everyone speaks so fondly of, come into it?” asked Loni.
“Ernest knew that his children needed a mother. He traveled throughout the Shetlands, believing that the family name and legacy must be of Shetland blood. Eventually he met Sally Lipscomb, ten years younger, daughter of a landowner on the island of Yell. Rumors circulated on Whales Reef that their widower laird was smitten. No one knew any details other than that Ernest increasingly disappeared for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. After one such period away from his young family for three weeks in 1908, he returned with, it was presumed, a new bride on his arm. That was Sally, whom the villagers, the staff at the Cottage, and Ernest’s young family all took to their hearts. She is, of course, my great-great-grandmother through the son of their marriage, Ernest’s third and youngest son, Leith.”
David paused and drew in a deep breath.
“And there you have a thumbnail sketch of the Tullochs of Whales Reef,” he said.
“Amazing,” said Loni. “Thank you. I am happy to know all that, though I will probably only remember a fraction of what you’ve told me. This family of mine about which I knew absolutely nothing two weeks ago has quite a history.”
“I suppose all families do, if you can discover them in the vaults of the past. There are legends, too, of pirates and scoundrels and murderers in our family’s history—smugglers and criminals and duels and sword fights, knights in shining armor and damsels in distress, along with cads and blackguards and thieves.”
“I want to hear all about all those too!” said Loni excitedly.
They continued to talk late into the night. By the time David realized that Loni’s eyelids were beginning to sag, it was after midnight.
“I think it is time I take you home,” he said.
Loni smiled dreamily. It had been a magical evening.
A moment later David was standing before her, if possible even more handsome than he had seemed when he had opened the door to her knock six hours before.
“Up,” he said, offering his hand. “I cannot have you falling asleep on my couch. People would talk.”
Loni sighed, reached for his hand, and rose to her feet. A few minutes later they were in her car, David at the wheel, creeping slowly through the quiet village. Neither seemed anxious for the evening to end. No words were spoken during the short drive.
They arrived at the Cottage, David stepped out, walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, offered his hand, and helped Loni from the car. The moment she was standing, he released her hand and the two walked to the front of the Cottage. Never had the island seemed so still and quiet.
They reached the door. David faced her, caught Loni’s gaze for the merest instant, smiled, then turned without a word and a moment later disappeared around the stone wall of the great house on his way back over the moor toward his own.
Not even a “good night,” thought Loni. The meeting of eyes had been enough.
She walked inside and up the stairs to the master bedroom. She went to the window. By now it was close to one o’clock. The pink at the northern horizon could have been either from the sunset just past or the coming sunrise. In the distance through the dusk, Loni watched the kilt-clad chief disappearing through the gloaming.
She stood motionless at the window until he was out of sight.
46
A Legacy Begins—The Dinner
WHALES REEF, 1924
Brogan Tulloch sauntered into the hotel dining room on the evening following his brief introduction to Mrs. Barnes’s traveling companion. He knew the tour group sat down to dinner every evening at seven. It was now six forty-five. He was famished but had other things on his mind than food. There was one individual he particularly hoped to see.
Across the room, his spirits picked up the moment he spotted the young American at a table alone. He strode toward her. She glanced up as he approached, her expression impossible to read.
“Good evening, uh . . . Miss Hanson,” said Brogan with an uncharacteristically nervous smile.
“Mr. Tulloch,” she said, nodding slightly. The silence as he stood in front of her was surprisingly more awkward for him than it appeared to be for her. “Would you care to sit down?” Emily said, yielding to what he obviously expected.
“Thank you,” replied Brogan. He pulled out the chair beside her and eased himself into it. “I hope you will permit me . . . that is, I would like to apologize again for my behavior yesterday morning.”
“Really, there is no need, Mr. Tulloch. You apologized. I accept your apology. No need for either of us to belabor the point.”
“I just hoped that there might be something I could do to make it up to you.”
“I assure you, there is no need.”
“You are very kind. So . . . how, uh, were your day’s explorations and adventures?” His effort at conversation came off a little cumbersome yet sincere. “The lectures were stimulating, I trust?”
“Yes, very good. Dr. MacDonald’s talk this afternoon had little to do with wildlife as such. He mostly gave a thumbnail overview of Scotland’s history and of the Shetlands in particular. It was fascinating. I had no idea the Shetlands used to be part of Norway.”
“Yes, I seem to recall something along those lines, now you mention it,” said Brogan.
“You are a Shetlander and that comes as news to you?”
“History was never my strength in school.”
“What was?”
“Hmm . . . a good question. I’m not sure I had a strong subject.”
“At least you are honest about it.”
“What was yours?”
“Actually, I got A’s in most everything. Not creative writing, however.”
“Really, why is that?”
“I don’t know, I just wasn’t very good at it. But except for two or three subjects, school was easy for me.”
“Somehow
I am not surprised.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know—I suppose because you are the scholarly type, conducting research for a paper of some kind. Isn’t that what Mrs. Barnes said?”
“Do I detect a hint of mockery in your tone for my scholarly pursuits?”
“No, no—please, I meant nothing like that,” rejoined Brogan quickly. “I am dreadfully sorry if I conveyed anything other than respect. The last thing I want to do is put my foot in my mouth again. Honestly . . . forgive me.”
Emily could not help but smile at the earnestness of his appeal. “Maybe I’m the one who should apologize,” she said. “I didn’t mean to cause you uneasiness. I said what I did half in jest. I didn’t really think you were mocking me. I shouldn’t have teased you.”
“That is a relief. Truly, I meant nothing by it.”
“I realize that.”
“So, changing the subject, tell me something new and exciting you learned today?”
“I already told you about the Shetlands and Norway.”
“Something else, then.”
“Are you really interested, Mr. Tulloch? You’re not just toying with me?”
“No, honestly. Don’t tell me I have done it again with my foot in my mouth!”
Emily broke out in a high musical laugh. “Goodness. I will have to watch myself to make sure you don’t think you are offending me with every other word. I’m really more thick-skinned than that. I fear I did overreact to you out on the bluff. I was rude and I too am sorry. But to answer your question, besides the intriguing connection between the Shetlands and Norway, maybe what I would say is more a conjecture on my part than something I learned. I am thinking that what Dr. MacDonald told us may explain the odd dialect I have noticed here—English, with Scots, Norwegian, and hints of German all thrown in together.”
“Is that what I sound like?” laughed Brogan.
“Your speech is more refined than most. But when walking about the village and listening to people talking amongst themselves, supposedly it’s English, but I can’t make out a word they say.”
“Sometimes neither can I, and I grew up here.”
An effusive voice interrupted the conversation. They had been so engrossed they had not seen the twosome approaching.
“Mr. Tulloch,” said Mrs. Barnes, “how wonderful to see you again!”
Brogan and Emily glanced up to see Mrs. Barnes and Professor MacDonald standing beside the table.
“Hello, Mrs. Barnes,” said Brogan, rising. “I seem to have barged in on your table. My apologies. Here—I yield the seat back to you.”
He held the chair for Emily’s guardian. The older woman sat down, beaming to have a gentleman seat her with such flourish, and one, as she thought, from the British aristocracy.
Brogan turned to the professor. “Dr. MacDonald, good evening,” he said and offered his hand. The two men shook hands. “Miss Hanson has been raving about what she is learning from your lectures.”
“I am glad to hear it,” replied MacDonald, shuffling his feet and adjusting his glasses. “One does one’s best, of course. But sometimes one cannot tell—with tour groups, you know—how technical one should make one’s remarks.”
“Judging from Miss Hanson’s comments, I would say you have struck exactly the right chord. Well, I will leave you all to your dinner. It was a pleasure to visit with you, Miss Hanson. I hope you all enjoy the remainder of your tour.” He turned to leave.
“Oh, don’t go, Mr. Tulloch,” Mrs. Barnes called eagerly after him. “Won’t you join us?”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude—”
“Nonsense. There are four chairs and only three of us. Do join us.”
Brogan glanced at the other two. Emily smiled and nodded. Though her expression was still difficult to read, she seemed to assent to the invitation.
“If you’re certain you don’t mind,” said Brogan. “I would enjoy that very much. Thank you,” he added. “I will just tell Carl to add another dinner to your table and put it on my tab.”
He hurried off and returned a minute later. By the time he sat down, Emily and Dr. MacDonald were engaged in brisk dialog. Most of the dinner they spent in conversation about the subject of the day’s lecture.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Barnes entertained Brogan with continuous chatter about everything that came into her head. Though he would have preferred that his and the professor’s roles were reversed, he remained witty and charming and in every respect a perfect gentleman. He did his best, with limited success, to keep an ear open to the conversation across the table, managing to pick up snatches here and there.
“I don’t know if you are familiar with newts, Miss Hanson,” the professor was saying. “They are something of a hobby of mine.”
“My knowledge of salamanders and small amphibians is rather limited, I’m afraid,” replied Emily.
“Yes, right—perhaps I should clarify. While newts are indeed aquatic amphibians of Salamandridae, belonging to the subfamily Pleurodelinae, as I am sure you are aware, not all aquatic salamanders are considered newts. Newts differ from salamanders in the shape of the tail. They are a very special breed, most of whose species display a marked sexual dimorphism.”
At the peculiar direction of the conversation, Brogan glanced back and forth between Emily and the professor. Mrs. Barnes’s voice faded to a murmur in the background.
“I hope you won’t think me terribly naughty,” Dr. MacDonald went on, “but it is by their breeding habits that so much of the animal kingdom displays its individuality. Take newts, for instance. As the season approaches they live mostly in water, sustaining themselves on tadpoles, insect larvae, and crustaceans. Eventually they make their way to land, where worms and slugs become the preferred diet. During the courting season the male newt becomes brilliantly colored, then makes his affections known, as it were, by standing in front of the female newt and vibrating his tail and bending himself into a semicircle. A most unusual display, though I confess I have never actually witnessed the mating spectacle firsthand.”
He paused and allowed a brief smile to play at his lips. “One wonders,” he said, “if Darwin noted similar behavior in the larger reptiles and amphibians of the Galapagos.”
The quirky direction of the professor’s zoology lesson struck Brogan as fraught with humor. Unable to prevent a smile, he looked down at his plate, hoping his expression would not be noticed.
A moment later, unconsciously he glanced at Emily. Her gaze flitted toward him. Their eyes met. Emily’s lips parted with a subtle smile of her own. Just as quickly she returned her attention to the professor, who was chuckling lightly as he added a few more remarks about the distinction between crested and palmated varieties of the newts in question.
Brogan did his best to refocus his attention on the story Mrs. Barnes had begun several minutes earlier. Both Emily and Brogan knew better than to glance toward each other again for fear of what might be the result.
As they finished their cake, ice cream, and coffee, Dr. MacDonald had risen, cup in hand, and was engaged in conversation with a group of tour members at the next table.
Mrs. Barnes also hoisted herself to her feet. “Would you excuse me?” she said. “I need to freshen up.”
Brogan quickly stood, offered his hand. A moment later he and Emily were left alone. Still standing, Brogan glanced across the table. “Would you like to go outside for a walk?” he asked.
Emily smiled. “Yes, that would be nice. Will it be cold? Shall I go up to the room and get a coat?”
“It could be nippy,” replied Brogan. “But we’ll explore the hotel gardens briefly. If it is too much, we’ll return inside.” He did not add that he was not eager for Emily to encounter Mrs. Barnes just now, or the proposed walk was likely to become a threesome.
He stepped around the table, helped Emily to her feet, and led the way out of the dining room to the lobby and through the front doors.
They returned some thirty minutes lat
er after a pleasant conversation that had occasionally become more probing than Brogan would have anticipated.
“It has been very nice visiting with you, Mr. Tulloch,” said Emily before they parted.
“That sounds rather final!” laughed Brogan.
“Remember, we’re leaving Whales Reef in the morning.”
47
It Can’t Be!
Dreamily Loni woke up the following morning to happy memories of Celtic ballads, kilts, tartans, and swords, with legends of pirates and kings, murderers and lairds, chiefs and harpists dancing in her head.
She rolled over and sighed contentedly. What an evening. David was a perfect gentleman—erudite, polished, gracious, well-spoken, kind . . . an author, historian, naturalist, respected by everyone on the island.
She glanced at the clock. Eight-fifty. She had expected to sleep until ten or eleven.
She rose, feeling surprisingly rested after only six or seven hours of sleep, and glanced about the bedroom. The red dress, such a hit with Isobel Matheson, was draped where she had tossed it over the back of a chair. Her two-inch black patent leather heels lay on their sides beneath it.
Today she would try out her new Shetland jeans and wool fleece and hiking boots. The sun was shining . . . a perfect day to explore the island again for the first time knowing that it was her island.
The thought was still unbelievable. Strike that about it being hers, she said to herself. She couldn’t think that way. She didn’t want to think that way. Whatever duty had fallen to her, whatever windfall had dropped into her lap, she would never forget that this island could not be possessed by any man or woman. It belonged to the people of Whales Reef, belonged to them because they loved it. She would simply walk the island and enjoy it because it was Whales Reef, and for no other reason than that she was learning to love it as they did.
After tea and oatcakes, she set out from the house. Her steps took her toward the village. She was ready to meet people, to hold her head high, to look her new role in the eye and not shrink from it. She still didn’t know what she would do in the long term. She would talk to Maddy and her grandparents and get their advice. Jason MacNaughton and David would obviously be part of that conversation too. She would need wise input from many people.
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