‘He isn’t usually so weak.’
They both gazed at Francisco, who was seated beside the fire, unaware of their scrutiny, struggling with sleep, his eyelids drooping.
‘Well, well. He may have other skills. My lads are away from home. Kenneth, the eldest, is in St Andrews and Malcolm is over the sea with his foster family. But my youngest lass might have need of a tutor, and he seems a kindly enough lad. I’ll not have my lassies treated with anything but courtesy. Lilias does what she can, but she has her household duties to attend to. Lilias learned much from her mother. And I would have Ishbel learn how to read and write, how to draw. Music, even, although there are few instruments here save the pipes and the clarsach. But others might be procured. I have a mind that my girls should be schooled as if they were not the daughters of a rough-and-ready islandman. I would have them made fit for lowland society. Fit for good marriages. Perhaps your friend can oblige in the time that you spend here.’
It occurred to Mateo that Lilias would grace any society in which she found herself, but that seemed a dangerous thought and he repressed it. He refrained from asking how long their time on the island might be and instead merely nodded. ‘I think that might be possible. Francisco is a fine draughtsman, an artist of great skill.’
‘Then what was he doing on such a venture? Eh?’
Mateo sighed. ‘I don’t know, sir. It was folly. Folly from beginning to end.’
‘Ah well. We have all been guilty of that. Take him to your room, if he can stand. If not, you’ll just have to carry him, which should be no great hardship, since it seems that you have carried him for long before this.’
Mateo roused his cousin, and pulled him to his feet. ‘I’ll bid you good night sir, and thank you. Thank you for your help and your hospitality.’
‘Thank me later. I fear you may be at the beginning of yet another long and hazardous road. Thank me when the way ahead becomes clearer.’
THIRTEEN
In the living room, after the gloom of the tower rooms, the picture seems even more vivid, more full of life. Cal holds it horizontally and blows gently along the surface, but it seems to have been protected by the silk and by the larger pictures that were standing in front of it and the years have been kind to it.
‘I think this is its original frame,’ he says, examining the back of the picture. ‘Looking at the way it’s constructed. I’m amazed it’s so clean. Maybe it was hung somewhere in the house. Away from direct sunlight, that’s for sure. I can’t believe it was just stored in your old tower for all these years. It would be in much worse condition if it had been.’
‘I suppose it depends when they stopped using the tower. Nobody’s lived in it for a while from the look of it. Certainly not my grandmother.’
‘No. It looks very much as though she used only this part of the house.’
‘I don’t think she even went up to the servants’ quarters very much. One person would just rattle around this place.’ She pulls a face, thinking of herself, trying to sleep in her mother’s old bedroom. ‘I suppose they must have just decided to move out of there completely. I honestly thought we’d find it empty. I thought maybe Viola or her parents had cleared it out. Instead it’s a mediaeval glory hole.’
‘It isn’t so easy to get rid of stuff on an island. It can be an expensive business just transporting things, even if you want to sell them.’
‘I suppose so.’
He shifts his gaze from the portrait for a moment to smile at her, but keeps his own counsel. It occurs to her that he is being careful not to upset her. Perhaps he has an ulterior motive. She likes him a lot already, but she doesn’t trust him. She still can’t help feeling that he might be sizing up her possessions. After all, it’s part of what he does. She’s all too aware of the pitfalls because it’s what she does as well.
He props the portrait on a side table. ‘Look, there’s a name on the frame.’
In the very centre of the heavily carved frame, almost obliterated by leaves and flowers, is a single word: Lilias.
‘A bonnie name for a bonnie lass,’ he says suddenly. ‘‘Hence the lilies. In the picture and on the frame.’
‘Is it as old as I think it is?’ she asks. This is a find. And with it comes a certain responsibility.
‘Sixteenth century, I’d say.’
‘You mean, Elizabethan. Genuine Elizabethan?’
‘Aye. The first, not the second.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Look, there’s text on the picture. Bit faded, not surprisingly. Although maybe it’s deliberately quite subtle.’
She peers more closely. Lilias, whoever she is, has been painted against a very dark background. That’s another reason why her fresh face, her red hair and her golden gown stand out so vividly. There are small letters, painted onto the background.
‘Un temps…’ He squints at it, then fumbles in the pocket of his jacket and brings out a jeweller’s loup, a small magnifier.
‘You came prepared,’ she says, and can’t keep the faint note of accusation out of her voice.
‘I always carry it. I’m always prepared, hen.’ He grins, wickedly. She has a sudden throb of inadvisable desire in the pit of her stomach. Don’t go there, she thinks.
‘Un temps viendra,’ he says, dropping the lens back into his pocket.
‘A time will come.’ She translates automatically.
‘Get you.’
‘I’m not daft. Just don’t know as much about pictures as you do. Is it French, then? Is she French?’
‘I don’t have a scoobie. I don’t think Lilias is a particularly French name. And what’s she doing here, anyway?’ He gazes at her, thoughtfully. ‘She has your hair.’
‘It’s a mixed blessing. It was my mum’s hair too. You know the fishermen don’t much like to have red-headed women on their boats?’
‘So I’m told. Well, you can come on my boat any time you like.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t belong here at all,’ she says. ‘Maybe the Neilson family bought her. It. The picture. They were industrialists, weren’t they? Wealthy. This was their rural bolt-hole.’
‘I don’t know. They’re your family.’
‘But that’s the thing, Cal. I don’t know either. I don’t know the first thing about them except that my mother more or less eloped with my dad and cut herself off completely from her own mother. From Viola. You don’t do that kind of thing lightly.’
He shrugs. ‘Maybe you do. People have their reasons.’
‘But I don’t know, do I? My mum died when I was too young to be able to ask her and even my dad says she never properly explained it. She loved him to bits. I’m pretty sure of that. He certainly loved her. And I can just about understand why he never brought me here after Mum died.’
‘Why?’
‘He thought Viola would fight to get custody of me. Normally, she wouldn’t have had a hope, but he says he was a bit of a mess after Mum died. I never noticed. He was never anything but a great dad to me, but he was afraid of Viola and maybe he was right.’ She looks around. ‘All this represents a certain power and influence, doesn’t it?’
‘If you’re the laird it does anyway. This was a McNeill stronghold. And a string of McNeills would have had a hell of a lot of power and influence here. Don’t you just feel it?’
She gazes at him. ‘I do. It’s overwhelming. Five hundred years of it. Maybe more. And now it’s all mine, God help me.’
‘Aye, poor you.’ He grins at her. ‘Anyway, the Neilsons were incomers. Even if there was some family connection somewhere. And I don’t think they ever owned that much land. What do you have now?’
‘Five acres, Mr McDowall said. Nothing useful. Woodland and willow scrub and moorland.’
‘Even when the Neilsons bought the place, there would have been a few tenant farms at the most. Which they’d probably sold o
ff before Viola inherited. But they must have been wealthy.’
‘Probably the kind of industrial wealth folk made on the backs of other people in Glasgow or Paisley or somewhere. And then Viola’s grandfather or great-grandfather or whoever decides to come over all paternal and exploit some islanders for a change.’
‘I can see you’re going to take to the role of lady laird in a big way.’
‘You should hear my dad on the subject of land ownership. I think that’s one of the reasons why he’s keen for me to sell the place.’
‘So what about Lilias? Who do you think she was? Don’t you want to know?’
‘Of course I want to know. I always want to know the history of everything.’
‘Me too.’
‘But maybe she was just one of their acquisitions. The Neilsons, I mean. She looks a bit too wealthy for a small island laird’s wife. Or daughter. Especially back then. That’s a pretty posh frock for starters. Not to mention the pearls.’
He frowns. ‘But not impossible. They didn’t just hang out on their islands all the time, you know. The McNeills. The MacDonalds. They went to Edinburgh. They acquired a few luxuries when they could. Auchenblae might have been quite comfortable back then. They were quite civilized.’
‘But it’s such a small island.’
‘Good harbours. Strategically placed too. The Garve McNeills were dedicated fence-sitters, I believe. Liked to make as few enemies as possible. Imagine your old tower with fires burning, tapestries, floor coverings, that oak bed with proper hangings and hand-woven linen. I’d lay bets that carved bed belongs here. Maybe Lilias belongs here as well.’
They stare at the picture in silence for a moment. Lilias stares back at them, enigmatically.
‘It’s a lot to take in, Cal.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
He sets the picture down flat, reverently. Wraps it up again in its silk. ‘You’d better look after this.’
She makes more coffee. The day is wearing away but he is making no move to leave. Not that she is in a hurry for him to leave, but she’s surprised. It feels as though they’ve known each other for years. She doesn’t want to be left alone in the house. Not today. Not yet.
‘I’ll tell you what we could do,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘We could do a bit of research. Lilias. It’s a fairly unusual name. I mean, it’s not like Anne or Mary. And if she does belong here, I think she would have been a McNeill or some variation on that name. They were lords of this particular isle for hundreds of years, even when they held it with the agreement of the proper Lords of the Isles, the MacDonalds. I’m sure some of the genealogy sites might be able to help.’
‘I have a tablet but I don’t have a broadband connection yet. I have to sort all that out.’
‘I have a laptop in my cottage.’ He stands up. Hector leaps to his feet in anticipation, runs to the door, wagging his skinny tail. ‘Do you want to come and see my cottage? Well, I say see, but if you blink you’ll miss it. Not like this place! Hector wants you to come as well. Don’t you, Hector?’
It will be something of a relief to get out of the house for a while. She can’t ignore her inheritance, but she needs some sort of perspective on it as well.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We’ll take my car. I’ll bring you back later. You look as though you need a break from all this.’
‘I do really.’
‘Come on then. Grab your bag and let’s go.’
FOURTEEN
They drive through the village and past the hotel, where people are sitting outside in the late afternoon sunshine. Briefly, she wishes they could do the same. Wishes they were a couple. But ever since that moment on the beach, he has been friendly but no more than that. And perhaps that’s fine. Perhaps it’s the situation in general she wants, rather than him in particular. Holding hands across the table. Drinking wine. Being in love with somebody. Any reasonably attractive man will do. Perhaps she’s just feeling lonely and a bit tired.
They slow down for tourists on bicycles and on foot. He waves vaguely to the left where a wooden sign points to a ‘Gallery’.
‘That’s Ardachy down there. Where the McNeills live. Well, one lot of them anyway. Donal and Alys and their kids. She makes jewellery. She uses a lot of antique beads.’
‘I once signed up to a jewellery-making course and I thought that’s what it was going to be. Found objects. Vintage and antique beads. I had all kinds of ideas. As soon as I got in the door I realised my mistake.’
‘Why? What did you do?’
‘We spent hours hammering a bit of copper into a ring shape. It was the most boring class in the history of the world. I hated it.’
‘I suppose you have to start somewhere.’
‘Yeah, but it wasn’t what I expected. I was never going to be a silversmith. I never went again. I didn’t really want a copper ring.’
‘They turn your fingers black.’
‘They do. I’m quite good at sticking at something but I was frantic with boredom.’
‘Well, if you stay, Alys does classes. And I think it’s much more your kind of thing. They opened the gallery a few years ago. I believe it does quite well, although she sells in Edinburgh too – and online of course.’
‘They’re the people who own the embroidered cabinet in the hotel, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. Fabulous thing. You seldom see them in that condition. But Donal’s never going to sell it. He says it belongs here. Who’s to say he isn’t right?’
A mile or so beyond the turn-off to Ardachy, they come to another narrow junction and he swings the car sharply to the left. A straight stretch of track runs between high hedges, alight with gorse, towards the sea. It is so dazzling as to be disturbing and when she winds down the window the powerful scent of coconut invades the car.
‘You can see why I have a four-wheel drive, can’t you?’ he says, as the vehicle bounces along.
The centre of the track already has a good growth of grass sprouting up between stones and dry earth. They pass a cream-painted farmhouse and then, just before the track ends at the seashore, he veers to the right along a short stretch of green lane and pulls up in front of a fence with a swing gate set into it. It’s fastened shut with a bit of baler twine. Beyond, she can just make out a low stone cottage, white walls, grey roof, tucked in above the shoreline.
He opens the gate and Hector bounces ahead of them. The tiny cottage sits on a hillock, a risen circle of garden just above the sea. There is lush grass with grey-brown rocks poking through here and there, drifts of pink thrift, a natural rock garden. There is a bird feeder with blue tits balancing on it. Hector rushes at them, barking, but they don’t seem too perturbed and return as soon as he turns his back.
‘Does it have a name?’ she asks. ‘This place? Mrs Cameron mentioned it but I’ve forgotten.’
‘Oh they all have names. Gaelic names of course. Every field and stone practically. This place is called Carraig.’
‘Big stone?’
He smiles. ‘And the house does sit on solid rock. Do you speak Gaelic?’
‘No, but I did some Scottish history as part of my degree. Place names were a thing.’
‘They’re a big thing here too. The old maps show a significant building with chimneys here. But this cottage is only a couple of hundred years old.’
‘I suppose most of the island houses had no proper chimneys at all back then.’
‘No. The smoke just found its way out through the thatch or the turf or whatever. This place was probably thatched when it was first built.’ He grins. ‘Mind you, it’s a bit like that here in winter even now. The chimney smokes. Depends what way the wind’s blowing.’
‘Do you often come in winter?’
‘I come whenever I can, sweetheart. If the ferry isn’t off.’ He gestures towards another wooden
gate in the far fence, against which a riot of fuchsias, just coming into bud, are scrambling. ‘There’s a causeway down to the sea. Bit like the one at Auchenblae only smaller.’
She smiles. ‘Everything’s smaller. Don’t knock it. I quite like it. Where do you keep your boat?’
‘There’s a harbour of sorts down there. It’s nice. We walk down there a lot. Don’t we, Hector?’
Hector hears the magic word ‘walk’ and bounds up, tail wagging, tongue lolling.
‘Later,’ says Cal. Hector looks disappointed. He has expressive eyebrows. He finds his water bowl outside the back door and laps enthusiastically. He’s enthusiastic about everything but especially walks.
The house has white walls, battered by wind and weather and in need of a coat of paint. There are climbing roses, carefully pruned back, and a big ceanothus, just coming into bright blue bloom. Several hydrangeas have been planted against the wall on the seaward side, a mass of new leaves at this time of year.
‘My mum does the garden when she comes,’ he says. I cut the grass but that’s about all. I don’t know what’s what. She does. But she doesn’t get to come here very often. Not now.’ He looks sad, but offers no other explanation.
The cottage is low and compact, a single storey with a shallow sloping roof. It has a tiny kitchen extension and a lean-to shed at one side. There’s an open wood store with neatly stacked logs, and a dark green shed with a padlocked door. This looks newer and more watertight than any of the other buildings.
He nods at it. ‘I do a lot of antique buying up the west coast and use this as a stopping off place on the way back to Glasgow, so I have to have somewhere secure to store things temporarily. I know it isn’t really on the way to Glasgow, but it’s worth the detour.’
He leads the way inside the house.
‘We never open the door on the other side at all. Always use this one.’
The Posy Ring Page 14