The Cottage

by Michael Phillips

  “Ye’ll hae tae talk tae my daughter aboot it,” mumbled the man, nodding toward the girl delivering lunches to their customers. He caught the girl’s eye, cocked his head in Loni’s direction, then disappeared through the same door she had come through.

  A minute later the girl walked behind the counter.

  “Noo, then,” she said, “hoo can I help ye, miss?”

  “I was asking about the use of a fax machine.”

  “Oh, aye—if ye’ll just let me get Mr. Gordon his pint,” she said, holding a large glass under a tap and pulling the decorative handle. She delivered the foamy glass to one of the tables. “Here ye be, Mr. Gordon,” she said, and was soon back with Loni.

  “Come wi’ me, miss,” she said. “’Tis jist in oor wee office in back.”

  She led Loni through a door at the far end of the public room and into a corridor from which a wide stairway disappeared above. “That’s where oor guest rooms are,” said the girl, pointing up the stairs. “Jist this way.” She continued along the corridor, then opened a door to her right. Loni followed into a small room containing a desk piled high with papers and paraphernalia. A file cabinet and chair were the only other furnishings. “The phone’s under this mess,” said the young woman with a chuckle. She shoved a few things aside to reveal the fax machine and phone.

  “I need to fax a letter to the United States,” said Loni. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ll pay for the call, of course.”

  The girl laughed. “If ye be who I think ye are, ’tis right comical for ye tae speak o’ payin’ for the likes o’ a telephone call. Ye’re likely the owner o’ my daddy’s whole inn!” she added. “Ye are the lassie frae the States, I take it, who’s come tae inherit frae the laird?”

  “I suppose so,” Loni said with a smile. “I am Alonnah Ford.”

  “I’m pleased tae know ye, miss. I’m Audney Kerr.”

  “Audney—what an interesting name.”

  “That’s been said many a time!” laughed Audney.

  “I know the feeling. It’s said to me too. I once knew a girl called Audrey.”

  “A friend?”

  “Not really,” replied Loni. “Someone I knew in high school. Was that your father I spoke to a minute ago?”

  “Aye.”

  “He didn’t seem too pleased to see me.”

  “None o’ the folk are altogither pleased for a lassie tae inherit,” said Audney. “Isna right, in their eyes.”

  “Is that because I’m a foreigner . . . an American?”

  “Somewhat on account o’ that, but not mostly.”

  “What then?”

  “Because ye’re a woman.”

  “They don’t want a woman inheriting?”

  “Such a thing’s ne’er be heard o’ on Whales Reef.”

  “Hasn’t women’s liberation reached the Shetlands?”

  “Oh, we can vote an’ speak oor mind, if that’s what ye mean. But a lassie for a laird . . . that’s too much even for the women o’ the island.”

  “Not very modern thinking,” said Loni.

  “No one would accuse us o’ bein’ modern, miss.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Loni.

  “Some folk may call it bein’ behind the times. We would say we love oor traditions.”

  “What about you? Do you agree with the rest of the island?”

  “Meanin’ no disrespect tae yersel,” said Audney, “I hae tae say I do.”

  “You think the probate courts made a mistake?”

  “Oh, I dinna ken aboot that. I jist think it’s wrong for a woman an’ an outsider tae inherit the laird’s property. But ’tis none o’ my affair, an’ the courts hae made their decision so ’tis up tae us tae make the best o’ it, though not everyone thinks so. Most folk are more disgruntled than pleased. Hae ye met the chief yet?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You’ll be meetin’ him soon, nae doobt.”

  “You know him, then?”

  “Oh, aye. Everyone on the island kens the chief. His daddy an’ mine were best friends.”

  “Were?” repeated Loni.

  “Aye. The chief’s daddy was lost at sea.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Weel,” said Audney, pointing to the desk, “here’s yer fax machine—do ye ken hoo tae work the contraption? We send maybe one fax a year. I hope the thing still works.”

  “I’m sure I will manage,” said Loni. “Although, come to think of it, I don’t know if I remember the codes for the U.S.”

  “There’s a phone book in the drawer,” said Audney. “I’ll leave ye, if ye dinna mind. Some o’ the men’ll be wantin’ anither pint by noo. An’ likely wantin’ tae ken what ye said tae me.”

  “Thank you so much,” said Loni. “You’ve been very kind. I appreciate your honesty, even if you don’t like my being here. And really, I don’t want your father upset with me—I should pay for the call.”

  “We’ll see what comes o’ it,” said Audney. “Dinna worry aboot it for noo. Jist come oot an’ see me when ye’re done.”

  Left alone, Loni pulled out the letter she had brought from the Cottage and skimmed her brief handwritten message.

  To Madison Swift,

  Capital Towers, Washington, D.C.

  Dear Maddy,

  I’ve decided to stay a few extra days to get my bearings and decide how best to proceed. I’ve postponed my flight, so no need to pick me up at the airport tomorrow evening.

  Would you please call Hugh and let him know about my change of plans? My cell doesn’t work here, but tell him I’ll try to get in touch one way or another. The house has a landline, but I don’t even know the number. I should get that to you just in case.

  Thank you for encouraging me to do this. It’s a very interesting place. Still not sure what to do. Much to tell you.

  All the best,

  Loni

  She drew in a deep breath, then set the letter facedown into the machine, entered the codes from the phone book followed by Maddy’s office number, then waited for the call to go through.

  Three minutes later she returned to the pub. She caught Audney’s eye as she was heading back into the kitchen with a tray of empty plates.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Nae botha,” replied Audney. “Come back when ye can stay for a wee visit.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  6

  Baker and Bookseller

  Loni left the small hotel with much to think about. In spite of what she said about a woman inheriting, the girl had been nice. Who could blame her for being a traditionalist?

  There was the bakery across the street. She’d go get more oatcakes.

  She walked through the door of the shop accompanied by the sharp ringing of a bell above her. A plump woman, ample midsection encircled by a flour-encrusted white apron, appeared from behind the counter, forehead beaded with perspiration. Her eyes narrowed as she quickly surveyed her fashionably dressed customer.

  “Good afternoon,” said Loni, suddenly more aware than ever of her American tongue. “I understand you have oatcakes?”

  “Aye,” said the woman without expression.

  “How do you sell them?”

  “Any way ye like, mum.”

  “Then . . . I, uh, I think I would like two dozen. That should do it for a few days.”

  The woman reached into her case. Her hand made several trips back and forth to a white bag, which she then set on the top shelf of glass.

  “And what are those?” asked Loni, pointing beside them.

  “Butteries, mum. So ye’re the American, then?” she added abruptly. Her voice contained a note of challenge.

  “Yes, that’s right. I suppose my voice gave me away.”

  “Yer voice an’ everything aboot ye, if ye dinna mind my sayin’ so. Ye’re no Shetlander, an’ that’s the truth. One look at ye’s enough tae ken that. An’ ye got no right tae be takin’ auld Macgregor’s land an’ home fae oor chief.”
As she spoke, her tone grew heated. “The auld blighter was nae frien’ o’ mine,” she went on, “but the chief’s his heir, not yersel’. Ye got nae business here.”

  Loni stared back, momentarily speechless. “I’m . . . sorry,” she said at length. “It is not my intention to hurt anyone or take what belongs to someone else.”

  “Then what are ye doin’ here if ye dinna intend jist that? It doesna belong tae ye, so why did ye come?”

  “I . . . uh—”

  “Why didna ye jist leave weel enough alone?” the woman shot back.

  “I was notified to come to the Shetlands. They, uh . . . they found I was related to someone I had never heard of,” replied Loni, fumbling for words. “I knew nothing about it. Believe me, I am just as surprised—”

  “Ye come tae git yer hands on what’s no yer’s,” interrupted the woman. “Yer soft words dinna fool me. We ken what Americans is like. ’Tis a’ aboot money for the likes o’ ye big city folk. The chief doesna take kindly tae Americans, I can tell ye that. Yer kind has caused enough mischief on this island. He’s no likely tae want ye interferin’ like the woman that was here before. He doesna want ye here an’ neither do any o’ us. Git on the ferry an’ gae back where ye came fae. Ye’re no welcome here.”

  Tears rose in Loni’s eyes. “Perhaps I should pay for my oatcakes and go,” she said softly.

  “I dinna want yer American money.”

  “I have pounds.”

  “I dinna want any kind o’ yer money. Take yer oatcakes, but dinna darken the door o’ my shop again.”

  Loni turned and stumbled her way out of the shop, the bag of oatcakes still sitting on the case.

  Wiping at her eyes, she moved along the sidewalk, hardly conscious which way she was going. Suddenly she was a schoolgirl again, rebuked by Mrs. Schrock for being clumsy and ugly. She hurried through another shop door a minute later, her only thought to get out of sight.

  As the door closed behind her, she found herself in a gift shop of some kind. She was relieved to see no one at the counter and no customers. Quickly she made herself inconspicuous between several tall shelves. As she calmed and her eyes came into focus, she saw that she had wandered into what was called the Whales Reef Natural History Museum and Wildlife Shoppe. As her mind cleared, she found the contents and displays fascinating. Not wanting to engage in conversation, she kept to herself when a lady appeared behind the counter.

  Fifteen minutes later Loni left the shop with a guidebook to the Shetlands, a dozen colorful postcards, and an assortment of Whales Reef souvenirs—fridge magnets, a mug, a small fishing boat with Whales Reef painted on its side, and a key chain. She’d have to get Maddy and Hugh and her grandparents more suitable gifts later, but this was the start of a memory collection. Though after what had just happened, whether she would want to remember her visit here was another question.

  Outside again, she glanced back and forth along the street. Getting her bearings, she turned for the Cottage. She just wanted to get out of town without seeing or talking to anyone else.

  She began walking briskly back the way she had come. A man was on the sidewalk ahead, arranging books on a small table outside a storefront.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, turning as she approached. “A pleasant day to be out.”

  The refined sound of his speech took Loni off guard. It was like nothing she had yet heard on the island. She slowed and stopped.

  “You’re not from around here,” she said.

  He smiled and said, “And I would guess that neither are you.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I saw you crossing from the bakery earlier. I guessed who you were. You do stand out. Hearing you just now confirmed my suspicions.”

  “You’re English?”

  “London, actually. We are both incomers and foreigners in the eyes of the good people of Whales Reef.”

  “A dubious honor!”

  “Especially for you, I would guess,” chuckled the Englishman.

  “Why me more than you?”

  “They’ve had several years to get used to me. So they tolerate my presence. But you,” he added, “you are at the vortex of a heated local whirlwind of speculation.”

  Loni sighed. “So I am beginning to discover. Is this your shop?” She glanced at the shop’s door, which read, Antiquarian Books, A. Lamont, prop.

  “Armond Lamont, at your service.”

  “I am Alonnah Ford.” Loni extended her hand. “I am happy to see a friendly face.”

  “The famous heir of Macgregor Tulloch.”

  “Or infamous!”

  “Perhaps not so far wrong. Would you like to come into my humble establishment?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I must say your coming does have the villagers in an uproar,” said Lamont as the door closed behind them. “The local scuttlebutt has not escaped my hearing. I am not taken into the confidence of many of the islanders, though my, uh, my friend Miss Gordon keeps me reasonably well informed. I am usually able to put two and two together. All that to say, you are in an unenviable position.”

  “You don’t consider yourself one of the villagers?”

  “As I say, I’ve been here five years. Don’t get me wrong. This is my home now and I love it. But with the exception of two or three, in their eyes I will forever be an outsider. In that sense, you and I are on the same side of the fence. Allies you might say.”

  “After the lady in the bakery, I can use all the friends I can get!”

  Lamont laughed. “Yes, Mrs. MacNeill has a reputation for an acid tongue. She was merciless to me when I first arrived.”

  “How did you win her over?”

  “I doubt I ever did. She simply got used to the fact that I was here to stay.”

  “I’m not sure I can wait that long. I may not be here to stay.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “I don’t know . . . a few days.”

  “And then?”

  “That is the big question.”

  “Well then, just smile a lot is my advice. No one can resist the smile of a beautiful young woman. When sharp tongues like Mrs. MacNeill’s speak their minds, I make a point of bending over backwards to be kind, always with a cheerful word at the ready. She can hardly fault me for being nice.”

  “I shall try to follow your example, Mr. Lamont. That is very good counsel. But did they really all know I was coming and know everything about me?”

  “I’m afraid so, to all but the last question. They’ve been talking about you for a week, though they know nothing about you. But that’s the way with gossips, is it not—endless prattle about what they know little about?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “On Whales Reef at the minute you are more famous than the queen, though not quite so beloved. But about you they know nothing. Alonnah,” he added, “it is a very nice name, by the way. It has an old-world flavor that might go down a little more smoothly than some trendy American nickname.”

  “Thank you for the warning. I will know not to spread around my Loni. It’s what my friends call me at home.”

  “Right, stick to the Alonnah. If anything, these people are traditionalists.”

  “I’ve been told that. Do you think I could get away with calling myself Alonnah Tulloch Ford? It’s not technically my middle name, but that’s how the letter was addressed when I first heard about Macgregor Tulloch’s death.”

  “The Tulloch name would certainly smooth the way to your reception. Do you have any other connection to the Tullochs?”

  “I had a grandfather Tulloch back in the States. It’s through him that I am connected to the Mr. Tulloch who died.”

  “That’s a reasonably close connection—your grandfather, you say?”

  “Yes, he was my mother’s father.”

  “Then by all means, use the Tulloch,” said Lamont. “If anyone asks me, I will say that I met Miss Alonnah Tulloch Ford, and a very nice young lady she is . . . in s
pite of being American!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lamont.”

  “Be warned, however—my endorsement may not go too far. Londoners are held in no higher repute than Americans.”

  Loni laughed. “Well, I appreciate it nonetheless. You have been most gracious. It is nice to have another friend in Whales Reef.”

  “Another?”

  “I’ve met, let me see, three people who have been very kind, though one of them did say she was against the idea of a woman inheriting.”

  “That, I’m afraid, will be the prevailing view. However, I am confident that you will meet more like her who may not agree with the way things are going but will be kind nonetheless.”

  “Well . . . you are the fourth. So now the friendly faces outweigh the scowls four to one. Strange how hurtful words go deeper than kind words make up for.”

  Lamont nodded. “I know something about that myself. But you will find that Scots in general are large-hearted people—more so, in my humble opinion, than my native Englanders.”

  Loni visited a while longer before resuming her walk home, stopping at the small market near the harbor for a quart of milk, two boxes of packaged oatcakes in lieu of the fresh-baked ones she had hoped for, and some vegetables for her evening’s supper.

  7

  Wave of Past Doubts

  Loni arrived back at the Cottage.

  What should she call the place? she wondered. Was it really her home? The stares and whisperings were unnerving. She felt suitably humbled by the chastising she had received from the woman at the bakery. At the same time she was warmed by her exchange with the bookselling Englishman.

  She wasn’t looking forward to meeting the mysterious chief who bore such antipathy toward Americans. If she had, as many on the island seemed to think, wrested the inheritance from him, in spite of what the girl at the hotel said, he might not want to meet her at all. She could just pass the Cottage and property on to him. Or sell them at a fire-sale price, let Mr. MacNaughton handle everything . . . and get out of Dodge, as they said, before offending anyone else.

  She tried to shake off the memory of the brief exchange in the bakery. But it was easier said than done. The woman’s biting words replayed themselves in her brain.