It most certainly was! Even as Giselle had been making the picture, she’d worried that its size might put people off. After all, it wouldn’t fit into the boot of the average tourist’s car, not if they had luggage and stuff.
‘That’s great. I’ll thank Tara when I see her. Who bought it, do you know?’
‘Some woman. I didn’t speak to her; Fiona did.’
Giselle laughed. ‘So, when you sayyousold my picture, it wasn’t you exactly; it was your wonderful part-time sales assistant.’
‘It’s my shop,’ Jinny said. ‘I run it. Although technically, it’s Rocco Moore’s now.’ She pulled a face. ‘For how long, is a question we’re all asking. Do I have to start looking for another job, Giselle? You’ve spent more time with him than anyone, apart from Cal; has Rocco said anything to you?’
‘Nothing you don’t already know.’
‘I suppose I’d better put some feelers out, see what’s around. If Mhairi knew, she’d be turning in her grave.’
‘I expect she must have guessed.’
Jinny sighed. ‘You’re probably right. She was a canny one, was Mhairi. It’ll be such a shame, though. She’d worked so hard to make the craft centre work – we all have.’ She sighed again. ‘I’ll wait a while and see what happens. You never know; maybe whoever buys it will want to keep it just the way it is.’
Giselle certainly hoped so, but all they could do was cross their fingers.
Chapter 16
Kingsburgh House, home to Flora MacDonald and the man she married after she helped Bonnie Prince Charlie escape, was only eight miles north of Portree, so since today was more about Skye’s historical past than its geology, Giselle decided to kick off Rocco’s education there. Although, if she was honest, today would be for her benefit too, because she’d always been deeply moved by Flora MacDonald’s story, convinced there was more to it than the archives led people to believe.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see. Privately owned and in a state of disrepair, the house wasn’t the original one that had stood on that spot, but it was enough for Giselle.
‘I’ve heard of Bonnie Prince Charlie, but I don’t know the story,’ Rocco said, as they walked from the road through a stand of trees towards the dilapidated old house.
‘Charles Stuart was the grandson of James VII of Scotland, who was also James II of England – yes, the same James; not two different people – and believed that the British throne was rightfully his. In 1745, he and his followers led a rebellion to overthrow King George II and restore Stuart’s claim to the throne. It became known as the Jacobite Uprising and ended at the Battle of Culloden in 1746 when Charles Stuart lost to the British redcoats in a horrifically bloody battle. Two thousand Jacobites were killed, but Bonnie Prince Charlie escaped.’ Giselle knew the story off by heart, but it always moved her, and when they reached a metal gate with a view of the old house between the trees, she rested her arms on top of it and carried on.
‘This is where Flora MacDonald comes in. Charlie had a price on his head – £30,000, equivalent to about £5 million in today’s money – and was being hunted the length and breadth of Scotland. Flora was staying in South Uist with her benefactor, Lady Clanranald, who was a Jacobite sympathiser. The story has it that Flora was touched by the prince’s desperate situation and agreed to smuggle him to Skye, where he could get a ship to France. Risking her life, she dressed him in women’s clothing, and with him disguised as her maidservant, she took him over the sea to Skye.’
‘The “Skye Boat Song”.’
‘Aye, that’s the one. I won’t sing it for you again.’ He didn’t need to hear her pathetic warbling.
To her surprise, Rocco sang it instead. ‘Carry the lad who was born to be king, over the sea to Skye,’ he warbled, in a pleasing baritone.
‘You have a hidden talent, Mr Moore,’ she teased. ‘We’ll have you singing in the ceilidh next.’
‘The kaylee?’ he repeated.
‘It’s a Scottish social gathering, with dancing and music. You’d enjoy it. There’s a big one held every year after the Highland Games in Portree. It’s one of the highlights of the year.’ He wouldn’t be here to see it, though, and her mood plummeted.
Giselle pushed away from the gate, feeling despondent. ‘Let’s move on,’ she said. There was nothing more to see here. The truth be told, she didn’t know why she’d brought him here; Kingsburgh House was hardly a tourist attraction.
Their next destination was.
The Fairy Glen (Bail nan Cnoc in Gaelic, which meant Village in the Hills) was one of the most enchanting places Giselle had ever seen. It was like the Quiraing in miniature. Formed over 100,000 years ago, the sandstone bedrock had been sculpted into small conical hills which were covered in grass and stunted twisted rowan trees. Between the hillocks lay tranquil Highland pools.
It was well worth the short hike.
‘Are you sure this isn’t the set of aLord of the Ringsmovie?’ Rocco asked, agog. ‘No wonder it’s called the Fairy Glen.’ He gave her a sideways look. ‘Not fairies,elves– like you.’
Giselle touched her silver hair self-consciously. She’d been compared to Galadriel before on account of it. ‘Are you suggesting I’ve got pointy ears?’
‘Not at all. You’ve got cute ears. Like little shells.’
‘Oh, purhleese,’ she drawled. ‘That’s so clichéd.’ Then, ‘Do youreallythink they’re cute?’ She’d always thought her ears were on the large side, so she tended to cover them with her hair.
