The Posy Ring Episode 85

For the first time in his life, Mateo envied his cousin. They had been as close as brothers, even though he was so much older, but perhaps for that very reason, he had always been the leader, always giving instructions while Francisco had been content to follow.

It occurred to him now that his cousin may have resented this, even though he had never spoken of it.

Now, Francisco was spending days, as long as the light lasted, painting the portrait of Lilias. He had already finished a charming study of Ishbel, in her best gown, a basket of clam shells in her hand, like a little pilgrim, and the two dogs at her feet. She looked half young woman, half sprite, “a changeling for sure,” her father said, but Mateo could see that he was very pleased, and was glad of it.

Lilies for a Lily

As soon as Francisco began his portrait of Lilias in her yellow gown, with her pearls and her lace, Mateo went back moodily to his ploughing, and stayed there, although he kept a close eye out for angry islandmen and kept his plough at the ready when he was walking to and from the fields.

Nobody approached him. With every chik-chik, chik-chik of the blade, he thought about the kiss. Thought about her closeness. The scent of her, the warmth of her.

He thought too about all the lines and planes of her, the mathematics of her, the right, perfect proportions of her.

He could travel to the ends of the earth and he would never find her like again. The earth was loose beneath the foot plough, so the work could have been worse. The island was damp and windy, but seldom troubled by frosts.

His first sight of snow here had been on the distant peaks of another island, but it was a rare winter indeed when snow came to Garbh. It was not entirely unknown to him either, since Teide, the sleeping dragon of his island, was occasionally snowy, even while the uneasy earth below the peak was beset by fumaroles.

McNeill followed the progress of the portrait: Lilias in her yellow dress, lace at her breast, pearls at her throat and a spray of entirely imaginary lilies in her hand, for such things were unknown on this island, but not unknown to Francisco, who could paint them from memory. Lilies for a lily.

Portrait of Prosperity

McNeill had plans for the portrait. He had had word that Seoras Darroch of Jura, who had fostered Lilias’s younger brother, was still interested in making a match with his daughter.

He was a gentleman of superior quality, a man of means, with herds of cattle and plenty of fighting men at his call. A good husband, a good provider too.

If Lilias thought that he was also an old husband, she was a girl who could put off till tomorrow anything that she didn’t need to worry about today.

Independent in so many ways, she was in the habit of obeying her father without question. He had never given her bad advice in her life. Never gone against her wishes. Until now.

And even now, she had to admit that he might be right. A marriage to Darroch might be a good thing. He was a prosperous man and, by reputation at least, shrewd.

She spoke to Mateo about it one evening when they were sitting by the fire, in full view of whoever might pass through the Great Hall. He was grateful that she could confide in him, but it was a confidence that was not much inclined to raise his spirits.

Her proximity was a peculiar kind of torment to him. It felt as though there was a fine mesh of threads between the two of them, pulling them closer together.

With every breath he had to resist the impulse to reach out and touch her. He wondered if she felt the same.

Dragged by Wild Horses

“The truth is that whenever I think about leaving this island, about going elsewhere, going to live among strangers on a bigger, bleaker island altogether, my heart quails. I can’t lie about that.

“I would have to make a new life for myself as the wife of an older man and the mother of his surviving children. It’s a daunting prospect. I can’t even begin to picture it.”

Having failed to picture it, she dismissed it from her mind until it seemed impossible to choose otherwise. Impossible to quarrel with the plans that were already being drawn up for the marriage.

“I feel,” she said in an undertone, “much like the poor woman who was enticed to touch the water horse. I’m being dragged along to my doom, and there is nothing I can do to remedy it.”

“Can you not tell your father how you feel?”

“How can I?”

“I don’t mean about me. I don’t mean for you to tell him that you have any feelings for me. If you have.”

She gazed at him for a moment. “Do you doubt me?”

“I don’t know what to think. But perhaps you could tell him that you have changed your mind. That you don’t wish to marry this Darroch after all.”

“The truth is that I never wished to marry him. I was given no choice in the matter. Assumptions were made. And I didn’t contradict them. If I had, I think my father wouldn’t have taken it so far, even though it’s a good match. Now it’s too late. I need the water bull to rescue me.” “I’d gladly sacrifice myself to save you.” “But it would do you no good, Mateo. For they would be outraged and they would still make me marry him. Your fate would be very uncertain. My father is a good man, but he is also a hot-tempered man.”

The plan was that Darroch would visit in the spring. There would be a betrothal ceremony.

The portrait would be a wedding gift to Ruaridh McNeill’s new son-in-law, although McNeill had been heard to say that he would prefer to keep the likeness here on Garbh, to remind himself of the muchloved daughter he was about to lose. Francisco, hearing this, relayed it to Mateo.

“I suspect,” he said, “that McNeill is in no great hurry for the marriage to take place. I think he would be happier if both portrait and girl stayed here on the island. Or at least that’s what Beathag told me.”

He thought too about all the lines and planes of her, the mathematics of her, the right, perfect proportions of her

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.