Heather Song

by Michael Phillips

  Did I have any depth of character? It’s easy to fall in love, to go sailing on a yacht, to play pretty music on a warm day overlooking a gorgeous blue sea. It takes no character to fall in love. Shallow, selfish, stupid people fall in love every day.

  But it takes character to show compassion, to put another’s needs ahead of your own, to care for a dying parent as Alicia was doing.

  What was I made of? How deeply had Christlikeness penetrated the fiber of my character?

  It was time I found out.

  Alicia and I cried and cried when I told her I was making plans to fly to Oregon to see my father.

  “Your own example has been important to me,” I said. “I can’t say I want to do this. I would rather stay here. I love it here. But it’s my duty. It’s the right thing. You have helped me see that.”

  “I will miss you.”

  “And I you!”

  “But you will be back?”

  “I’m sure…of course, sometime. I will have to see how it goes, what my father’s situation is. I honestly can’t look too far ahead until Alasdair’s estate is sorted out and the National Trust and the castle and everything is resolved. But I think my leaving will be best—a clean break. Then I will think about whether to return to Scotland and in what capacity.”

  A terrific unseasonable storm came suddenly off the sea that same night. The wind whipped up into a cauldron, the trees everywhere lashed back and forth like blades of grass.

  As we shut the doors of the castle that night, Alicia and Nicholls and I had the feeling that we were boarding ourselves in against a siege. Nicholls acted stoic and brave, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, and went to his room. Alicia and I weren’t anxious to go alone to our beds and instead had tea together. We talked late into the evening, almost like a final slumber party before the end of summer between two schoolgirls who would soon be parted. Of all the silly things, we found ourselves telling scary stories to each other, and laughing at the absurdity of them. I think we did so to keep from thinking about real ghosts on a night like this.

  Sometime about ten o’clock the rain came. Rather than bringing a calm to the wind as often happens when the clouds finally release, the rain brought with it an increased ferocity in the storm. The rain slashed down in a torrent and blew against the windows with such force I wondered if the glass would hold. Still Alicia and I sat up talking together, doing our best to ignore it. By midnight we were so sleepy we had no choice but to finally say our good nights and depart to our beds.

  Still the wind howled on and the rain pelted at the windows as if both were determined to tear the whole place to bits.

  Usually rain is a comforting sound at night. But with Alasdair gone, and knowing that I was temporarily mistress of the place, with the wildness of the night, I didn’t like it. Gradually I fell into an uneasy sleep.

  A noise, as of a door banging, woke me sometime later. It was pitch black.

  I lay for a moment wondering if I should turn on the lights and go to investigate. That’s what Alasdair would do. If a shutter was banging, or if maybe a window had broken, it ought to be attended to. But as I lay snug in my bed, I could not summon the courage to get up. Nicholls would see whatever it was in the morning. The wind was still frightful, but I heard no more of banging doors or shutters, and slowly drifted to sleep again.

  By now my mind was full of storms and intruders and old monks and long-disused passageways and the chanting of medieval dirges, all woven together in a dreamy tapestry on the warp of the rain and the woof of the wind that my brain, even in sleep, could not completely shut out. Weird grotesque images came and went, one after another, like the fantasy of a horror movie…a girl laughing hideously, holding a human skull in her hands. Slowly the features of the skull began to move, its horrible mouth trying to speak but no words would come, then the hollow sockets of its eyes began to drip with tears…tears that were red…tears of blood. I tried to scream in my sleep, but my voice was as mute as the lifeless skull! The vision faded, the skull disappeared, the face of the girl changed to that of a woman…She held a stick of wood in one hand, and in the other a rag that had been dipped in blood held around a palm-sized rock. With the stick she beat the rag, but noiselessly…though as she chanted I could hear the words as they fell from her mouth: “I beat this rag upon this stane, to raise the wind in the devil’s name. It shall not fall till I please again.” The words sent a frozen shudder into my bones. Even as I dreamed I was conscious again of the wind howling terribly outside the castle and somehow I knew that the storm had been caused by the witch’s incantation. Then suddenly it was as if I woke and sat up in my bed. A face was staring close upon me.

  The ghost of my dream was Olivia Urquhart!

  I tried to cry out but still was mute. Again she spoke the curse and beat the rag upon the stone, then slowly faded into the blackness.

  Just before the dream ended, I seemed to see the hand that held the stick throw something. There was no light because the night was completely black, but I thought I saw specks of grass flickering as if in moonlight. Then my consciousness faded and sleep again overtook me.

  When I woke, sunlight was streaming in my window and there was not so much as a breath of wind. I was so relieved that the storm and the night had passed that I got up in high spirits and tried to put the memory of the frightening dream behind me. Nicholls checked every door and window of the castle and found no damage, nor any door ajar.

  The only thing that still puzzled me were a few fragments of what looked like straw on my bed, as if they had blown in from the storm. But they were not wet. And all the windows of my room had been tightly shut all night.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Home but Not Home

  Ben of peaks the clouds that sever, oft thy steeps have wearied me;

  Must I leave thy shade for ever? Then farewell, farewell to thee!

  Every corrie, crag, and hollow, heath’ry brae and flowery dell,

  Now awaken pangs of sorrow; but my thoughts I dare not tell.

  —“Farewell”

  The next day I went to see Alasdair’s local solicitor and friend Nigel Crathie in Elgin. He was a man about my own age, early to mid-forties, I guessed, with a thick crop of light brown hair, personable and warm and sensitive to both the difficulties and the delicacies of my situation. He was very thin, which I noticed immediately, then remembered Alasdair telling me that he was an avid cyclist. It was obvious that he had cared a great deal for Alasdair, which in its own way was an added consolation. He was expecting me and had a thick sheaf of papers spread out on his desk. I hated to disappoint him. He was probably looking forward to an extensive lawyerly outline of all the intricate details of Alasdair’s estate.

  “I am not actually desirous of a detailed report right now, Mr. Crathie,” I began. “Perhaps in time, after everything is sorted out and the disposition of the estate and its assets is complete. Of course I want to be helpful in any way possible to ensure that Alasdair’s desires are thoroughly carried out. However, Alasdair always expressed his supreme confidence in you. I strongly want to avoid the appearance of exerting influence on decisions that are being made. I hope you understand my reluctance to be more deeply involved. My purpose today is simply to inform you of my immediate plans. My father, who is living in the United States, is very ill. I will be flying to America next week to see him. Of course at that time I will be assessing my own future plans.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Reidhaven.” Mr. Crathie nodded. “I am sorry about your father, of course. But with all due respect, I would urge you to delay the trip, if possible, for a month or two, until things are more clear in the matter of your husband’s affairs. There are several other solicitors involved in Edinburgh. The complications will take some time to—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Crathie,” I said. “But my decision is made. Surely none of Alasdair’s business interests will involve me. Our agreement ensures that I have no legal standing in my husband’s affairs at
this point, which is how I wanted it. Insofar as what details involve me, as specified in our prenuptial agreement, I simply want to be very clear so that there are no misunderstandings. As I understand it, the bank account my husband set up in my name will remain mine—”

  “Yes, Mrs. Reidhaven—£100,000…that is correct.”

  “And the car and the right to use the castle as long as I need.”

  The lawyer nodded.

  “As I will be returning soon to Canada and the States, obviously I will not require accommodation after that. I would simply ask that ample provision be given Mr. Nicholls and Miss Forbes and the Campbells, and that they be afforded ample time to make other plans. I am sure Alasdair considered that as well, perhaps even made arrangements for them to stay on to see to the upkeep of the castle after it passes to the National Trust.”

  “Yes, those things are being looked into, as I say. The duke was very aware of their security.”

  “Good. I knew he would be. It would be a great help to me, Mr. Crathie, if you could arrange for the ownership of the Volvo to be transferred to Miss Forbes, and if you could see to my bank account in my absence—I plan to transfer £10,000 to my account in Canada. But the balance I would rather have you look after until my plans are more firm. When the time comes, I may ask you to wire it to me there, or if my plans bring me back to Scotland, we can discuss it in person.”

  “Are you…that is, might you not return, Mrs. Reidhaven?” asked Mr. Crathie.

  “I honestly don’t know. My life has been here for four years; my friends are here. I think there is every possibility that I will return and perhaps buy a small house in Port Scarnose or Crannoch. But I also have a lifetime of roots in Canada. I still own a home there, and I have to consider the possibility that my future is back there also. I have to consider my options for employment and for supporting myself. And of course there is my father’s situation to think of. I have much to consider, and I simply cannot make any permanent decisions at this time.”

  “I understand.”

  “What few of my own belongings I am unable to take with me or ship I assume may be left at the castle until its future with the National Trust is settled?”

  “Yes, of course, that should be no problem.”

  “I am thinking of my harps primarily, and two or three pieces of my own furniture. They can be shipped to me later if need be, or put in storage in some out-of-the-way place in the castle until I return.”

  “Certainly. I anticipate no difficulty in that regard. My experience with the National Trust is that they prefer to maintain everything as it is, including staff when possible, so that their properties are kept just as they have been. They are generally more than gracious and adaptable, seeking smooth and harmonious transitions and ongoing relationships. It is not even unusual for a portion of a castle or great house, even an entire wing, to be set aside for the use of the former owners. That is something I will look into. An Edinburgh solicitor by the name of Murdoch is actually handling negotiations with the National Trust on your husband’s behalf, so I am not entirely conversant in all the specific details. It would not surprise me, knowing your husband, that he would have made arrangements for you to continue using an apartment in the castle.”

  “That would be nice, of course…as long as my presence interferes in no way with the management of the castle or estate. I would rather such an arrangement be made for Miss Forbes than for myself.”

  “I can assure you that you need have no concerns regarding the domestic staff. The National Trust is very sensitive in such matters.”

  “Thank you. That sets my mind at ease.”

  I gave Mr. Crathie my Canadian address and bank account information, signed a power of attorney for him to act on my behalf, then drove back to Port Scarnose feeling satisfied in my mind that I had left no problematic loose ends.

  I had never been a showy person and therefore did not make a fanfare of my leaving. Now that I was no longer the Duchess of Buchan, and without the cover of Alasdair’s position, suddenly I felt almost like the last four years had never happened, or had been a dream.

  Suddenly I was back to my old self again. I felt like Lucy or Susan at the end of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, after being queens of Narnia for years and riding through the woods in all their royal regalia, suddenly to find themselves stumbling through the wardrobe again—back to everything as before, no time passed, no more crowns and robes and signet rings of gold…just their old selves…unchanged.

  That was me.

  I was again a visitor to Scotland getting ready to fly back to Canada…back through the wardrobe of my duchess dream…back to the reality of my former life.

  There was no going-away party, no hoopla as I left. I made no announcements. I didn’t even go to church on my last Sunday in Port Scarnose. I wanted to just slip out quietly.

  There were of course many hugs and tearful good-byes. Ranald Bain wept when he took me in his arms.

  “I shallna forgit ye, lass,” he said with wet eyes and cheeks. “Ye’ve aye brought grit joy tae this auld hert.”

  And so it was with Tavia and Cora and Fia and Mrs. Gauld. Even stoic Harvey Nicholls seemed a little choked up as he offered me his hand.

  The good-byes all said, and Alicia waiting for me in the Volvo at the garage, I took one last brief walk through the castle alone, saying good-bye. I passed slowly through the library, meandering through its high shelves of books, so solemn and regal. The whole place reminded me of Alasdair. I could not help shedding a new bucket of tears. Then I went across the hall to the Great Room and my studio, the first place I had played my harp for Alasdair. This room contained so many memories! I cried a little more, and smiled sadly and contentedly, allowing my eyes to linger on every piece of furniture, every tapestry, every sideboard and secretary…and the Queen and that portion of her court that was staying behind. I had told the ladies that they could continue using those harps until my future was more settled. Of course I took Journey with me.

  From there I walked down the main central staircase. At last, drawing in a deep breath of melancholy finality, I opened the great oak door and walked outside. I closed the door slowly, gently, and laid my hand upon it.

  “Good-bye, dear Castle Buchan,” I whispered. “I have loved you. I hope I shall see you again. But if not, you will always be dear to my heart.”

  Then I turned, wiping my eyes one last time, and walked to the waiting car.

  Alicia drove me to the airport in Aberdeen. We both cried a lot, with many promises to write and call…and then I was gone.

  My Scotland adventure and dream were over.

  The house of my former life in Calgary did not seem so sad and lonely and dreary as I had expected. I arrived in late September and it was still warm. I had always intended to sell the house, but somehow we had never gotten around to it. Now I was glad. Most of my furniture was still there. When Alasdair had arranged to pack the things I wanted and closed up the house before, we had shipped only a few things. The only harp I had on the plane was Journey. I would begin shopping for a new harp or two immediately so as to be available for lessons if I needed them when I saw what would become of my new life back on this side of the wardrobe.

  After a week in Alberta getting my house livable again, I flew to Oregon for that part of my future I was least looking forward to.

  I had written ahead for my father to expect me.

  Chapter Thirty

  Deep-Rooted Healing

  I’ll come back and see ye, again, again,

  Since ye gi’ed me yer promise to be mine ain;

  Nae langer I’ll tarry alane, alane,

  But haste to be happiest man among men.

  —John Campbell, “I’ll Come Back and See Ye”

  I had never been to his house in Portland. I had not seen my father in eight years.

  When I arrived by rented car at about five-thirty he wasn’t home from his office yet…still carrying on his workload as always. Some of
my old feelings crept back. Taking second fiddle to his work. I suppose as old as you get, some things never change. Childhood impressions are hard to get rid of.

  I sat in the car and waited, taking in the neighborhood. Actually, as I looked around, the surroundings weren’t all that classy. It was strictly middle-class, even slightly submedian. The house was an ordinary tract house. Nothing special.

  An oldish Ford drove into the driveway about 6:15. I knew it was him from the shape of his head as I saw him from behind. I got out and walked over to greet my father as he stepped out.

  I was shocked at what a visible change had taken place in him. Even though he was only sixty-six, he looked seventy-five. I would not have recognized him walking down the street—thinning hair of pure white, slightly stooped, not nearly as tall as I remembered him, and fifteen or twenty pounds lighter.

  A pang of compassion stabbed my heart. Instantly I regretted all the thoughts I had harbored and my hesitations about coming. I now regretted that I had waited so long.

  The recognition that a parent is getting old has to be one of the most poignant moments in the life of any son or daughter. The mere sight of him—I can’t say it changed everything, but it began to change my heart toward him immediately. Blame, regret, misunderstanding…These all began to recede into the background as a wave of compassion swept through me.

  I approached and smiled.

  “Hello, Daddy,” I said. “I’m here.”

  “Indeed you are, Angel—you look great!” he boomed. At least his voice was strong and unchanged. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”