‘You’re worried,’ Izzy finished.
That was an understatement. ‘Just a bit. He thinks it’ll go to a wealthy American with Scottish heritage, who won’t want busloads of tourists traipsing through the castle grounds.’
‘It might be sold to someone wholikestourists. They mightn’t keep the castle going as a hotel, but the craft centre is a good little earner, I bet.’
‘Hmm.’ Giselle wasn’t convinced. She’d worked so hard to make a life for herself on Skye – a life she loved – that anything which threatened it was going to worry her. It was the uncertainty that was the worst. At least if she knew for definite one way or the other then she could plan. Althoughwhatshe would plan was beyond her ken right now.
‘I wish I was there to give you a hug,’ Izzy said. ‘You look as though you need one.’
‘I do. Please say you’ll visit soon.’ Izzy had more disposable income than Giselle, so it was far more likely that her sister would come to Skye than it was for Giselle to go to Milan. She played her trump card. ‘Mum and Dad would love to see you.’
‘I’ll try, but work is so hectic at the moment. It’s not long until Fashion Week.’
‘It’s always Fashion Week,’ Giselle grumbled.
‘Only twice a year.’
‘Aye, inMilan. What about New York, Paris, Berlin…?’
‘You forgot London.’
‘That was in June, and Mum and Dad went there to see you. You didn’t come to Scotland.’
‘I know, Zelle, and I’m sorry. You should have come with them.’
Giselle would have done if she could have afforded it. Their parents would have paid if they’d known how strapped for cash she was, but she hadn’t wanted to worry them. She was almost thirty: she should be able to stand on her own two feet without accepting handouts. She’d contemplated trying to get a part-time job for a few weeks to supplement her income, but the tourist season in Skye took off in April, so all her energy had been focused on her art and the studio. And, as a rule, she got by on what she earnt. It was just the extras she couldn’t afford – like expensive trips to London.
Izzy broke into her thoughts. ‘Keep your chin up, Zelle. Gotta run, speak later.Ciao.’
‘Bye,’ Giselle said to a blank screen. Reluctantly, she got to her feet. There was no point sitting here fretting. She may as well go to the studio and make some more pictures, while she still could.
Rocco stretched, the vertebrae in his lower spine clicking as he did so, making him wince, and surveyed the damage. Piles of papers, letters and photos were dotted around Mhairi’s sitting room, but at least they were in some kind of order. Sort of. Without going through them with a fine-toothed comb, he wouldn’t know what to keep and what to throw out, but he didn’t have time for that now. He would have them boxed up and arrange for them to be sent to his house in London, where he could pick through them at his leisure. Or put them in the attic. He had an inkling he’d do the latter. Life was too busy to be spent reading crinkle-cornered letters and studying black-and-white photos of people he wouldn’t have a hope in hell of identifying.
Mhairi’s sitting room sported a kettle, a solid earthenware teapot and a tin of loose-leafed Lady Grey tea. He preferred coffee to tea, but he’d been working for most of the day and was thirsty, so he made himself a cup.
As he waited for the kettle to boil, he strolled over to one of the wide windows.
This, he decided, must be the best room in the castle. With a double aspect, it had views to the south and the west, and all of it was of sky, mountains and water, with a few trees to frame it.
He watched the play of sunlight and cloud across the loch and the purpled hills beyond, and couldn’t decide whether it was shortbread-biscuit-tin pretty or wild and untamed.
He supposed it depended on one’s perspective – and the weather. Yesterday and today had been bright and sunny, a bit breezy at times, but warm. He imagined it would be very different in the throes of a gale, or in the depths of winter. Right now, the scene was a calm one, with several boats on the water.
Movement near to the castle caught his eye and he glimpsed someone walking down the lane, the figure partly obscured by the trees as it headed for the shoreline.
It was unmistakably Giselle, and his heart gave a jolt.
Without stopping to consider what he was doing, Rocco bolted to the door and careened down the winding staircase.
By the time he found his way onto the lane, she was nowhere in sight, so he carried on walking in the direction he’d seen her heading.
Past the former boathouse, past Cal’s cottage, the narrow sliver of beach was empty, the jetty devoid of life apart from a large white gull with a wicked beak and a gimlet stare, who watched him with wary anticipation. Rocco eyed it suspiciously, thankful he didn’t have a portion of fish and chips in his possession, as he might have had a battle on his hands. The seagull looked like it could hold its own in a fight. It flew off with a coarse squawk, and Rocco turned his back on it to gaze along the shoreline, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare.
A silhouette shimmered in the distance, picking its way over the rocks at the far end of the beach, and he recognised Giselle. Every so often she would bend over and peer at the ground. He assumed she was looking for fragments of sea glass and pretty pebbles, but she could just as easily be collecting whelks for her lunch or searching for washed-up pirate treasure, for all he knew.
Without knowing what he was going to say to her, he began to follow.
It was easy at first, over the soft sand, becoming more difficult when the beach petered out. He found he had to watch where he put his feet, and he wished he was wearing shoes with better soles. His tan brogues weren’t designed for rock hopping.
