“I am sorry. I should have—”
“It was my own fault. I’m really not always a klutz like this. I should have stayed where I was sitting.”
“I’m afraid they do tend to be curious and overly friendly.”
“Even toward strangers?”
“Especially toward strangers.”
Loni stood on one leg, then tentatively shifted her weight to the other.
“How is it?” asked David.
“Tender. I definitely came down awkwardly. But I don’t think it’s sprained. I’ll get ice on it and it should be okay. Would you help me back to the stone?”
Leaning on David and hobbling on one leg, Loni returned to her makeshift bench. David eased her to a sitting position.
“That’s better,” said Loni. “Thank you. I’ll be fine now.”
“I think I had better help you back to the Cottage. In fact, I should fetch my cart and drive you home. My house is less than a mile away, just over that ridge there.”
“Please don’t bother. I’ll be okay. I just need to rest a minute.”
“If you say so. But I’m not leaving until we’re sure.”
David walked a short distance away and sat down. “What are the books you were reading before my lads and lassies interrupted you?” he asked.
“The one is an old journal, my great-grandmother’s. I discovered it among some family mementos back in the States. She came to Whales Reef in 1924.”
“How fascinating. And the other?”
“It’s one of Ernest’s, the Auld Tulloch I believe you call him. I borrowed it from his study upstairs.”
“The locked study?” said David in surprise.
“Yes—that’s right, you don’t know. It turns out I have had the key to the room all along, or one of my grandfathers in America did. I ran across it recently, along with the journal, but had no idea what it was for. I brought it with me and it turns out that it opened the study door.”
“That’s fantastic!” exclaimed David. “I can’t wait to see it.” He then hesitated. “I mean, if you don’t mind, that is . . . if you would want to show it to me.”
“Of course. You have a right to see it. You are, after all, the chief.”
The heavy significance of the word hung in the air.
“Speaking of which,” Loni went on, “I really have to apologize for all those things I said yesterday.”
“Please don’t worry about it,” said David. “Nothing to apologize for.”
“Are you kidding? I have twenty things to apologize for! I was rude, arrogant, and entirely hypocritical.”
David began to laugh. “I assure you, it isn’t so bad as that,” he said. “Seriously, I took no offence. I understand the awkwardness of your situation here, and the pressure you are under. There’s really no need—”
“Please, Mr. Tulloch,” persisted Loni. “I feel terrible about my behavior. I was a complete idiot. I realize how I was wrong about you. I misjudged you terribly and . . .”
Tears filled her eyes and she turned away.
“I am so sorry,” said Loni softly. “I don’t know what came over me. You probably think me a ridiculous emotional female. Believe it or not,” she said, struggling to regain her composure, “I’m usually more or less . . . well, halfway rational at least. But secretiveness has always been hard for me. I grew up around secrets. You had every right not to tell me you were the chief. I completely overreacted. It was stupid. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course,” said David, gazing at Loni with a tender smile. “All is forgiven.”
“It was as if all the years of pent-up frustration burst out all at once, and I took it out on you. I’m sure you were trying to be kind. Maybe sometime I will be able to tell you about it.”
“I will look forward to that.”
“But not today!” said Loni, trying to laugh. “For now I just want to forget it. I don’t want to feel any guiltier than I already do.”
“Fair enough,” said David. He rose and walked to where Loni sat on the stone. He extended his hand. “So, Miss Ford, shall we start over again as friends?”
Loni smiled and took his hand. “Yes, Chief Tulloch . . . friends.”
“I would prefer David to chief.”
“I’ll see what I can do. And if we are going to be on a first-name basis, maybe it’s time—” she paused, a smile spreading across her face—“I think it’s time you called me Alonnah.”
“A positively beautiful name it is. Well then, Alonnah Ford, look at you. You fell over some dirty sheep onto the wet ground. If you don’t mind my saying so, your posh clothes are a mess. I’m afraid I even see some . . . organic matter on those expensive shoes.”
“Organic matter?”
“Actually, we call it manure.”
Loni burst into laughter. “That’s what we call it too. I grew up in farm country. A little organic matter doesn’t gross me out too much.”
“In any event, you definitely need some new duds—especially walking shoes. I’m surprised your feet aren’t covered in scrapes and sores wearing those flimsy little things about the island,” he said, pointing to Loni’s feet.
“Actually, I do have one or two blisters.”
“Then what do you say to me taking you into Lerwick tomorrow to get you outfitted in some more suitable Shetland attire?”
Loni smiled. “I would like that.”
“And I think we also ought to get you back to the Cottage. If your ankle does need ice, the sooner the better. Here, take my hand again.”
Once more David helped Loni to her feet.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked.
“If you don’t mind my leaning on you, I can make it. It’s not sprained. I’ve had enough experience with injuries to be sure of that. But you’re right—I should get ice on it.”
“This isn’t your first, then?”
“Not by any means. I swam and ran competitively in college and have done quite a bit of running and some racquetball since. Twisted ankles are part of the game.”
“Then let’s be off—don’t forget your books. What was your great-grandmother doing on Whales Reef?” he asked.
“She came as a lady’s companion to a wealthy widow. Apparently this was quite the tourist destination.”
“I’ve heard that,” rejoined David. “Times have certainly changed. Although,” he added as a slow grin came to his lips, “we do have two American sisters who seem determined to revive that tradition.”
“How so?”
“They come at least once a year to attend one of my tours. I will just say they are an interesting pair!” he said with a light laugh. “But their hearts are in the right place, and they dearly love the Shetlands.”
“One thing I would like to know,” said Loni as they went. “Tell me about the financial struggles of the man called Noak, I think his name is.”
“Noak Muir. How do you know about that?”
Loni’s face flushed as she realized her blunder. “Do you mind if I don’t tell you just yet?”
“More secrets?” suggested David with a twinkle in his eye.
“I’m afraid so. It would appear that you have caught me.”
“Not my intention.”
“I know. I will tell you, I promise. I just want to think of the best way to tell you.”
“Fair enough.”
David went on to explain about the kidney problems with Noak’s daughter that had compelled them to use private medical services rather than the National Health Service and the bills that had resulted. He concluded by telling her about Hardy’s offer to buy the Bonnie Muir.
“I take it you do not consider the offer in Mr. Muir’s best interest?”
“You seem to know more about this than you are letting on,” chuckled David. “But you’re right, I do not. It is the worst thing he could possibly do.”
Loni took in the information but asked no more questions.
By the time they reached the Cottage, Loni was ho
bbling reasonably well. She stopped at the kitchen door and turned before going inside. “Thank you for seeing me safely home,” she said. “And again, I am extremely sorry for yesterday.”
“Forget it, remember?” said David. “Over and done with. If you have something else to wear, I would like to take your shoes with me and clean them up.”
“Really, there’s no need.”
“My sheep caused the mess. Besides, dealing with such things is not women’s work. I’m a sheepherder. It goes with the territory. I would feel better if you let me handle it. I will bring them back sparkling and fresh.”
“Okay—that’s very chivalrous of you.”
“Let’s just call it neighborliness,” laughed David.
Leaning against the side of the door, Loni removed her shoes. David bent down to pick them up, then hurried off to rejoin his flock.
As Loni watched him go, a smile spread over her lips. Hugh would not be caught dead doing such a thing.
29
Letter Home
Loni spent that evening composing a letter to her grandparents. It was full of memories, reflections, and nostalgic outpourings, with a poignant tone of affection, ensuring, when they received it, that both William and Anabel Ford would read their granddaughter’s words through eyes swimming in tears.
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
I have more to tell you than a letter possibly can. But I will try.
I am in the middle of nowhere, as I would have judged it a few days ago—200 miles from Scotland’s oil capital of Aberdeen and about 250 from the coast of Norway.
Yet in a sense I feel cozily at home. This is the greatest surprise of all. How could I feel at home in the middle of the ocean so far from my “real” life?
I had planned by this time to be on my way back to the States. I had not anticipated that being here would stir so many things awake in me. My perceptions began to change even before I set foot on the island. I felt it even as I stood in the fog on the ferry that took me across to the island.
I have embarked on an adventure of discovering where I came from, and maybe discovering at long last who I really am. That’s not to say there haven’t been some hard things. Not everyone has welcomed me with open arms, but most of the people have been very accepting.
You will scarcely believe this, but I am sitting in the former study of my great-great-grandfather, a man called Ernest Tulloch. I am writing from his writing table, using one of his fountain pens I had to wash and clean and find fresh ink to fill it with. This is just one of many new experiences—writing a letter in longhand with an old fountain pen!
There are Quaker connections all around me. Many books in this room you would recognize as among your favorites, Grandpa. There is so much that you and Ernest Tulloch had in common. I am realizing how deeply my life has been doubly enriched by my heritage from both sides of my ancestry, my father’s and my mother’s. Being here has made me hungry to learn more about my Ford and Simons ancestries too. You’ve probably told me much that I have forgotten. I suppose young people don’t value their ancestry until they are older. I will probably be pestering you with questions for years!
The small island of Whales Reef—I cannot believe I am saying this!—that I have apparently inherited most of, is about four miles by two miles, with a village of what I would guess to be a few hundred people. It is only accessible by ferry. There are a few shops, a hotel and pub, a bakery and post office and gift shop, a small market, and a church. Fishing and sheep are the main sources of income. There is a woolen mill that employs a number of the village women. If I accept the inheritance, I will be what they call the “laird” of the island. I have actually been called that a few times! It will take time to get used to.
In some ways Whales Reef is a community like ours at home, where everybody knows everybody, where gossip abounds, and where there are hearts of gold and other hearts not quite as pure. I have been so lonely at times that I have longed for your arms to hold me, Grandma, protecting me from the pain of the world, soothing me and telling me that everything will be okay like you used to do.
So many memories fill my heart of the rich life you gave me. It was a priceless heritage that I am beginning to appreciate for what it truly is.
I wish you could be here with me, Grandpa. There are so many books here that you would know. Ernest was a man of God just like you. On the shelves and desks here are several open Bibles which he must have been reading right up until he died. I feel surrounded by learning and wisdom.
Though I have had bouts of loneliness in the last week, I have found something here that I suppose I needed. I needed to know where my mother came from. Knowing more about both my Quaker roots and my Shetland roots gives me a feeling of completeness. It makes me all the more thankful for the spiritual heritage the two of you gave me.
My time here has forced me to do considerable soul-searching. I know if I brought this up to you in person that you would both be gracious and tell me I have nothing to apologize for. However, I feel I need to apologize to you for not taking the Quaker heritage of my upbringing as seriously as perhaps I should have. I realize that I have been drifting spiritually since leaving home for college. I am sorry for that, and for other ways I have hurt you. Being here has turned me back toward my roots—including my Quaker roots with you and in the Fellowship, which, believe it or not, I do treasure in spite of the pain I had to endure at school.
I thank you again for the life and love you poured into me. You were not only the best grandparents in the world, you were actually my parents too, and I am so grateful for you.
I haven’t made any definite plans, but I should be home in a few more days, a week at most. I have many decisions to make. I want to talk to you when I get home and get your advice about all this. Please pray for me, as I know you do, that I will have wisdom and will be able to hear God’s voice.
There is so much more . . . but it is late and I will write again soon, I promise.
I love you both so much!
Loni
Loni set the letter aside and retired to her bedroom. It had been an emotional day. She was dead on her feet.
Twenty minutes later, curled up under the thick duvet and with two pillows behind her, Loni was ready to end the day with a few more minutes in her great-grandmother’s journal. As she read, she was reminded again of the striking parallel to her own story—two young American women transported halfway around the world to this small remote island.
How much has it changed in ninety years? she wondered. When her great-grandmother went out for the memorable walk on her first day here and encountered three individuals destined to change her life forever, did everything look much the same as it did now? Did she perhaps use the same flat stone for a bench that Loni had been sitting on earlier that day when interrupted by the chief’s flock of rambunctious sheep?
30
A Legacy Begins—The Cliffs
WHALES REEF, 1924
Making its first appearance of the day shortly after three in the morning, the sun had already risen high over the North Atlantic. A moist chill, however, still clung to the ground. June had come to the Shetland island of Whales Reef. That did not necessarily mean balmy days of shirtsleeve warmth. Today the mercury would probably reach about fifty-two degrees on the Fahrenheit scale. Though well-bundled in a thick navy-blue wool overcoat, the walker making his way with uneven steps along a sandy stretch of isolated shoreline shivered as he went.
The tide was out and the sea calm. Even so, the tiny wavelets whose gentle splashing rhythm would have been music to the ears of most reverberated like sledgehammers inside his brain. He had thought the sea air might act as an antidote to his monstrous hangover. It was obviously not helping.
He turned irritably inland, across the upper portion of the beach, and crossed a patch of small rocks. The crunch of his feet exploded in his ears like machine-gun fire. Cresting the dune that ran parallel to the water, he arrived at last on the open moor. The grassy
peat provided soft padding for his steps. With a sigh of relief, he struck out across it.
What had brought him out at this ungodly hour of the morning, with a hangover and a sour disposition, Brogan Tulloch could not have said. He hated mornings, especially after a binge. But he could not lie in bed a moment longer. So he had climbed into his boots, thrown on his coat, and gone out into the morning.
A new gaggle of sightseers had checked into the hotel the previous afternoon. Two full busloads from Lerwick had come over on the four o’clock ferry. Brogan always made a point of being on hand to have a scrutinizing look at the newcomers, especially those of the female persuasion who appeared between eighteen and twenty-five. But his initial assessment of this particular assortment of prospects had not been encouraging. Most appeared more studious than aristocratic. Old women and balding men and student types carrying textbooks—not the sort that drew his eye. Along with the adventure seekers from London’s social register, colleges and universities also sponsored junkets to these out-of-the-way locales, often in conjunction with summer academic programs. This tour had obviously been infiltrated with more bookworms than he preferred.
The night of their arrival, too, had proved a disappointment. Rather than the usual merrymaking, after dinner those from the Glasgow University group had attended a lecture, of all things, by a professor of naturalist studies on the origins of the Shetland pony, the effect of the Highland Clearances on life in the Shetlands, as well as a status report concerning several endangered species of Shetland sheep. A more boring evening Brogan could not have imagined. He hoped the rest of the week proved more eventful.
He had no destination in mind. He was just walking in hopes that somehow last night’s whisky would pass through his system more quickly than usual.
Whenever he was on this part of the island, however—which was not often these days—his steps unconsciously fell into old habits. The legs of boyhood usually led in the direction of the cave. His fondest memories of childhood were of his adventures with his brother, many of them among the dangerous bluffs at the far end of the island.
The Cottage Page 13
