The Posy Ring

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 nodded. “I think that might be possible. Francisco is a fine draughtsman, an artist of 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 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 another long and hazardous road. Thank me when the way ahead becomes clearer.”

Vivid

In the living room, after the gloom of the tower rooms, the picture seems even more vivid. 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. 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. 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. 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 a 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.

Genuine

“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 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. He was always 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 lot of power and influence here. Don’t you just feel it?”

He is careful not to upset her. Perhaps he has an ulterior motive. She likes him a lot already, but she doesn’t trust him

More tomorrow.

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.