“He hasna a brass farthing tae his name. ’Tis been a dreadful season for the fish, ye surely ken that.”
“It’s been some hard months, yes. Why the Muirs in particular?”
“I dinna ken a’ o’ it. His boat’s needed repairs an’ a’body kens that the fish hanna been runnin’ except oot past where the small boats can get til. An’ his daughter had the trouble last summer wi’ her kidneys, ye ken, an’ it was a sore lot o’ money.”
“I was out of the country when it happened. Wasn’t it covered by National Health?”
“They jist put the puir girl on a waitin’ list an’ said it wud be six weeks. Noak an’ Meg was feart she wud die, so they went private. They had tae fly the girl tae Aberdeen. They’re bad in debt as a result o’ it.”
“I didn’t know—thank you for telling me, Auntie,” said David, clearly concerned. “That is something I may be able to help with. I will certainly look into it.”
43
Shepherd, Housekeeper, and Butler
David Tulloch sat in his favorite chair, yellow legal pad in his lap, feet up before a warm fireplace full of glowing peats. He had arisen several hours before.
The burden of his heart was not for himself but for his people. If his cousin Hardy inherited possession of the island’s property, the future for the island could hardly be anticipated with anything but foreboding. What mischief would his cousin undertake if he somehow managed to wrest away the mantle of the chieftainship along with the inheritance?
David desperately hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He doubted the authority of the probate courts extended to the chieftainship at all. Yet it hardly mattered. The position carried no real power. If Hardy inherited he could do anything he wanted, with or without the chieftainship.
With Hardy as laird what would become of the island, the wool factory? Perhaps most important of all, what would become of the spirit of Whales Reef?
David stared at the sentence he had just written about the migratory patterns and winter habitat of Shetland’s puffin population. The words blurred on the page before his eyes. He had hoped to have a completed draft of his book roughed out before speaking commitments piled up in the summer. But anxiety over the future had robbed him of mental focus. He could not concentrate on his work.
David set his pen and pad aside, leaned back, closed his eyes and exhaled a long sigh. His mind was revolving many things. His conversation with his aunt several weeks before had upset him more than he realized. In her blunt way she had exposed the raw nerve of his own doubt.
“Ye’re no speakin’ like a chief” came the words yet again, which had been playing themselves over and over in his mind ever since. “Ye soun’ like a coward . . . I’d like it better if ye’d fight for what ye believe in.”
What was his responsibility?
In his own way, David was a sort of spiritual fatalist. He did not consider it his right or duty to interfere in the ordained order of things. Who was he to beseech God to change events on his own behalf? He would have described it as his responsibility to fall in with God’s purpose, not pray for God to change circumstances for his convenience, and then to accept with grace what his good and loving Father and His creation had laid out for him.
Thus when the reality of his uncle Macgregor’s estate came to light, David made peace with the situation. He would await the outcome and make the best of it. It did not fall to him to dictate events or even to pray for circumstances to be different from what they were. David’s outlook represented a curious blend of traditional and modern thinking.
However, the nagging question plaguing him for weeks continued to poke and prod his brain: Were there times when one had to fight, when one had to lead, not follow, when, as the saying went, one had to take the bull by the horns? When did life require action?
One immovable reality remained, however. He could not change the law. His own actions could not alter the outcome. Nothing he did would determine whether he or Hardy was Macgregor Tulloch’s true heir.
One thing he could do was get to the bottom of whatever was going on with the factory’s finances. The Mill must remain viable. Even with Hardy as laird, David would do everything in his power to keep the widows and elderly women of the island provided with an income that did not depend on fish or oil. The lairdship notwithstanding, he would not relinquish the chieftainship without a fight. If Hardy tried to take it from him, as he had said to his aunt, at that point he would stand and fight.
As if punctuating his resolve, David set aside his writing, bundled up in several layers, pulled his thick cap over his ears, grabbed his favorite walking stick from the hall tree beside the door, and went out into the morning.
He struck out across the moor toward the center of the island. The landscape around him was covered in white frost. The last snow was gone now except for a few patches in the hollows.
With the frozen ground crunching beneath his feet, David crested a small rise. A great commotion greeted him as a small flock of twenty or thirty bleating sheep began scampering toward him. His uncle’s three sheepdogs added their own enthusiasm to the morning symphony, rushing at him from across the moor.
Seconds later David was surrounded by a mass of white wool pressing close to his legs. Unable to get close to him for the sheep, the dogs flew about in a frenzy, barking and with tails wagging.
“Lads, lassies!” he laughed. “’Tis only me! ’Tis naethin’ tae ruffle yer wool aboot!”
Behind them David saw their shepherd ambling over the uneven terrain.
“Ho, Dougal!” he called, lifting his arm in greeting.
“Best o’ the mornin’ tae ye, Chief!” said the shepherd as the turbulence about David’s legs thinned and the two shook hands.
Like David, the other was warmly clad in stout boots and a bright plaid wool coat with cap and gloves. A great beard of mingled black and gray shot out with wild abandon, as if he had sprouted a wool mane exactly like what grew on the backs of his four-legged charges. Hair of like shade protruded in equal abundance from beneath the wool cap on his head. With the tall crook-necked shepherd’s staff in his hand, the man could have stepped straight off the pages of a nineteenth century Scottish tale.
“What brings ye oot on sich a cold day?” he asked.
“I had tae clear my head, Dougal,” replied David. “The uncertainty o’er the future’s weighin’ on me mair nor I should let it.”
“Aye, ’tis a difficult time for ye, I’m thinkin’.”
Gradually the two made a wide arc in the general direction of the Cottage as they made their way slowly behind the flock.
“An’ yersel’, Dougal? Hoo are ye farin’?” David asked.
“I canna say I dinna miss the auld man,” replied the shepherd. “He was both like a father tae me as weel’s a frien’. Otherwise, I’m weel enough. The laird took good care o’ me, as ye are yersel’. I’m wantin’ for naethin’. I’m jist grateful tae hae the use o’ my lodgin’s.”
“Ye’ll git yer back wages when the thing’s all settled—ye ken that?”
“Aye, laddie. I hae nae worries on that score. Ye dinna need concern yersel’ wi’ me.”
“Ye been livin’ at the Cottage for what . . . twenty-five years or more, Dougal? Naebody would think o’ it bein’ otherwise.”
“There’s one who might.”
“I ken who ye mean. But Hardy’s no laird yet.”
“Aye, but puir Isobel’s in a dither aboot what’s tae become o’ them when he is. She’s certain he’ll turn us a’ oot wi’ naethin’. Bless the woman, she takes good care o’ me. But she’s no what a body’d call an optimist. A more dour woman I haenna met.”
David laughed. “I’ll hae a word wi’ her.”
As they approached the large stone edifice that had served as the home of the lairds for more than a century, they saw a woman of middle age returning from the shed that was home to her family of hens, basket in hand. As the sheep scampered toward the barn, David walked toward her with a smile.
“Middlin’, Mr. David,” she replied. “But weel enough for oor breakfast. Will ye join us?”
“I may at that, thank you.”
“I’ll put oot some fresh hay for the lads an’ lassies,” said Dougal as David and Isobel walked toward the kitchen door. “I’ll join ye presently.”
David followed the late laird’s cook and housekeeper inside, where they were met by a man of stately appearance in his late fifties.
Saxe and Isobel Matheson, brother and sister, had lived at the Cottage for decades, serving Macgregor Tulloch as butler and manservant, housekeeper and cook. Neither ever married.
“Good morning, Saxe,” said David, shaking the man’s hand warmly.
“Mr. David,” said Matheson. “Welcome back to the Cottage. We hope it will soon be your home.”
“Time will tell, Saxe. We must await events. Until then, are you both comfortable?”
“Aye, we are, Mr. David. I only wish there was more for me to do. Are you sure there isn’t anything we can do for you at the Auld Hoose?”
“It’s a third the size of the Cottage, if that,” replied David. “I must say I do enjoy Isobel’s cooking. So I will continue to let you know when I need help.”
Busying herself with tea preparations, Isobel set cups and saucers and a plate of oatcakes on the table. “Sit ye doon, Mr. David,” she said. “The tea will be along directly.”
They were soon joined by Dougal Erskine. The four continued to chat easily.
The three employees of David’s great uncle had known David since he was a boy. Their respect for him, not only as nephew to the laird but as their chief, could not have been greater.
When David took his leave an hour later, he hoped he had succeeded somewhat in setting their minds at ease over the future’s uncertainties.
44
Books, Antiques, and Scones
David struck out southward, reaching the ocean a few minutes later. He followed the shore path along the rocky uneven beach, then gradually turned westward, the pleasant sound of the sea on his left. Eventually he returned to the road, crossed it, and continued up a gentle rise inland.
Making a wide half circle around the back of the village, he arrived at length behind the small stone church and gated cemetery. To all appearances on this day, both church and graveyard were lifeless.
He skirted the church building, gazing upon the silent walls of stones, wondering whether much more life was to be found in it on Sunday than was apparent today. It was no secret that the present curate, Reverend Stirling Yates, had been sent to this remote parish, if not as a direct disciplinary action, then something very much like it. What exact trouble had arisen in his previous parish not even David’s aunt nor Coira MacNeill knew.
Yates seemed a pleasant enough fellow. Whether he brought life to the church was another matter. How long he would be here, no one knew that either.
David continued around the church, down its entryway, and into town.
The Whales Reef Natural History Museum and Wildlife Shoppe, closed now for the winter, was one of David’s favorite places. He paused and looked through the window. It was somewhat presumptuously named, he thought, as he peered into the darkened interior. But it brought a certain prestige to the village and benefited summer tourism. He had helped Wilma Welby, whose brainchild the shop was, to organize and set up the displays and advised her on which books and other items to carry. Binoculars, bird-watching guides, and small gifts of local interest comprised the majority of Wilma’s inventory. He knew the place made no profit, but he managed to add a small stipend to one or two of his research grants every year to help subsidize it.
Few people were out on this bright, cold morning. Most hurried only to and from the market or Paper Shop or, as the day advanced, to the pub at the hotel.
A few doors farther on, David entered another small store, this one open. The small black lettering on the door read Olde Worlde Antiques.
“Hello, Harry,” David greeted a man behind a cluttered desk. “I’m surprised to see you open.”
“If I’m here I might as well keep the door unlocked,” said the shopkeeper, Harry Menglad, a native of Lerwick.
“You don’t sell much in the winter months, I suppose.”
“Not to speak of. It’s mostly Internet sales and sniffing out antique auctions on the mainland I might want to attend. I do most of my buying online these days. And with my specialty in walking sticks, fountain pens and such, I manage to do decently well.”
“Well, when you are online, I am still looking for a set of Victorian bookends like I described to you. I saw them in a manor house on the mainland—a man seated on a stool surrounded by books. The artist or designer was G. S. Allen.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Thanks. I’d best be off. Happy sleuthing!”
David left the shop and continued on. He passed the small hair-styling salon—no matter what the weather or economic conditions, women had to have their hair done!—and the fishing shop, nearly always open, fair weather or foul. David stopped in to greet its owner, retired fisherman Hakon Osk, at one time a partner with his own father many years before.
“Hello, Mr. Osk. Please tell me you have some good news for our fishermen for the spring season.”
“Sorry, laddie. Ye can ne’er predict when or where the fish’ll be runnin’. ’Tis nae different from when yer daddy an’ me went oot—ye must jist trust yer instincts.”
“These days it seems that Hardy’s are the only instincts that can be relied on!” chuckled David.
“Aye,” said Osk. “Mair that expensive new equipment o’ his than instincts, I’m thinkin’. Hae ye heard that he jist bought Gunder Knut’s boat?”
“I had not heard,” replied David. “So now Gunder’s working for Hardy too, along with Sandy and Iver?”
“If it keeps up, Hardy’ll own half the boats in the harbor, wi’ most o’ the men workin’ for him. If ye ask me, ’tis his design. It’s mair siller for him, less in the pockets o’ the men settin’ oot the nets for him. He’s a crafty one.”
“I must say, I don’t like the idea of him buying up the other men’s boats,” said David.
“The way I hear, he makes them a cash offer they canna weel refuse, promisin’ they can buy their boats back once they’re back on their feet.”
“But will Sandy or Iver, and now Gunder—when will they ever have that kind of cash again? Hardy knows the chances of that are slim to zero. The fishing will rebound. It always does. I don’t like the men giving up their boats because of a couple bad seasons.”
“Aye, but cash money speaks in a loud voice, ye ken.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
David bid farewell to his father’s friend and left the shop.
He entered the Willows Tea Shop a minute or two later and sat down at one of its four empty tables.
“Good morning, Harriett,” he said to the woman behind the half wall into the kitchen.
“An’ tae yersel’, Chief,” replied the woman.
“How fresh are your scones, Harriett?”
“Jist yesterday, Chief.”
“You have raspberry jam to go with them?”
“Oh, aye!”
“Then I’ll have a scone, Harriett—warmed and with jam, if you please.”
“Wi’ tea?”
“I think perhaps I shall have a cup of coffee instead.”
David continued to chat with Mrs. Gudrun as she warmed his scone and prepared his coffee. Though she mixed with the people of the village every day, she kept her own counsel. She was married to Hardy’s first cousin on his mother’s side. However, not a word about the disputed inheritance passed her lips, to David or to anyone else.
Leaving the Willows twenty minutes later, David walked past the post office, the seasonal gift shop Nibs and Nobs, and finally into the Paper Shop.
“Good morning, Garth,”
he said to a man with his back turned and busy with stacks of newspapers.
“Ah, David,” said the shop’s owner Garth Kennedy, turning around. “I was beginning to wonder if you would be coming in for your Press and Journal today. You’re later than usual.”
“I took the long way round,” said David, “through the hills, you know. I visited for a while at the Cottage and had a scone at Harriett’s.”
“’Tis a fine day for a stroll! They say another storm’s due in a few days.”
“It’s that time of year.” David set a pound coin on the counter and left the shop.
Seeing the light on and the Open sign visible, David walked toward what was arguably the most incongruous shop in Whales Reef. The gold leaf on the door read simply Antiquarian Books, A. Lamont, Prop. Located on the ground floor of a spacious stone house of two floors, the building’s several ornate architectural touches spoke of more wealth than was indicated by any other in the village proper. Said to be of seventeenth century origin, it predated the immigration of Highlanders to the island and had long ago been home to its first lairds.
Armond Lamont, the shop’s owner, was one of the town’s recent residents, an incomer from four years earlier. The prim and proper Englishman was considered something of a strange bird. The village gossips belabored the point that he never went out without a walking stick or umbrella and was always impeccably attired from head to foot. They all wondered the same thing—what was such a dandy doing here?
Why had he chosen one of the most remote and inaccessible places in Britain to set up an antiquarian book trade? A cold, wet climate was the worst conceivable place for books, especially valuable ones. Nor could a remote island hundreds of miles from the mainland be considered a convenient location for a mail-order business, where every parcel began its journey on a ferry. Even in the summer at the height of the tourist season, no one came to Whales Reef for books.
Rumors abounded, ranging from speculation that he was running from the law or a former wife, to the more benign theory of a nervous breakdown from the pace of London’s city life. The fact that no one ever saw customers in his shop, and that he had paid cash for the largest and finest house on the island save the Cottage and the Auld Hoose, contributed to the theory that he was independently wealthy. The most freely wagging tongues claimed he was worth millions.
The Inheritance Page 19
