The Cottage

by Michael Phillips

  “I vaguely remember.”

  “Do you think anything’s broken?”

  David struggled to sit up. “I don’t think so. Did I land anything? Does he even have a scratch?”

  Loni smiled sheepishly. “Sorry . . . I don’t think so.”

  David began to laugh. “Well, no matter. I don’t know that I’ve ever landed much of a blow on Hardy. Ouch, that hurts! I may have some bruised ribs—hopefully nothing is broken.”

  “Do you think you can stand up and get into the house?”

  “Help me to my feet,” he said, reaching for Loni’s hand.

  “You can rest a bit, then I will drive you home. You’ll have to leave your cart or Jeep or whatever kind of contraption it is here.”

  “I’ll send Dougal for it.”

  “It appears that you may not get rid of Miss Matheson so soon after all,” said Loni. “I’m sure she will want to nursemaid you.”

  “What happened to you?” he said, now noticing her bleeding arm. “Did Hardy do that?”

  “It’s nothing, really. I fell down trying to pull him off you.”

  “Well, thank you for that.”

  “Let’s get you inside, cleaned up, and home.”

  44

  An Invitation

  As Loni had predicted, Isobel Matheson would not hear of leaving the Auld Hoose with David laid up. Nor did her brother or Dougal, with a single woman now in residence, think it fitting to return to the Cottage without her. They would wait until David was back on his feet.

  Dougal Erskine made his appearance an hour after Loni had delivered David home, introducing himself and explaining how things stood, telling her that David was resting comfortably and that Isobel was babying him something dreadful.

  “I thought that might happen,” laughed Loni.

  “Aye, mum. She’s a good-herted soul, bless her, but tends tae be a bit o’ a mother hen, if ye ken my meanin’.”

  “I think I do,” said Loni. “I’m glad David is in good hands.”

  “Aye, we’ll take care o’ the laddie, dinna ye worry about that. One o’ us’ll be seein’ ye in the morn tae gie ye a report on the chief.”

  Loni had her bath, which was more painful than she had anticipated but was good for her spirits as well as her wounds, which she dressed and bandaged. She spent the evening trying to write of the events of the last several days in her journal. So much had happened, the task was daunting.

  It was in fact David himself who appeared at the door of the Cottage about eleven the following morning.

  “You!” exclaimed Loni when she answered the door. “You’re supposed to be resting in bed.”

  “As you can see, I no more need to be in bed than you do,” he said cheerfully.

  “No offense, but your eye looks terrible. It’s turned blue.”

  “Honestly, I’m okay—bruised ribs but nothing broken.”

  “What about that eye? Should you see someone?”

  “You know men—we hate to go to the doctor. I have to admit, I do have a fierce headache. But ibuprofen helps. So, I wanted to update you on the situation. Isobel is insisting on staying to look after me. It looks like it will be another day or two before your staff returns.”

  “Totally fine.”

  “I also said that I wanted to have you over for dinner but did not want her waiting on us. I did, however, ask her to do a little baking first, though I will handle most of the preparations. That brings me to my question—would you do me the honor of dining with your chief tonight at the Auld Hoose?”

  “Are you sure you are up to it?”

  “Absolutely. I will be heartbroken and utterly shattered if you do not accept.”

  Loni laughed. “I don’t know that I believe you. But as I told you before, you make me laugh, and maybe that is worth a little white lie upon occasion.”

  “I would never lie to you,” said David.

  “I know you wouldn’t. I was kidding, and I accept your invitation.”

  “I would offer to come get you, but I will be tenderly watching one of my specialties where timing is critical. I cannot leave the kitchen. If you don’t mind driving yourself over . . . seven sound okay?”

  “How will I know where to go?”

  “Drive through the village, past the ferry landing. About a half mile farther you will see a driveway to the right. The Auld Hoose is the only dwelling beyond the landing.”

  “Then I will be there at six fifty-five. I would not want to miss the unveiling of your soufflé or whatever it is.”

  “It will remain a surprise. It’s a date then. I will see you tonight.”

  ———

  When Loni came downstairs that evening, she was surprised to find Miss Matheson in the kitchen.

  “Isobel . . . hello,” she said. “Did you change your mind and decide to return to the Cottage today?”

  “No, miss,” replied the housekeeper, looking up from the counter as Loni came into the room. “Oh my, you are a picture! What a lovely red dress, miss.”

  “Thank you,” said Loni.

  “You are certain to turn the chief’s head, miss, if you haven’t already. You’re beautiful, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “That is very kind of you.”

  “I was about to say that, with your permission, we will remain at the Auld Hoose until the chief is himself. But he was out of nutmeg, for his custard, you see. I told him I had plenty. If you wouldn’t mind taking it over, miss.”

  “Of course not. Did you walk over?”

  “Aye, miss.”

  “Would you like to ride back with me?”

  “Oh, no, miss. This is your evening alone with the chief. You don’t want an old lady like me tagging along. I would rather walk.”

  Loni laughed. “I would be happy to give you a ride, but I understand. And you are welcome here whenever you want to return.”

  “We will be glad to be home, miss, and hope to be of service to you. For tonight at the Auld Hoose we will keep out of sight and be as quiet as church mice. We don’t want to disturb you and the chief.”

  45

  An Evening at the Auld Hoose

  At six minutes before seven, Loni parked in front of the Auld Hoose, the laird’s residence in former centuries and that of the chief ever since. She walked to the door and lifted the intricate old black iron knocker.

  When the door opened, the sight nearly took her breath away.

  There stood David in full kilt and Highland regalia in the tartan of his clan, sword at his waist, bonnet on his head from which his brown curls spilled in profusion.

  A gasp escaped her lips. He had stepped straight out of Braveheart!

  “You look absolutely lovely, Alonnah,” he said with a quiet smile. “Beautiful and radiant.”

  Loni’s heart gave a flutter. “What about you?” she said, her voice momentarily husky. “You look like a painting off the wall of a castle. Though your black eye does somewhat tarnish the image of the conquering hero.”

  David began to laugh, then winced as his hand went to his chest. “I am happy to provide a moment of amusement. So with that concluded, I welcome you, my lady, to my humble abode—an actual cottage. Won’t you come in?”

  “Here is your nutmeg, compliments of Miss Matheson,” said Loni, handing him the small container.

  “Ah, yes, the garnish for my dessert. Thank you very much.” David offered her his arm. Loni took it, and he led her inside.

  “I realize that Miss Matheson is probably on her way back across the moor,” said Loni. “Where are your other two houseguests?”

  “Off in their own corners, occupying themselves for the evening. Actually the Auld Hoose is not a great deal smaller than the Cottage, just older and not as posh, as we say.”

  He led Loni into the great room. It was neither so large nor imposing as the room that went by the same name at the Cottage, but it was equally breathtaking. A peat fire burned brightly in the fireplace.

  Loni gazed about in wonder.
Exquisite bookcases were filled from floor to ceiling with volumes passed down through the decades. The family library had been divided equally between the two houses, and she was beholding the poor man’s version of what she had already seen in the Cottage.

  The room also held sideboards and several glass cases of china, silver, and glassware. Between windows, the walls were accented with traditional Scottish memorabilia—faded tartans, a variety of swords, dirks and sgian-dubhs, a ram’s head, two antlered stag heads, a coat of mail, a shield, and an ornately painted Tulloch family crest. From two large hooks hung an ancient set of decaying bagpipes. Loni saw a harp standing in one corner. Soft Scottish music came from a sound system somewhere in the room.

  “I am enchanted by the music,” said Loni. “Even before I knew anything about all this, I was haunted by Celtic music. And the swords and tartans!”

  “Most of what you see came from the Highlands of mainland Scotland with old Ranald MacDonald in the early 1800s,” said David. “Probably nothing here is of great value. Still, it is beautiful if you like antiquities, which I do. I treasure every inch of this place.”

  “It is spectacular.”

  “And now, my lady,” said David, again offering his arm, “if I may escort you to the dining room, I believe our table is waiting.”

  He led Loni through a central hall and into a long but narrow room of subdued light, ornately paneled with oak that appeared to be two hundred years old. Stretching nearly its entire length was a massive oak table, surrounded by at least twenty high-backed chairs. At the far end, two place settings sat opposite each other, with silver and goblets and platters and a vase of roses between them. David led Loni to one of the chairs, slid it out, and assisted her into it.

  From the center of the table he lifted a salad bowl and its two long salad tongs. He handed the bowl to Loni, then walked around and took the chair opposite her.

  “For your dining repast this evening,” he said, “the chef presents a garden salad of lettuce, kale, scallions, spinach, and chopped Brussels sprouts topped with roasted almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts, and grated Parmesan cheese.”

  “It looks delicious,” said Loni, serving herself, then handing the bowl to David.

  “An entrée will follow,” continued David, “featuring succulent steaks of fresh North Atlantic salmon, thinly filleted and slow-cooked in a mouth-watering bath of butter and the chef’s special blend of herbs. Accenting the entrée we have a vegetable dish of broccoli, chopped onions, and cashews, stir-fried to perfection, and, for the discriminating palate, thin chips of sliced yellow sweet potato delicately fried to the hint of crispness in olive oil and pepper.”

  Loni could not help laughing. “It sounds like a feast!”

  “I hope you will say so an hour from now.”

  “I know I will. Did you prepare everything yourself?”

  “What chef would do otherwise? I confess, I did ask Isobel to bake the lemon cake and raisin tarts. She is a master of desserts.”

  “Oh my—two desserts!”

  “No, three. We must never skimp on dessert. The pièce de résistance will be a rice pudding with rum sauce, my own masterpiece that I would trust to no one else.”

  “This is amazing. You are a chef as well as an author of renown, tour leader, speaker, and chief no less.”

  “And shepherd,” added David. “Perhaps, in light of eternity, my most important calling of all.”

  “Yet more humble than the others.”

  “All the more reason that it may be considered greater in God’s kingdom.”

  ———

  Two hours later they were seated in the great room, a new supply of peats blazing away in the hearth, talking freely.

  “I must say, your rice pudding was like nothing I have ever tasted,” said Loni. “It was light as a soufflé, rich as custard, with a wonderfully mysterious combination of tastes.”

  “That is the secret, the richness of crème brûlée, the body of rice, with raisins caramelized throughout the mixture as the eggs and sugar and cream work their magic. Though some might object, I confess I do use double cream. If one intends to fashion a decadent dessert, why skip on the cream is my opinion. The final secret is to stir the browned crust gently into the custard so that the rich amber layer is mixed throughout the entire pudding. Timing, of course, at each stage, as with all truly exquisite recipes, is everything.”

  “You do sound like a master chef,” laughed Loni. “It was absolutely delicious. I am afraid I ate too much!”

  “I may have too.”

  “Do you play the harp?” asked Loni as her eyes drifted to the silent instrument across the room.

  “I wish I did,” replied David. “It was my great-grandmother’s, I am told. I am afraid I am not very musical.”

  “I would like to know about her,” said Loni. “Though I suppose I’m not technically related to your side of the family tree, am I? But I am curious about it all. I came here knowing nothing about my mother’s side of the family. Now I am eager to know everything. Tell me why the family traces its roots to mainland Scotland.”

  “That’s why we consider ourselves Scots more than Norsemen . . . with the exception of Hardy, of course! Those Viking warriors do capture his fancy.”

  “I get that!”

  “To understand our family’s history, you have to go back to the Highland clearances of the late 1700s and 1800s. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “In brief, the large landowners in the Scottish Highlands discovered that they could make more money raising sheep than renting out their land to poor crofters. So they evicted hundreds of thousands of families. They simply told them they had to leave. Thus the Highlands were mostly cleared of people to make room for sheep to graze.”

  “That sounds cruel.”

  “It was. It created a great migration of highlanders to wherever they could go—Canada, the Scottish lowlands, England. And some came to the Shetlands. Also involved was that uniquely British dilemma, unknown to you Americans, of what to do with younger sons of the aristocracy. This inheritance situation involving you and me has roots centuries earlier when eldest sons inherited everything, often leaving younger sons with no visible means of support. Everything has changed now, of course. Modernism is all about fairness. But it was not so two hundred years ago. Thus it was in the early 1800s, during the Highland clearances, that one Ranald MacDonald, second son of Highland chief Donald MacDonald, without much to call his own but his good name, was sent to the Shetlands by his father with just enough to purchase a small tract of land for a new and smaller branch, or sept, of the family clan. He settled on Whales Reef. His son, Duncan, had no sons, and his daughter, Flora, could not inherit the chieftainship. Duncan therefore named her husband, his son-in-law, Frederick Tulloch, chief as well as laird. Frederick’s son, William, inheriting the mantle of both titles, changed the name of the clan to ‘Tulloch,’ and thus our small clan, a smaller stream flowing out of the historic Clan Donald, came into being.

  “In the final years of the nineteenth century, William Tulloch turned the Tulloch name on Whales Reef into a dynasty. He raised the lairdship and chieftainship from the lower middle class into wealth and distinction. He was Ernest’s father—Ernest being our most recent common ancestor. Though not a titled lord of aristocratic standing, Ernest’s father, William, was one of Scotland’s nouveau riche and well-known on mainland Scotland and England. He married a London socialite, Esther Walpoole, who, as the rumor has it, wanted the prestige of a title but hated the Shetlands.

  “William used the industrial revolution, the investment opportunities of the expanding British Empire, even the continuing Highland clearances, all to his advantage and died a wealthy man. He modernized the Whales Reef harbor so that as he prospered, so too did the local fishermen, enabling them to pay higher rents, and as a result the whole island thrived. He came to be known as the Great Tulloch.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Loni
. “He would be your and my great-great . . . let me see, our great-great-great-grandfather?”

  “I believe that is it,” replied David. “He was born and raised in this very house, but then he designed and built the new manor house that is now your home.”

  “And why was it called the Cottage?” asked Loni.

  “The story is that the name arose among some of the builders and stone masons during construction, and it stuck. William moved his family from here across the island in 1882. The laird’s former home, where we are now sitting, became the Auld Hoose. There William’s parents, Frederick and Flora Tulloch, lived until their death. Thereafter for a time the Auld Hoose served as home to William’s factor and, as his entrepreneurial vision expanded, his business manager. Eventually it went to the youngest of Ernest’s three sons, Leith, my own great-grandfather.”

  “But not mine?”

  “Right, not yours.”

  “What about the hotel—the big hotel, I mean—where the mill is now?”

  “In the Gay Nineties, William continued his improvements to Whales Reef with the construction of a lavish hotel on the island. He then went on a public relations campaign to market Whales Reef and its new luxury hotel to the burgeoning Victorian elite in the south. It was the perfect holiday resort in the remote, mysterious far north, full of interest for naturalist studies, which, in the aftermath of Darwinism, were all the rage. It perfectly fed the appetite at that time, fueled by interest in Africa and unknown regions of the globe, the world of Teddy Roosevelt and safaris and David Livingstone’s explorations.

  “As an interesting footnote, one of Ernest’s cousins was an American explorer by the name of Leonodis Hubbard, who died in 1903 exploring the wilds of Labrador. In any event, the hotel sponsored more than mere bird-watching expeditions, but rather high-society adventures, with balls and parties and excursions on great pleasure boats in waters farther north than any English lords and ladies had ever been, where they could view whales and dolphins, perhaps even a distant iceberg. The hint of danger combined with a little science, a little history, a little evolutionary theory with an occasional lecture on Shetland’s indigenous species and walks along lonely moors and to isolated sea caves, all contributed to making the Whales Reef Hotel and its Shetland Naturalist Adventure Excursions highly lucrative and successful.”