Heather Song (17 page)

F
or the second time in my life, I was a widow. I no longer cared about being a duchess. I no longer cared about living in a castle. I was more glad than ever that I had anticipated exactly those feelings—​not dreaming anything would actually come of it—before my marriage to Alasdair.

I had wanted only to be a
wife
. Twice I had been. Now twice that privilege was gone.

Alasdair’s funeral was nearly identical to Gwendolyn’s. Only myself and Olivia—who, notified of her brother’s passing, returned to Port Scarnose at last—walked behind the horse-drawn hearse bearing Alasdair’s casket from the castle through the village and to the churchyard, where he would be laid to rest next to Gwendolyn and Fiona. The tears and outpourings of grief from the entire region were more heartfelt and genuine than they could possibly have been a few years before. Alasdair had so endeared himself to the community, and was so greatly beloved, that there was scarcely a dry eye in the streets. Earls and dukes and baronets, a number of MPs, and various dignitaries from Aberdeen and Edinburgh and Glasgow and as far away as London all came to pay their respects. Every man, woman, and child of the village stood silent and solemn as we passed, and then joined the procession. He was, of course, the
laird
. But the outpouring of grief was so real that it was almost as if he had been chief of an ancient Highland clan. Women I did not even know wept with abandon.

Reverend Gillihan awaited the funeral procession at the church. I wondered what Olivia was thinking, to have to walk beside me behind Alasdair’s casket. I knew what she thought of me. We had hardly spoken since Gwendolyn’s death. Not a word passed between us that day. Not so much as a sign of recognition passed her lips when she looked at me.

I had asked Alicia, Jean, Tavia, and Cora to arrange an informal gathering at the town hall after the brief graveside ceremony. The community needed some means to express its grief as a whole. I was not up to playing the role of hostess to a thousand people at the castle. Not only did I have my own grief to contend with, but without Alasdair’s covering protection I suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable to the stares and gossip and talk to which an incomer in such a community is always subjected.

All the past anxieties from my first months in Scotland returned. For the past several years I had felt completely loved and accepted and had made so many new friends. But I had been loved as
Alasdair’s
wife
. Would that same acceptance continue now that I was alone, especially with Olivia free again to begin planting the seeds of her subtle persuasions? Would people again give me strange looks, as if I were a gold digger from Canada…and had been all along?

I knew well enough how it often went—the woman from outside, knowing of a man’s mortal illness, worms her way into his affections, persuades him to marry her, and within a year inherits a vast fortune. Hopefully the prenup had put all that to rest. But I was still nervous. Much of my anxiety, of course, was because of Olivia. She was such a
presence
that her influence could not be ignored. And I was probably not thinking straight. Trauma and personal tragedy do not produce clear thinking. As loving as were Ranald and Alicia and my other dear friends, they could not help me make the decisions that suddenly loomed on my horizon. They always say it is not wise to make major decisions within a year or two of major life crises and changes. But I didn’t have two years. I would be afforded as much time as I needed, I knew that. But I still had to look forward.

What would I do now?

The letter from my father weighed on me. I still had not sent him a reply. I had delayed doing so in hopes that events would make my way clear. Suddenly, with Alasdair gone, everything changed. The thought of going back to America could not but figure prominently among my options.

I could think of only one thing to do in the
immediate
days ahead that even halfway appealed to me. I hoped it would not raise too much untoward speculation. After the events of the funeral settled down, I would set out aboard the
Gwendolyn
. I had to think…and pray. How desperately I would have liked to take along my two dearest friends—Ranald Bain and Alicia Forbes—for comfort and fellowship and counsel. But somehow I knew this was something I needed to do alone.

Where would I go? I had no idea.

Just out…away…where I could be alone…to think and cry out to God, and hopefully come to terms with yet one more sudden change that had come to my life. There, on the sea, I could commune with God and Alasdair’s memory together.

I notified Captain Travis to assemble Alasdair’s small crew, which was only a local boy or two, depending on the length of trip, and to lay in stores and be ready to sail.

I sailed three days after Alasdair’s funeral. We did not announce the fact, and managed to depart the Port Scarnose harbor with a minimum of fanfare.

I sent a letter to Reverend Gillihan, asking him, if he felt it appropriate, to read it in church, or, if not, post it in town, or both if he thought best. In it I wrote:

T
he open sea revived my spirits.

Ever since I had come to Scotland, the sea had had that effect on me. Out on the blue expanse, I was free to think about Alasdair and Gwendolyn, to cry but also to rejoice that I had been able to know them both while there was still time.

Again the sea became my refuge and consolation. I was reminded of my revelation of earlier when watching the tide rise and fall over rocks and the shoreline, that the sea was like the great love of God, sweeping in and out and through the lives of mankind as a great tide, giving life to the whole world and everything in it. I now felt that I had been left all alone in the world except for God. I was floating on that sea of his love, upheld by love, sustained by love. All earthly loves might be taken away. But the great sea of the universal love of God would never cease giving its life to man, and to me.

God’s life and love had entered me and changed me. I had left Port Scarnose
feeling
alone. I knew that God was with me and that I was never
really
alone. But now I could not but wonder if the time had come—sooner than I had anticipated—when I would spend the rest of my life alone.

Tears flooded my eyes. I walked toward the bow of the yacht, and there stood, face into the wind, unable to stop the flow of tears as they streamed down my cheeks.

Tears are usually good—the cleansing agents of God’s healing processes. Those tears that day, though they stung my heart, I knew were
good
tears.

The
Gwendolyn
sailed north to Shetland, which I had not visited before. We sailed about its islands and inlets for two days, then set a southwesterly course, laying over at several of the small islands of the Inner and Outer Hebrides, then Skye, then Iona, and from there to Ireland. I was not feeling touristy. I simply wanted to travel, to move, to see new sights and stay away long enough to let Alasdair’s death settle. So many decisions were facing me. I wanted to have some idea of their resolution prior to my return, and with only Captain Travis and one boy aboard keeping to themselves, most of my time was spent in perfect solitude.

On the fourth day out I began the long-overdue letter to my father.

From Ireland we sailed around the south of England and northward up through the Channel, finally past the Forth, the Tay, the Dee, the Don, and finally home. I had been gone eleven days.

I was not anxious for a high-profile return. I told Captain Travis to gauge our speed such that we would enter the harbor on an incoming tide about eleven o’clock that night, at a time when most of Port Scarnose would be in their beds. He radioed ahead and Nicholls was there to meet us with the BMW. Alicia was waiting for me when I walked into Castle Buchan, which seemed colder and quieter and drearier than ever, half an hour before midnight. She and I embraced and wept like the friends of the heart we had become.

I awoke the next morning surprisingly early. My first thought, seeing sun through my window, was to jump up and go for a walk along the Scar Nose and headland. Then I remembered that I was no longer renting Mrs. Mair’s self-catering cottage. I was in a castle that, until a short while ago, had been half my own.

Suddenly I felt very lonely and very sad. I wished I
were
back in Mrs. Mair’s cottage and that Gwendolyn and Alasdair were still alive and that I was free to go on walks beside the sea as an anonymous visitor to Port Scarnose.

I got out of bed and glanced over at my harp where it sat across the room. I had not played since I had taken it to Alasdair’s bedside for our final hours together.

I slipped on my robe and walked over to it and sat down. Gently my fingers touched the strings, but something prevented me from continuing.

The last sounds to come from
Journey
had been Gwendolyn’s music, welcoming her father to his new home with their mutual Father. Whatever came next from this instrument, I would have to think about carefully. I did not want to sit down and start playing randomly. This harp had taken on a mystical import all its own. From the first moment Gwendolyn had set her little fingers to it, an invisible transformation had taken place. Music from another world had come from these strings, music that touched the senses on a deeper level than could be explained by the rational. Two people—a father and a daughter—had come together because of the music of this harp. Both had entered the next life to the sounds of its strings. In my eyes, this instrument had taken on an aura of holiness. Its music had transcended the bonds of earth and reached in some small way beyond the veil into eternity.

Perhaps its strings, for fleeting moments as Gwendolyn and Alasdair had hovered between life and death, had been invisibly plucked by the fingers of heavenly beings reaching down to welcome them home. Never again would I think of it as
my
harp.

It was a harp that belonged to God and his angels.

I dressed and went downstairs. Alicia would have brought me tea, as she often had for Alasdair and me. But I didn’t like the feeling of being waited on. So I went to the kitchen to fix my own. The place was deserted. After our late-night arrival, I assumed she was still asleep.

After a cup of tea, I went out into the grounds. I walked for a long while, thoughtfully and prayerfully. The rest of my life began today. What would my future hold?

I also wanted to make music again today. I needed to touch the music of the angels. But the time and the circumstances had to be right.

B
y eleven o’clock the sun was high and the morning warm. I had decided to play my harp again where Alasdair and I had first connected, though we did not see each other on that day, nor yet even know of the other’s existence.

I tuned
Journey
and packed it in its case, then picked it up and left the castle. I walked slowly across the drive and grassy lawn, then through the new gate in the stone wall and into the churchyard.

I paused and glanced around at the familiar building and the irregular gravestones surrounding it. All was so still and quiet. Everything I had been thinking and feeling that first day returned to me now four years later. How could I have imagined how dramatically my life would change because of that day, and what effect the music from this magical instrument would have on one whom I had not even known was listening.

Yet the greatest impact of that day had taken place within me. That had been the day I had begun to discover the Fatherhood of God, and what it meant to be his daughter.

A calm and peace slowly stole into my heart, a deeper peace than I had felt since Alasdair’s death.

God was good. I needn’t worry about my future. He had something wonderful planned that I could not yet see. But I could trust him. Love and goodness were eternally trustworthy.

I sat down on the same gravestone I had sat on that day four years ago. Slowly I unpacked my harp, put on its legs, and set my fingers to its strings.

I drew in a deep breath, then slowly and gently began to play the majestic but simple hymn that had become the most meaningful expression of my life with God. Softly the music came at first, then gradually louder. Tears filled my eyes as the words became yet again my prayer of yielding my life, my future, my whole being into the Father’s tender and loving hands.

I remained in the churchyard and played for an hour. I was so conscious of Alasdair’s words about the angels making music on my harp, and of my own thought that God and the angels had been listening that day four years before.

I was aware on this day of playing for God again…and for the angels…and for Gwendolyn…and for Alasdair…and for Edward, my first husband, and my mother. They were all in my heart. I was sure they were all together listening.

How could I be sad with an audience like that!

The thought of Alasdair and Gwendolyn and Fiona all together finally did it—my fingers stilled and I broke into weeping.

Happy
weeping! God bless them all!

I was so full as I walked back from the churchyard some time later, I was certainly in no frame of mind for what I found awaiting me. I had vaguely heard a car drive into the castle grounds awhile before. It had scarcely registered in my subconscious.

Alicia had known where I was and was waiting to intercept me.

“I’m sorry, Marie,” she said, “I couldn’t get rid of him. There is a man waiting to see you.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“A reporter, I’m afraid. I told him you were in mourning, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. If you want to slip upstairs, he’ll get tired of waiting and leave eventually.”

“No, that wouldn’t be right,” I sighed. “I’d just as soon nip whatever it is in the bud and be done with it. I’ll get rid of him myself. Where is he?”

“In the Drawing Room.”

“Would you take my harp up to the studio?” I said, handing it to her. “Well, here I go…Wish me luck.”

I walked into the Drawing Room. The man was walking slowly about, looking at the bookcases and portraits on the walls.

“Hello,” I said, “I am Marie Reidhaven.”

“And I am Giles McDermott,” he said, turning and approaching with a smile and outstretched hand. “Thank you for seeing me. Let me say first that I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I understand you are a reporter.”

“That’s right. I am from the
Inverness Courier
. Our paper would like to do a feature article on Moray’s ‘First Lady,’ as you are now being called. I know your husband’s death is less than three weeks old, but there is major interest in your story—Canadian tourist falls in love with local duke and now finds herself not only a duchess in her own right but heir to one of Scotland’s largest estates and presumably one of Britain’s wealthiest women. Scotland’s Grace Kelly, you know. There is talk in the wind of a major television special on your life and assumption to the title, and the
Courier
is hopeful that—”

“Excuse me, Mr. McDermott,” I interrupted.

He stopped abruptly and looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“In the first place,” I said, “even if it were all true, I would have no interest in allowing myself to become a public figure or an object of media examination or gossip—especially so soon after my husband’s death. But in the second place, you must have gotten your signals crossed somewhere, or been given incorrect information, because what you say is
not
true. I am not the duchess, nor one of the wealthiest women in Scotland at all.”

“I don’t under— I mean…What are you saying? The duke is dead, long live the duchess, isn’t that how it works?”

“Not in our case.”

“I’m sorry, but I am confused!”

“‘Duchess’ was an honorary title, or a temporary title, if you will. Have you heard nothing about the prenuptial agreement made between the duke and myself ?”

“I recall some vague reference to such a thing at the time of your marriage. I assumed it applied only in the case of divorce.”

“Not at all. I made certain that it extended also to my husband’s possible death. We made sure the terms were made public locally. I merely assumed that everyone knew the details.”

“What were the terms of this prenup?”

I hesitated before answering.

“Mr. McDermott,” I said at length. “I have explained that I am neither the Duchess of Buchan nor the heir to the Buchan estate, and that I have no interest in a story being either written or televised about me. That is all I have to say of an official nature. Anything else we discuss, because it will obviously be more personal, will have to be strictly off the record.”

Obviously disappointed, the man thought a moment, then sighed and nodded.

“Fair enough,” he said. “I cannot claim to like it, but I will agree, so long as you promise me the story…if and when you change your mind and decide to go on the record.”

“I’m sorry, I will make no such promise.”

Again, his disappointment was evident.

“You are a tough cookie!” he said. “But all right, you win. Off the record and no promises. So what can you tell me about your prenup?”

“Let’s sit down, shall we,” I said, motioning to the couches and chairs.

When we were seated, I began.

“It is not so complicated, really,” I said. “I did not want either Alasdair—the duke, I mean—or the community thinking I was marrying him for his money or his position or title, or for any other reason than that I loved him—simply as a
man
. Therefore, over Alasdair’s objections, I insisted on a prenuptial agreement by which I would be considered the duchess only so long as the duke was alive, and by which I would inherit nothing of his fortune or property. My concern was not in anticipation of Alasdair’s not living a long and healthy life, but that everyone knew I loved him for the man he was. Alasdair, of course, argued strenuously against it. But finally, when he saw that I would not marry him otherwise, he consented.”

I paused, drew in a breath and let it out, and smiled. “So you see, Mr. McDermott,” I added, “sitting before you is no one other than Marie Reidhaven, widow. No duchess, no fortune, no property, no castle, no Grace Kelly…and no story.”

“Surely your husband did not leave you destitute?” asked the journalist.

I smiled again. “No, I am hardly that!” I replied. “I have a bank account which will supply me with all my needs for a good long while. In Alasdair’s eyes it was a trivial amount. But for me it is more than sufficient.
And
I have a relatively new Volvo that Alasdair bought for me.”

“Still, none of that is a great deal for one who shared a fortune a month ago.”

“It is enough for me. It was not
my
fortune. I have enough to buy a modest house if I want to. I also still own a home in Canada which we had not yet sold. So you see, I am more than amply provided for. The bank account, like the prenup, was part of our prewedding negotiations. I insisted on the prenup. Alasdair insisted on leaving me an account in my name. I agreed on a modest amount. So it was finally settled on.”

McDermott laughed. “Not your normal negotiation—each one trying to give
more
to the other, and receive
less
himself !”

“That was our arrangement.” I smiled. “It was how we tried to do things. Of course, I am free to stay on at the castle and use the grounds for as long as I like until I am settled elsewhere.”

“What will become of it all—the castle, the management of the estate, the duke’s fortune?”

“Actually, I don’t know very many details,” I replied. “I didn’t need to know; therefore I left all that to Alasdair and his solicitors. The only matter he and I discussed at length was about the future of Castle Buchan, which we felt would be best preserved as the historic castle it is in the hands of the National Trust for Scotland. Alasdair had, I believe, begun talks with the National Trust through his solicitors. Of course, as you know, large endowments are also necessary to enable the National Trust to adequately maintain its properties. I assume a large financial component will be included in the arrangement. I know it may sound as if I am not interested, but I assure you such is not the case. I simply had to keep a distance from those aspects of Alasdair’s affairs for
his
sake, so that it could never be said that I had influenced matters connected with his estate.”

“Does the duke have other living relatives?”

“Only a sister. They were not close, though I assume she will be handsomely provided for by Alasdair’s will. As for management of the estate and distribution of its other assets, Alasdair was a shrewd enough businessman to have made arrangements that will be best for all concerned, for the community, and for Scotland. I believe some property will be sold to local farmers. The estate will of course continue to operate as it has, but as to Alasdair’s desire for the distribution of its profits beyond, as I say, what will I assume be a generous endowment to the National Trust for permanent upkeep of the castle…that I know nothing about. I am sure the thing is very complex with tax considerations as well.”

“The duke has a daughter, I believe?”

“
Had
. She died four years ago.”

“Oh, I see. Well, this is a remarkable turn of events. So, what will you do, uh…Mrs. Reidhaven?”

“I don’t know yet. My life, my friends, are here. But my father is dying of cancer back in the States. I have that to think of, too.”

“I am sorry. You seem to have had a great deal thrown at you all at once.”

“One manages to survive. I have no complaints. I have lived a dream.”

“You must be a strong woman.”

“I don’t feel strong. But to use a cliché—you do what you have to do.”

McDermott sighed, then rose. “I thank you for your time, and for being as open with me as you have. You are a remarkable woman, and you have my esteem and admiration. Be assured that I will treat what you have told me with confidentiality. I wish you the best, Mrs. Reidhaven.”