The Posy Ring

The sun is setting, slipping into a bank of high clouds, making the sky look like a bolt of grey silk. A breeze has sprung up and it’s chilly. She wishes she had brought something warmer to wear.

“I thought we were going to look up

Lilias,” she says.

“Maybe we should. Come on then.” Back in the house, he switches on a couple of lamps, sets a match to wood and paper, already laid in the wood burner, and finds her a sweater. It is a navy blue gansey with holes here and there and too-long sleeves that practically cover her hands.

“Mum knitted it years ago. The sleeves are long on me as well. She’s not the best knitter, but it’s nice and warm.”

She notices how it smells of him: faintly of some citrussy cologne mixed with the oily scent of the wool, and lavender from where it has been stored away.

Knight in shining armour

As she’s putting it on, she sees that he’s watching her, his forehead creased in a frown.

“What?” she says.

“This may sound daft, but I keep thinking I know you from somewhere. Have we met before?”

“We have, as it happens.” “Where? Why didn’t you say?”

“It took me a while to figure it out myself. It was at a boot sale. You rescued me from a dealer. I was unpacking and he was muscling in, bullying me. You did your knight-in-shining-armour bit.”

She can’t keep the tinge of sarcasm from her voice but she’s smiling and he starts to laugh.

“I remember. He’s terrified of his wife. Big Agnes. I still see her sometimes. To tell you the truth, I’m terrified of her too!” “I haven’t done a boot sale in a while.” “They’re hell on wheels. Especially if you’re on your own. I’m glad that’s cleared up, though. It’s been bothering me. I thought I might have chatted you up or something.”

“No. You never did that.”

He sits down on the sofa and opens up his laptop. He’s blushing slightly.

“I have to say, the signal’s pretty bad here. Slow. But then it can be just as slow in Glasgow.”

She has to go and sit beside him so that she can look at the screen with him. She’s mesmerised by his long fingers on the laptop keyboard, suntanned or maybe just wind burned, and has to wrap the sweater round herself to keep the feelings in check.

He signs on to a couple of specialist genealogy websites, using his mother’s account details. “She doesn’t mind. She’s quite keen on family history.”

It takes a while and they have to keep refining the search, but eventually they find one Lilias McNeill born on Garve in 1570. Her father is Ruaridh McNeill, at Achadh nam Blàth, which is surely Auchenblae. He is described as the Laird or Thane of Eilean Garbh. Her mother is Bláithín McGugan from Islay.

“Just like my mother’s maiden name,” says Cal, surprised.

“Yes – you said!”

“Fiona McGugan.”

A further search reveals that Bláithín died in 1580, “possibly in childbirth?” says Daisy, and Cal nods. Lilias had siblings: an elder brother called Kenneth, a younger brother called Malcolm and a younger sister, Ishbel, born in 1580, which seems to confirm the speculation.

“Looks as though we’ve struck gold. Could well be your Lilias,” he says. “More likely than not.”

“I don’t know about the inscription, though. A time will come. What time? When?”

Kindred spirit

The signal drops out and they drink more wine, finishing the bottle and opening another. Daisy feels the familiar excitement of research, exacerbated by the alcohol and his proximity. It occurs to her that she is entirely happy in this moment. She gets more of a kick out of this kind of hunt than almost anything else in her life.

It’s what she loves most about the kind of antique dealing she does: not the prospect of a bargain, not the prospect of making a find, although those things are important.

What she really loves is finding out about the history of things, about the life of these objects stretching back through time and passing through her hands for a little while only. She’s wondering if Cal might be a kindred spirit, because she’s never found one before. Not a man, anyway. Never one so attractive.

The broadband comes back on and they pursue Lilias down the remaining years of her life. She was married to one Matthew McNeill of Dun Sithe in 1589.

Laird’s daughter

“I’ll bet that’s Dunshee,” says Cal. “It’s a small farmhouse at the south end of the island. I wonder why there? The laird’s daughter as well. But maybe it was a more important place back then.”

The records state that Lilias gave birth to a daughter called Flora in that same year, followed by seven sons, the last born in 1605. She died in 1620 at the age of 50.

“Eight kids in however many years? Sixteen?” says Cal. “I’m surprised she didn’t die of exhaustion.”

“It wasn’t uncommon. If they survived the process of childbirth for long enough.”

“You’re right. There’s a story from way back in my great-grandfather’s day of 13 kids in this cottage!”

“Thirteen? Where did they put them all?” “God knows. But even when they moved, they kept the cottage in the family. There was a cousin renting it for a while but then they moved away and Mum and Dad came back when he was just starting out as a painter, when they were first married.”

Cal’s voice suddenly manages to be cold and angry at the same time.

“The island was his brand for a while, before branding was even a thing. There were a few lifestyle pieces in the Sunday supplements. Mum kept them. Unrealistic nonsense about life on a Scottish island. It wore off quite quickly, though. As soon as he changed his style and began to make serious money.”

The bitterness in his tone makes her shiver. “He stopped coming?” she asks.

“Mostly. Mum used to bring us. He would pay the occasional visit, but the lack of space bugged him.”

They are intrigued to discover that Lilias’s firstborn, Flora, had married into the Galbraith family, at a place called Knockbaird. She nudges him. “She might be one of your forebears!”

She’s wondering if Cal might be a kindred spirit, because she’s never found one. Not a man, anyway. Never one so attractive

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.