The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

  Soon in the country again, Loni caught an occasional glimpse of the sea to their right, and hints of open fields to their left. Occasionally she noticed what she thought were grazing sheep, though it was difficult to tell through the fog.

  Several minutes later they slowed as they came to a long driveway leading off the road to the left.

  A short man with walking stick in hand, ancient by the look of it, stood at the side of the road. He stared straight into the car window as they turned into the drive. Loni had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew who she was, perhaps even that he was waiting for her.

  Their eyes met through the glass. Loni glanced away as they drove by.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “I dinna ken, Miss Ford,” replied Sinclair. “He looked a rum one.”

  “He was staring right at me.”

  “I’ll make sure he isna there when I leave. I dinna want anyone botherin’ ye.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

  After another minute the car slowed and came to a stop in front of an imposing structure of granite. At first appearance it looked as though it had been transplanted from the heart of one of Aberdeen’s more exclusive districts.

  “Weel, here ye be at yer new place, Miss Ford,” said Sinclair, stepping out to open her door. “’Tis what they call the Cottage.”

  He retrieved Loni’s bags, and she followed toward the front door of the massive, two-story, gray stone house of three wings.

  Loni slowed her step to take it all in. In the fog she could make out little more than the outline of the building. It rose out of its surroundings in what to all appearances was the middle of nowhere. From the distance behind them, muted by the fog, came the unmistakable sound of waves breaking on the shore.

  The doors were unlocked. Sinclair disappeared inside with her bags. He returned and approached Loni where she stood in the enormous entryway.

  “’Tis time for me tae return til the city,” he said. “Dinna forgit, lassie—embrace the adventure. God is wi’ ye. He winna let naethin’ but good come tae ye.”

  Loni smiled, stepped forward, and bent to give the short man a warm hug. “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” she said. “You don’t know how much this time has meant to me. You were a stranger when we first met. Now you are a friend.”

  76

  The Cottage

  Loni walked through the large double doors of solid oak at the front of the Cottage, which Sinclair had left open. She found herself standing in the middle of an expansive entryway with a high vaulted ceiling. Into its midst swept a wide flowing staircase of well-worn light oak. It made a picturesque half circle down from a landing above that rounded the entry and from which corridors led off in opposite directions into the two main wings of the house.

  Loni gazed about for several seconds in wonder, then continued through two more double doors into what was obviously the great room the lawyer had mentioned.

  Notwithstanding the lawyer’s modest description, to Loni’s eyes this might as well have been a castle! She could only stare awestruck at what surrounded her. She had stepped into another world, and back in time a hundred years. Several tall cases displayed an array of books with leather spines that were doubtless older than the house. Antique tables, writing desks, couches, chairs, sideboards, and lamps were arranged throughout. On the walls hung colorful tapestries, several works of Renaissance art, as well as numerous oil paintings of men and women of past generations. It still had not registered in Loni’s brain . . . everything she was looking at was hers!

  A fire blazed away in an enormous fireplace surrounded by a stone hearth. The interior of the house was warm and pleasant. Mr. MacNaughton had thought of everything, right down to having someone light a fire for her arrival.

  Adjacent to the great room, Loni wandered into the kitchen. Just as MacNaughton had said, it was well-stocked. A note taped to the refrigerator read Supper inside. On the counter sat a coffee maker, beside which lay three unopened bags of coffee, including one of Starbucks Yukon Blend. Whoever was responsible for the preparations, they were doing their best to keep the American happy! Next to them sat a box of Scottish Blend tea and a second of Nambarrie. Beside the coffee and tea sat three boxes labeled OATCAKES.

  What are oatcakes? Loni wondered. She had not encountered them at the conference the previous November.

  Returning to the entry, her bags still in the middle of the floor, Loni ascended the magnificent stairway. Halfway up to the first floor, her legs nearly gave way.

  She stopped, took hold of the bannister, and caught her breath. She was so tired she was about to drop. Jet lag and fatigue had suddenly kicked in.

  Continuing to the top, she plopped into one of several chairs about the wide landing that was surrounded by a waist-high balustrade and overlooked the entry below.

  It was already past five o’clock British time. She couldn’t go to bed yet. And she certainly couldn’t take a nap this late in the day. It wasn’t too soon, however, to check out her sleeping accommodations.

  She pulled herself back to her feet and walked through the two wings of the upper floor. Everything was clean and tidy. Locating what was clearly the master bedroom, she returned downstairs. With flagging energy she lugged her suitcase and carry-on back upstairs and deposited them in the room.

  She left the room and wandered back along the corridor. As she came to the landing at the head of the main staircase, situated between the two corridors leading east and south, an ornately crafted oak door caught her eye. Curious, she walked over to it and tried the handle. The door was locked. No other door in the place had been locked.

  Then Loni remembered.

  She jerked her hand from the door handle. This was one room she did not need to explore . . . at least not yet. For the present she intended to stay as far away from the locked study—or burial crypt!—as possible.

  She hurried back downstairs and returned to the kitchen. Surveying the supper options in the refrigerator, she found enough food for three people. All the containers were marked: quiche, steamed vegetables, two slabs of breaded fish, something called Cullen Skink. She certainly was not about to try that! She decided on half a slice of fish and a small portion of vegetables.

  By the time she was finished with her modest meal it was approaching seven, the sun still high in the sky. She pulled all the drapes in the room of her chosen accommodations, but was only partially successful in darkening the room.

  She was in bed by seven-thirty.

  77

  First Guest

  If it was possible both to sleep soundly and fitfully at the same time, Loni did so. She dozed in and out of consciousness all night, ever aware of the faint sound of the sea. The subtle sensation was mesmerizing. Yet the peacefulness came with a sense of lonely isolation.

  She awoke to the cry of gulls. Feeling wonderfully rested, she stretched and sighed contentedly.

  Was she really in the Shetland Islands . . . at the edge of the world? Surging like a slow incoming tide into her mind came the astonishing, unbelievable thought. Did all this—the huge house, the fields surrounding it, the village she’d driven through—did it all really belong to her?

  She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. It was too overwhelming to think about. Relieved to put the idea of the inheritance aside, she remembered what Mr. MacNaughton had said about the view of the sea. She rose from bed, walked to the window, and pulled back the drapes.

  The view under a thick cloudy sky was not exactly stunning. Visibility extended perhaps half a mile. There was the ocean, but the gray water and gray sky were not particularly spectacular. Inland, in the opposite direction, only bare fields were visible. Not a tree in sight. She saw sheep in the distance. Did the sheep belong to her too?

  Loni showered, dressed, and descended to the main floor. The fire that had greeted her upon her arrival had gone out in the night, so she set about building a new one. Thinking fondly of her grandfather’s morning ritual in fron
t of the fireplace at home, she tried to remember how he stacked paper and kindling into a sort of teepee before lighting them. It took her some time, but the box beside the fireplace was well supplied with old newspapers, matches, kindling, and firewood. Before long she had three or four good-sized logs blazing away. Where the supply of wood had come from she couldn’t imagine. From the little of it she had seen, the island seemed devoid of trees. And what were those peculiar black chunks of dried dirt in a box next to the firewood? While she was waiting for the fire to do its work, she happily discovered a modern thermostat on the wall. Soon she felt evidence that the central heating was in good working order and up to the task of heating such a large house.

  She brewed an enjoyable cup of coffee and made herself a light breakfast with her first exposure to Scottish oatcakes. They were certainly too dry and plain to be called cakes. But with jam she discovered them a surprisingly tasty alternative to toast. Afterward she bundled up and went outside.

  The air was thick with moisture. Drops hung from every blade of grass and fence post. A car sat in front of the house. How and when and by whom it was delivered, she didn’t know.

  She could now see far enough inland to make out green hilly fields, amply dotted with rocks and small boulders, with a high hill across the fields in the distance. Two large barns and a few small outbuildings stood behind the house. Evidence of animal life came from that direction as well. On the fourth side, directly east, was the sea.

  A path angled northward away from the house. After a short walk on the path, she found herself standing on a bluff, gazing out over the ocean. Gentle waves splashed on a gravelly shoreline twenty or thirty feet below. Some distance along the uneven shore to her left stretched a sandy expanse of beach.

  She returned the way she had come. After another cup of coffee, she set out to explore the house more thoroughly than her fatigue had allowed the previous evening. An hour later, she went outside again. From the front doors she started along the drive toward the main road. She had gone about halfway when ahead of her she saw the same man standing at the end of the drive exactly as he had been the day before. Again he seemed to be waiting.

  Loni paused a moment, then summoned her courage and continued toward him. He watched her as she came. He did not seem surprised. Again came the distinct impression that he was expecting her.

  As she approached a slow smile spread over his face.

  Loni could see that he was a gentleman. She judged him to be in his late eighties or early nineties and maybe eight or nine inches shorter than her. His smile was knowing, tender, sensitive. She knew she had no reason to be apprehensive.

  “Hello,” she said. “Is there something . . . are you waiting for someone?”

  “Aye, miss,” replied the man. “I’ve been waitin’ for yersel’.”

  “For me? You knew I was coming?”

  “Oh, aye. I knew ye would come.”

  “How long have you been waiting?”

  “Nigh on fifty years an’ mair.” He still wore the hint of a smile. “Though ye’re a mite taller than I expected.”

  Loni wasn’t sure if she had heard him correctly. “I’ve never been here before,” she said.

  “Not yersel’, lassie. But her spirit’s been here all these many years. I see her in your eyes.”

  “Whose spirit?” said Loni.

  “Yer grit-gran’mither, as near as I can make it oot,” said the old man.

  A tingle went through Loni’s frame. “I remind you of someone,” she said, “someone you knew?”

  “Aye.” His eyes probed her face, still with an expression that said he knew more than he was saying.

  “That must have been a long time ago. Fifty years, you say?”

  “Aye, a long time. Over eighty years syne I first laid eyes on her.”

  “Eighty years! But how could you . . . ? I mean—”

  “I’m an auld man, lassie,” chuckled the man “An’ I was but a wee tyke back then. But I mind the day weel. She came an’ sat doon wi’ the two o’ us. A puir wee birdie was dyin’, ye see, an’ we were helpin’ it gae back til its Maker in peace.”

  “That is the lady I remind you of?”

  “Aye—yer grit-gran’mither.”

  Again Loni felt strange sensations welling up inside her.

  “Dinna ye worry, lassie,” he added, smiling more broadly this time. “I hae my wits aboot me. Some folk dinna think so. I’m in the way o’ sayin’ odd things noo an’ then. Folk dinna ken what tae make o’ me. But the auld laird understood me, as did my own daddy, an’ as do the creatures. I see the look o’ question in yer face. But I’m nae talkin’ nonsense. I ken weel enouch who ye are.”

  “You said she sat down with the two of you,” said Loni. “You and who?”

  “The laird. My daddy was his gamekeeper. The laird an’ I were fast friends after that day, though as I said I was jist a wee laddie.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny thin coin. He handed it to Loni.

  She turned it over in her hand. “It’s nearly worn smooth,” she said. “What is it?”

  “A farthing, lassie. They’re nae used noo.”

  “I’ve heard of them, but have never seen one. How much were they worth?”

  “A fourth o’ a penny—the smallest coin in Britain. ’Tis made o’ brass—a worthless bit o’ metal, except for the trowth it has tae tell. I’ve carried it wi’ me for a’ the years syne. He gae it tae me that day sae that I wouldna forget. He wanted me tae learn the lesson o’ the dyin’ wee birdie.”

  Loni smiled and handed back the coin, satisfied he was not as loony as some might take him for. Completely enchanted, Loni realized she had made her first acquaintance on Whales Reef. She was curious to hear more of what he had to tell her.

  “Would you like to come inside for a cup of coffee or tea?” she asked.

  “Aye, miss, that I would.”

  “If you want tea, you may have to make it yourself,” said Loni as she led the way toward the house. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a tea drinker. I’m Loni, by the way. Loni Ford.”

  “I’m mair pleased than I can tell ye tae make yer acquaintance, lassie. An’ naethin’ could make me happier than tae tell ye aboot yer gran’daddy, the Auld Tulloch . . . an’ his Sally an’ the lad Brogan. If ye came tae Whales Reef seekin’ yer past an’ yer inheritance, as folk is sayin’, ’tis those gone before that are the true inheritance. I didna ken the auld laird’s first wife, God bless her. She died yoong, ye ken. Ye’re descended fae her, no fae Sally as is oor chief.”

  “Your . . . chief?” repeated Loni. The seeming anachronism was as unexpected as the first time she had heard it in the solicitor’s office.

  “Aye, ye’ll meet him soon enouch, I’m thinkin’,” he replied. “He’ll be yer half cousin, or the like, many generations back, near as I ken. He’s descended fae Sally’s son Leith. But though I didna ken yer ain grit-grit-gran’mother, Elizabeth was her name, I knew the Auld Tulloch’s Sally weel, an’ a fine woman she was. This was their hoose the auld laird’s, Ernest by name, an’ his Sally’s, though I’m sure they told ye that. If ye’re goin’ to bide in their hoose, ye need to ken the man an’ woman they was.”

  “So the man called Ernest is the one you call the old laird?”

  “Aye, yer gran’daddy the Auld Tulloch.”

  “I don’t believe he is my grandfather,” corrected Loni.

  “Oh, aye. But there’s too many grits tae keep track o’ so I called him yer gran’daddy. I call a’ those who gave us life fae the auld days, the cloud o’ witnesses, ye ken, oor gran’daddys and gran’mithers.”

  “And Sally was his wife?”

  “Aye, his second wife, after the death o’ yer grit-grit-gran’mother Elizabeth. Brogan was their firstborn son—yer grit-gran’father who went to America.”

  Loni smiled and shook her head. Even though she had heard substantially the same outline of her ancestry the previous day in Jason MacNaughton’s office, she could not help bein
g confused all over again.

  “Do you mind if I ask your name?” she asked as their steps crunched along the gravel toward the Cottage.

  The old man smiled. “The laird sometimes called me Wee Mannie,” he said, “but my name is Alexander Innes. Folk call me Sandy. I’d be privileged for ye tae use the Sandy yersel’.”

  78

  A Mysterious Old Man With a Story to Tell

  “Ye wouldna ken it,” said the man called Sandy Innes as they walked into the Cottage. “Ye see me wi’ naethin’ but snow on top. But my hair was as orange as a ripe carrot on the day the laird gae me the farthing I showed ye.”

  Loni led the way inside and straight through toward the kitchen. Turning, she realized her guest was no longer beside her. He was standing in the middle of the entryway. He had taken his cap off, revealing the mass of snowy-white hair he had just spoken of. Deep emotion spread over his face. She detected a tear stealing from one eye.

  He glanced toward her with a poignant smile.

  “Right here was the last time I laid eyes on the dear man’s face,” he said. “They set him oot here—jist here where I’m standin’—for the payin’ o’ oor last respects the day before the buryin’. He couldna see me then, o’ course, except through the eyes o’ his heart, which is the best kind o’ seein’ o’ a’. But I’ll ne’er forget his peaceful, sleepin’ face.”

  He breathed in deeply, smiled again, then rejoined Loni and followed her into the kitchen.

  At Loni’s behest, Sandy took upon himself the task of preparing tea. As he did, he urged Loni to try a cup. It was the first time she had tasted tea with milk. Not half bad, she thought.

  Two hours later, Loni Ford and Sandy Innes still sat in the great room of the Cottage of the late laird Macgregor Tulloch. Thoroughly engrossed, Loni had been listening to stories of Whales Reef and its history and people, from times long past to the present. Though almost six decades separated them, they were talking together like old friends.