Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  “Control. And indirectly, to cast suspicion on Alasdair. And also to divert attention from herself, to keep herself from being looked at too closely. I know Olivia thought of me as a simpleton ever since I turned my life around and decided to study for the ministry. She thought she could do whatever she liked and I would look the other way. But though a minister is not privy to everything that takes place in his parish, at the same time, not all ministers are the dunces some people take them for. I think I know more about Olivia and her secrets than she has any idea. Maybe I have looked the other way too long.”

  I shook my head. It was all too much to take in. I let out a long sigh.

  “Everything you have told me is all the more reason why I should talk to her,” I said, “why I feel that I am supposed to talk to her. I know it’s probably stupid, I know I’m a newcomer and newcomers shouldn’t go around butting into other people’s affairs. I know it’s impulsive. I got angry with one of my friends in high school and couldn’t keep my mouth shut. My father said I overreacted and he was right. But I can’t help it. It just rises up within me and I have to speak out. It’s a compulsion. My father also said to get both sides, and I think I have, and he said that if you’re sure you’re right, then go ahead. So I have to talk to her. But I don’t want to go alone. Would you go with me?”

  Iain exhaled and glanced away. If I didn’t know better I would have thought he was about to cry. I had never seen him look so sad, so disconsolate, so heartbroken. I think I knew him well enough by now to know that he wasn’t heartbroken for himself. I think he was feeling a little of what maybe God feels for his children who refuse to be reconciled—to him, and to one another.

  We sat for a long time staring out over the North Sea. Probably fifteen or twenty minutes went by. As anxious as some people are to fill up every relational gap with words, it felt good just to sit beside Iain in silence. I simply waited. I sensed that he was struggling with a decision. I wasn’t anxious to hurry him.

  “You’re right,” he said finally. “It is time.” His tone was decisive and final.

  I glanced to my right. Iain returned my questioning glance by simply nodding. “I have waited long enough… too long. It is time.”

  He climbed to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said.

  I stood and joined him as we began walking back toward Port Scarnose.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see Olivia Urquhart,” he replied.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Authority’s Demand

  Let the learned wig and mitre

  Wrangle over right and wrong;

  Would you make life’s burden lighter;

  Clear the way with dance and song.

  —“Hark! How the Skinner’s Fiddle Rings”

  When Mrs. Urquhart opened her door and saw Iain Barclay and me standing there, the expression on her face did not register pleasure.

  She said nothing, neither greeted us nor invited us inside. She obviously sensed some impending doom. Though she masked it well, it was clear her defenses immediately went up.

  “I want to talk to you, Mrs. Urquhart,” I said. “I asked Mr. Barclay to come with me.”

  “I have already told you everything I have to say, Ms. Buchan,” she said.

  “I have something to say to you, Mrs. Urquhart,” I said. “I will not leave until I say it.”

  She stood staring at me, obviously surprised at my determination.

  “Very well, then,” she said. “I am listening.”

  “May we come in?” I said.

  “Why can’t you just tell me what you want to say and leave?”

  “I would rather not do so standing here like this.”

  She stared at me a moment longer.

  “Let me close the door to Gwendolyn’s room,” she said, then turned back into the house. The door closed behind her. We waited. About a minute later it opened again.

  “All right,” said Mrs. Urquhart in a chilly tone. “Come in.”

  We walked inside and sat down.

  “I want to talk to you about Gwendolyn,” I said. “I do not feel it is right that she has no contact with her father. I would like to ask you to allow me to take her to visit him.”

  “That is out of the question,” replied Mrs. Urquhart. Her face filled with silent fury. “I explained everything to you before.”

  “I know you did. But I would like to take her regardless.”

  “What business is this of yours? Who do you think you—”

  She paused abruptly. Her face changed. Her voice softened and became cold and hard.

  “I could not possibly allow it,” she said. “I would be too afraid for Gwendolyn.”

  “Afraid… of what?”

  “Of what he might do to her. I know him, Marie. You do not.”

  “I will take care of her, Mrs. Urquhart. No harm will come to her, I will personally see to that.”

  She smiled with condescension. “If you will excuse my saying so,” she said, “that is hardly a guarantee that engenders confidence.”

  “You do not consider me capable of protecting her?”

  “You know nothing about my brother.”

  “That is not true. The years of pain have done more than you know.”

  She stiffened but kept her composure. “I told you before,” she went on, “there is much you do not understand.”

  “Perhaps. But this is the present, and the past is no reason to deny my request.”

  “You do not know Alasdair like I do.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Urquhart, but I think it is you who do not know him. You have not been willing to see that he has grown and changed.”

  For the briefest instant her eyes flashed. Quickly she recovered herself and smiled. Then came the voice.

  “I think I know how you feel, Marie,” she said soothingly. “You simply must believe that this is for the best.”

  “For Gwendolyn to not know her father? No—I don’t think it best.”

  “But it is, dear. I know.”

  “I know what you told me, Mrs. Urquhart,” I went on. “Perhaps it is all true. I don’t really know. But it doesn’t matter now.”

  “How can you say that? Of course it matters.”

  “People can change. I believe Alasdair has grown. Maybe it no longer matters what happened a long time ago.”

  “You don’t know what he was like. I will never forget.”

  “Healing and forgiveness are still possible. People can move on from the past without resolving every issue. Why can’t you give him that chance?”

  “Because of what he is.”

  “Maybe he is becoming something better.”

  “Then let him become it and prove it.” She spat out the words. “Then maybe a visit with Gwendolyn might be possible.”

  “What if by then it is too late?”

  My question hung in the air and put a temporary stop to the conversation.

  “You are very persuasive, Marie,” said Mrs. Urquhart after a moment. “Nevertheless, I will not allow it. I cannot allow it. And I have the legal means to prevent it if you—”

  Suddenly Iain spoke. His voice was unlike anything I had heard from his mouth before—forceful, determined. What surprised me most of all was his obvious anger.

  “Olivia!” he said. The commanding sound of her name silenced her.

  I was familiar with the term righteous indignation. But I had never seen it like I saw it now in Iain’s face.

  “This lady has made a request of you that is not only reasonable but that is true. I believe God has sent her here to try to set right a wrong that has been allowed to fester in this community far too long. I have spoken to you about it before, always attempting to appeal to your better nature, to reason with your humanity. I have tried to be patient, to wait for you to grow into readiness. But I begin to doubt that even a germ of human compassion exists in your heart. I realize that I have waited too long. I have waited in vain, and I repent of my indecision in this ma
tter. I will wait no longer. Right must prevail, and now is the time.”

  Mrs. Urquhart shot him a glance of indignation that was not of the righteous variety.

  “Don’t try to intimidate me with all your religious talk!” she shot back at him. “You may be able to fool everyone else. But I know who you are, Reddy Barclay. You don’t frighten me,” she almost snarled.

  The two of them locked eyes. I was stunned to witness such a tense exchange. I had never seen either of them so uninhibited and bold. For two or three highly charged seconds neither said a word. Then Iain turned to me.

  “Marie,” he said, “would you mind waiting for me outside? I would like to have a few words with Olivia alone. I will be no more than one or two minutes.”

  I rose and left the house. I had no idea what might be going on behind the closed door. But I was dying of curiosity.

  I heard the door open a short time later. I turned and saw Iain on the porch. He motioned to me. I hurried back up the walk and followed him inside.

  Mrs. Urquhart still sat in the chair where I had last seen her. Her countenance was dramatically altered. She sat like a statue of stone, her face pale, her body trembling.

  “Olivia has agreed to let you take Gwendolyn for a drive,” Iain said to me, “to show her the castle, and to introduce her to her father.”

  He turned to Mrs. Urquhart.

  “Have Gwendolyn ready,” he said forcefully. “Marie will be back for her in an hour.”

  Mrs. Urquhart turned on him a look of seething wrath such as I had never seen on a human face. Iain led me away, and we left the house together. Despite my persistent questions, he would tell me nothing of what had taken place. He told me only to come back for Gwendolyn, to have a talk with her, that I should expect her to be fearful but to tell her that she could trust me, that I knew her father, and that I knew that her father loved her. He told me to remember what he had told me about God at first, and that I had had a difficult time believing it, too, and to put myself in Gwendolyn’s place.

  Then he left me, obviously spent from the interview with Olivia.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  The Prodigal’s Loving Father

  There I shall visit the place of my birth;

  And they’ll give me a welcome, the warmest on earth;

  All so loving and kind, full of music and mirth,

  In the sweet sounding language of home.

  —“The Mist Covered Mountains of Home”

  I knew poor little Gwendolyn was nervous and frightened as we walked up to the imposing castle where she was born twelve years before.

  I felt her little hand trembling in mine. I hated to put her through it. But I knew all would be well soon enough, when she discovered how full of love her father’s heart was for her. Even good change can be fearsome at first.

  She had been so overjoyed and excited to see me again, it brought tears to my eyes. I had taken her first for a walk above the sea. We sat down on the bench and I reminded her of the first day when she and I had met. We talked for a while, mostly about the harp. Then I told her that I wanted to take her to meet her father, her real father.

  Her mood immediately changed. She was clearly frightened. What she had been told in the last hour I could only imagine.

  “But he is mean,” she said. “I am afraid. I don’t want to see him. Mummy says I don’t have to see him, that you can’t make me see him, that I should tell you to take me home.”

  “But you don’t think I am mean, do you?”

  “Oh, no, Marie! You are the nicest person in the whole world.”

  “You can trust me, can’t you?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Well, I know your father, Gwendolyn. I know him very well. I have seen him and spoken with him. He is not so very different from me. And I know that he loves you very much.”

  “Mummy said you would tell me that, but not to believe you.”

  “Have I ever not told you the truth, Gwendolyn?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I promise you, I haven’t. I will always tell you the truth. Do you believe me?”

  She nodded.

  “Your father wants you to know him just like I know him,” I said. “So I have come to take you to him.”

  “But I have heard terrible things about him, that he is mean and will be angry with me.”

  “He only seems that way to those who don’t know him. But I do know him, Gwendolyn. You will soon know him, too, if you can just trust me. Can you trust me, Gwendolyn? Can you trust me to take your hand and lead you to your father?”

  “I will try, Marie.”

  “You know that I love you?”

  “Yes, Marie.”

  “Then trust me that your father loves you, too.”

  In spite of our talk, however, twenty minutes later, I could tell that Gwendolyn was still frightened as we approached the castle. We stopped in front of the great oak door. I looked down at her and gave her a smile of reassurance.

  “Would you like to ring the bell or use the knocker?” I said.

  She stretched up on her toes and turned the bell-knob. Then we waited.

  When Miss Forbes opened the door, her eyes nearly fell out.

  “Hello, Miss Forbes,” I said. “Would you please tell the duke that he has a very special guest who would like to see him.”

  She turned and disappeared inside the castle, leaving the door open with us standing there. As she looked inside, even though there was not much to see in the entryway, Gwendolyn’s eyes took in the splendor with wide-eyed astonishment. How could she fathom that everything we could see—the grounds and this enormous and ancient edifice—was her true home.

  After several minutes we heard heavy steps approaching. I don’t know what Miss Forbes had told him, but when Alasdair appeared he was hurrying toward us from the other end of the corridor. The look of eager anticipation on his face was of such childlike joy that after one look at him no one could possibly be afraid.

  It was the expression of a father’s boundless love! His look brought tears of joy to my eyes.

  He slowed, glancing back and forth at the two of us with wonder and disbelief. He looked for a second or two into my eyes, apparently trying to speak though no words came out. Finally his gaze settled on the red-haired girl beside me. His eyes were misty. He stooped down and smiled.

  “Gwendolyn,” I said, “this is your father.”

  “Hello, Gwendolyn,” said Alasdair in a soft, husky voice.

  “How do you know my name, sir?” said Gwendolyn timidly.

  “Because I am your father,” replied Alasdair, smiling and blinking hard. “I have known you all your life, though I have not seen you for many years. You do not remember, but you have been here before.”

  “In this castle?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “You were born here.”

  “I was?”

  “Would you like to see where?”

  “I think I would. You won’t hurt me, will you?”

  “Of course not, Gwendolyn. I love you very much. I have been waiting many years to see you again. You have made me very happy by coming here today.”

  “Gwendolyn,” I said, “you would not mind going with your father, would you? I will wait for you outside.”

  She looked at him, then back to me.

  “I don’t think I will mind,” she answered. “But I am still a little afraid.”

  “Just remember what I told you, that you can trust him, because he loves you just like I do.”

  “I will try to remember.”

  “I will be in the rose garden,” I said.

  Gwendolyn turned back to Alasdair.

  “What should I call you?” she asked.

  “Call me Daddy,” he said, standing and holding out his hand.

  Gwendolyn glanced up one more time at me, as if to reassure herself. I nodded and smiled. Then she reached out, still a little timidly, and allowed Alasdair’s hug
e palm to clasp her tiny white hand and close gently around it.

  Father and daughter walked away into the castle, and I turned and walked into the grounds crying my eyes out.

  About forty-five minutes later, as I sat on a bench in the garden, I heard a happy shout followed by running footsteps. I looked up to see Gwendolyn running in her awkward gait toward me, followed by Alasdair walking and trying to keep up with her. I stood and waited. In her eyes was a look of radiance such as I had not seen on her face before. She ran straight into my arms.

  “Daddy is nothing like what Mummy said,” she said excitedly. “He is as nice as you, Marie. I sat in his lap and he told me stories. He told me one story about you and him. He told me stories about when he was a little boy. He said I could come back anytime. He told me about my real mother. He said Mummy was really my auntie but I could keep calling her Mummy if I liked. I think my real mummy must have been nice. I saw her picture. It is too bad she died. May I call you Mummy now, too?”

  The question took me so by surprise that I was speechless. Luckily I was rescued by Alasdair’s arrival a moment later. I was glad he hadn’t heard her question.

  “Alicia is preparing us tea and some sandwiches, Marie,” he said. “Gwendolyn and I came out to ask you to join us.”

  Gwendolyn took my hand and pulled me up from the bench.

  “Come, Daddy,” she said, now taking Alasdair’s hand as well. We walked back toward the castle, hand in hand with Gwendolyn between us.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Marie,” said Alasdair as we walked. “I think you know what this means to me. There are no words to adequately express it.”

  I looked over at him and smiled.

  Gwendolyn, meanwhile, continued to chatter away.

  Chapter Fifty

  Strange Castle Among the Cliffs

  O weel may the boatie row,

  And better may she speed;

  O weel may the boatie row

  That wins the bairnie’s breid.

  The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

  The boatie rows fu’ weel;

  And muckle luck attend the boat,