Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  Whenever Iain looked at me after that, his eyes were full of unspoken worlds of feeling. I knew what he was saying with his eyes—that he respected me, even honored me, for being able to see in Alasdair what no one else had been able to see, and for loving his longtime friend and drawing the true man out of him.

  I remained one more night at the Buchan Arms, then moved back into Mrs. Gauld’s bed-and-breakfast. Every morning Mrs. Gauld sat down with me for tea. While I ate, she talked nonstop about the village and the changes in the duke and how he had been at church a time or two—though she felt sorry for him having to sit up there all alone with everyone staring at him.

  Alasdair had to go to Edinburgh for a few days. He had several matters to attend to, one of which was to arrange for an agent to fly to Calgary to have my harps, as well as my clothes and what other things I wanted immediately, shipped to Scotland. I could have gone back myself, but I really didn’t want to and Alasdair said he would take care of everything.

  While he was gone, I invited Alicia Forbes to stay with me at Mrs. Gauld’s so the three of us could plan the wedding. Alicia went with me into Elgin several times, and also to Aberdeen, to look at dresses and fabric and tartans.

  After being so formal with each other all this time, suddenly we began to become very good friends.

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Girls’ Night Out

  A lassie was milkin’ her father’s kye,

  When a gentleman on horseback he cam’ ridin’ by,

  A gentleman on horseback, he ca’ ridin’ by:

  He was the Laird o’ the Dainty Dounby.

  —“Laird o’ the Dainty Dounby”

  Alicia wanted to do something special for me before the wedding. I didn’t really know very many people in the community so well that I could socialize with them. So she decided to throw a women-only party to give me the chance to become better acquainted with some of the ladies of the village before the big day.

  What she eventually settled on was a dinner party at the Crannoch Bay Hotel, which sat on the main road between Port Scarnose and Crannoch.

  “We’ll have all the ladies from the castle,” she said, “and then you know, let’s see, Adela and Isobel Gauld, and there’s Jean and Moira and Pamela from Crannoch, and of course Tavia and Cora and—”

  “They’ve been a little distant recently,” I said. “I’m not sure they will want to come.”

  “Distant… what do you mean?”

  “Something changed with both of them. Neither Tavia nor Cora had spoken to me for weeks before I left. Not that I saw them that often. But when I went into the co-op, Cora acted as though she didn’t even know me.”

  “I have a feeling I know why,” said Alicia with a look of annoyance. “I’ll talk to them.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You don’t need to know,” replied Alicia. “But I have a feeling it is because of your run-in with Olivia.”

  “Are they friends of hers?”

  “Olivia knows everyone. People are afraid of offending her. Old superstitions die hard. I’ve heard talk—not that Olivia would confide in me anymore.”

  “Did she once?”

  Alicia nodded. “I was part of her inner circle, too, along with the others. But I fell out of favor.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I worked for her brother.”

  “What did she expect you to do, quit your job just because she had differences with him?”

  “Olivia’s perspectives aren’t always completely rational. Loyalty to her is everything. I don’t mean loyalty as such, but loyalty to her, and only her.”

  “What kind of talk have you heard?” I asked.

  “Nothing specific. Just little hints. Olivia has a subtle way of influencing opinion without anyone knowing what she’s doing. She is very canny.”

  “Opinion… about what?”

  Alicia looked away and hesitated. By then I knew for certain that she was talking about me.

  “Has she been spreading rumors about me?” I said.

  “In a manner of speaking,” replied Alicia hesitantly. “Not rumors exactly, just suspicions. Nothing different from what she has always done with the duke. Now that you and he are engaged, you are coming in for your share.”

  I shuddered at the thought. “You’re right,” I said. “I don’t need to know—I shouldn’t have asked! What I wouldn’t have known wouldn’t have hurt me, right?”

  “Just don’t worry about Tavia and Cora,” said Alicia. “Generally, they like you. It’s just that Olivia can create confusion in people’s minds. But I’ll talk to them and sort them out. And speaking of Olivia, do you want me to invite her, and make sure everyone knows she was invited?”

  “She will soon be my sister-in-law,” I replied. “I suppose we should.”

  “She won’t come, I’m sure of it. But to make sure we don’t give her any additional grounds for complaint, I will invite her.”

  On the night of the dinner, twenty or twenty-five women came whom Alicia had invited, acquaintances and friends of hers she wanted me to know, most of whom I had never met before that night. The place had been decorated with wonderful flower arrangements courtesy of Morag and Awlwyn Mair.

  Afterward everyone spoke to me with friendly smiles when I happened to see them, and a number of intimate friendships developed. In addition to her co-workers at the castle, Sarah Duff and Jean Campbell and the other day-maids, I met Catharine, Brenda, and Rosanna from Port Scarnose, and Ann, Ena, Janet, Christine, and Joan from Crannoch, and so many others whose names I can’t even recall. And Tavia and Cora were both there, too, which pleased me. Things seemed normal with both of them. There were no strange looks or whispered asides. One lady who was missing, however, was Adela Cruickshank. I didn’t know why she hadn’t come. We never heard a word from Olivia, and she did not come either, which was a relief.

  Alicia passed out brightly colored paper hats for everyone to wear. Then one by one I opened the silly gifts they had all brought, to much laughter and applause. By the end of it we were all giggling and laughing like schoolgirls. Marian, Dorré, and Fiona brought little squares of fabric for everyone to write their names on. They said they would sew them into a memory quilt for me.

  When the waiter asked if we would like a round of aperitifs, Alicia answered, “Goodness, no, my good man. We are all proper Presbyterian teetotalers! What would we say if the minister walked in?”

  A few snickers went around the room, evidence that faithful Scots Presbyterians were not necessarily all teetotalers.

  Alicia’s comment did not keep her from ordering champagne, which she kept flowing through numerous toasts to my happiness, which may have had something to do with the giggling from a few of the women that seemed to increase as the evening advanced.

  “Tell me about the temple,” I said as we ate, looking through the hotel’s window to the domed structure on the hill about a quarter mile away. “It is so unusual perched there overlooking the bay.”

  “It’s called the Temple of Fame,” replied Fiona Simpson, whom I later learned was the resident historian of the group. “It was a summer house for the residents of Castle Buchan. It had a room beneath for changing clothes and even at one time was enclosed and contained bookshelves and chairs as a waystation and summerhouse between the castle and the beach. Originally there was a tunnel from the temple under where the road is now leading to the beach, giving the castle residents their own private beach access. It used to have a statue of the trumpeting Fame, which was really its main claim to fame, as it were, but it has been gone for sixty years. It was a stunning sight as people rode by on the railroad, at least that’s what I’ve heard. That was long before my time.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Nobody kens,” replied Brenda Mair in a mysterious tone. “Some say it was taken awa’ for cleanin’, but maist think it wis pinched.”

  “Does the tunnel still exist?” I asked.

  “I dinna ken t
hat edder,” she replied. “I think parts o’ it murlt fan the railway went in an’ the excavation wis deen for the road an’ viaduct. It hasna been eest in half a century. E’en the temple itsel’ is in disrepair an’ a’ grown ower wi’ brambles an’ the like.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “It ought to be restored.”

  “Well, you will soon be in a position to do something about it,” said Alicia.

  “You’re right. Maybe I will. I’ll talk to Alasdair—oops, I mean… the duke—about that. What am I supposed to call him, anyway?”

  The room erupted in laughter.

  “I believe, Marie,” said Alicia, “that once you are his wife, you may call him anything you like.”

  In spite of the champagne, Alicia stood up after the main dinner was completed, before they brought us dessert, which turned out to be sticky toffee pudding, and gave a short speech.

  “We all want to say, Marie,” she began, “that we are so glad that you came here a year ago, and that we are privileged to call you our friend.”

  I smiled up at her as she spoke, and mouthed a silent Thank you.

  “We are not losing a duke, are we, ladies?” she went on. “We are gaining a duchess!”

  I felt a twinge of guilt at her statement, knowing that none of them knew about my discussions with Alasdair, and the prenup I had requested. But this did not seem the time to say anything about it. Besides, that was between Alasdair and me for the present. We had decided not to make it public until after the wedding.

  “And we are very proud that our new duchess will be you, Marie,” Alicia continued. “You have brought new life to the castle, to our villages, to the whole community, and especially into the duke’s life. From the first day you came to the castle with your harp, and left more confused than ever,” she said, laughing, “I knew change was coming to Castle Buchan. I was right. And the changes have all been good!”

  She paused a moment. The room was quiet and more serious than it had been all evening.

  “We wish you every happiness and joy, Marie,” Alicia added. “May your life as the duke’s wife, and as our friend, be richer and more blessed than you can even hope for.”

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Gwendolyn in the Gloamin’

  Could I but sojourn with thee only

  In some green glen, secure and lonely,

  Then neither glory, fame, nor treasure,

  Could ever bring me half such pleasure.

  —“My Pretty Mary”

  Alasdair and I were married in the gardens of Castle Buchan in the third week of May, just as the rosebuds were starting to come on.

  Tulips were in profusion, and rhododendrons. The earth was everywhere alive and bursting forth with the renewal of spring. I wore a dress of light tan wool the color of a fawn, with the Buchan tartan knotted at my right shoulder and coming round the back to my left hip. From there it fell the length of my long dress. Alasdair was in full kilted regalia. His mother’s diamond necklace hung around my neck.

  Iain performed the ceremony. A few of the village auld wives might have had something to say about that in the privacy of their own kitchens. But Iain’s unbounded sincerity and joy in our union brought the entire community together in embracing us all as true friends.

  Everyone within Deskmill Parish was invited to the wedding, and indeed, so many came that the grounds were overflowing. Ranald Bain, in the full Highland costume of his clan, and having been recently appointed official Bard to the Duke of Buchan, added the haunting strains of ballad after ballad to the afternoon from the annals of Scottish legend and lore with his fiddle.

  Midway through the afternoon, Alasdair made a speech and toasted the good health of his friends one and all. He announced certain changes that would be undertaken in the area to continue those he had already begun, a renovation of the harbor and the church being the most important. He also announced that from that day forward, the gates to Castle Buchan, both north gate and east gate, would be open to the community. Visitors would be welcome to quietly and respectfully walk the grounds on all days of the week but Monday and Tuesday. He also proposed, with Curate Barclay’s approval, to install a gate through the stone wall separating the castle from the church, adding another route of access to both, and inviting any from the village who so desired to help with the project, which he would supervise and help with himself. Thenceforth he hoped as many as so desired would use the town gate and entryway through the castle grounds to walk to and from church on Sunday mornings.

  He announced, too, that, thanks to the efforts and loving labors of his new wife, three CDs were now available of his daughter’s enchanting harp music. They were for sale at the church shop. All proceeds would go to the Deskmill Parish Church.

  Finally, he invited the community to the harbor that same evening to send him and his bride on the newly christened yacht Gwendolyn off into the gloaming on the tide.

  They came.

  If anything, more people turned out for our departure about eight-thirty that evening than were at the wedding itself. As the Gwendolyn slowly slipped out of the harbor, Alasdair and I stood on the deck, returning the waves and shouts of at least a thousand well-wishers covering every inch of the harbor and up the hillside to the village. From somewhere in their midst a bagpipe was playing.

  As we cleared the thick cement harbor walls, slowly a familiar tune began to blend in with the pipes. The high, clear tone came unmistakably from Ranald Bain’s violin—the fiddle and the pipes intermingling with such mysterious harmony as they can do only in Scotland. Within seconds, hundreds of voices joined in unison. The words of the Scottish anthem of memories and hopes drifted across the evening waters toward us:

  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

  And ne’er brought to mind.

  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

  In days of auld lang syne.

  Alasdair looked at me, smiled, and stretched his arm around me. We stood at the rail, gazing back at the harbor and crowd, as both slowly faded into the distance.

  Over and over the strains repeated themselves, the sounds growing ever fainter—

  … auld acquaintance… to mind… forgot… in days of auld lang syne…

  … days of auld lang syne…

  … auld lang syne…

  —until we could hear them no longer.

  Gradually Ranald’s violin, too, faded from hearing.

  Finally only the skirl of the pipes remained, and that for but another few moments. At last the pipes, too, were gone, and we were left alone.

  Still we stood, gazing back over the Gwendolyn’s wake, until land and sea and sky faded into purply haze behind us, and we were left surrounded by the reds and oranges of a slowly dying gloaming sunset over the widening Moray Firth of the North Sea.

  Afterword

  Ideas and What We Do with Them

  I was scheduled to speak recently at a church in Arizona for a ladies’ banquet. As we were chatting beforehand, the pastor asked me, “Where do your ideas come from?” Later, during a Q & A discussion after I had concluded my talk, a woman asked, “How do you get the ideas for your books?”

  It is probably the question most frequently asked of writers. I cannot speak for other authors and novelists, but in my own case the ideas usually come of their own accord, in their own time, each idea unique, every circumstance unique. One cannot predict or anticipate, perhaps in a sudden flash of “inspiration” or maybe in a slow-growing “what-if ” that rises out of the subconscious, what will grow into a full-fledged book. When the germ of an idea begins to grow and send down roots—whether suddenly or subtly—who can tell where it will lead. Some go nowhere and are forgotten within twenty-four hours. Others send roots so deep that the resulting plants indeed grow into living organisms, which we water and nourish and which bear fruit in their due season.

  The germinal idea, for example, for my book series, The Secret of the Rose, came unexpectedly one winter’s day when my wife, Judy, fo
und a new rose blossom on a neglected plant in our alley in the midst of a January storm. She picked it and brought it inside. As it sat in its vase over the next several days, that blossom seemed to speak unknown mysteries to us, beckoning us to ask what story it had to reveal.

  I have recounted elsewhere that the idea for the Shenandoah Sisters series bubbled up inside my brain with a startling “what-if”—What if two girls, one white, one black, were suddenly orphaned and found themselves together as the Civil War opened. How would a black slave girl and a white plantation girl survive alone in the midst of that dreadful war? It was a mere “idea” birthed by my brain, but in the end eight books resulted.

  The spark for the book Rift in Time was ignited by an even more astonishing “what-if”—Is it possible, I wondered, that evidence for the location of the original Garden of Eden still exists? And if so, what would be the worldwide impact if an archaeologist discovered it? What would opposing forces do to discredit his discoveries?

  I believe that ideas are living things, to be tended and nurtured and loved in much the same way we care for the plants in our gardens and greenhouses and homes. Not all ideas are good ideas. There are good and bad ideas, true and false ideas. There are idea-weeds that are to be gotten rid of. But there are also idea-trees of large truth, though they start as small grains of mustard seed that grow to become trees to give shade, beauty, and substance to the entire garden of our growing intellectual and spiritual souls. I love ideas far more than I love the roses of my rose garden or the varietals of heather in my heather garden. I treat the nurturing of ideas with the greatest care and respect, both within myself and within others.