Her best bet at finding employment would be in Portree, but it was going to be a bugger getting there and back on the bus.
‘Do you regret it?’ Izzy asked.
She regretted not taking Rocco up on his offer to get her push bike fixed. But as for the man himself… ‘No, I don’t. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.’
Chapter 23
At first glance, the contents of box number six didn’t appear to be any different from the five boxes Rocco had already waded through. He wished he’d taken the time when he’d been at Coorie Castle to put Mhairi’s photos, letters, ledgers and other assorted papers into some semblance of order, but he hadn’t. He’d simply filled box after box.
It was now ten fifteen and he’d been at it all evening, sitting on the floor in the smallest bedroom, telling himself just five more minutes and he’d stop. But he’d kept going, lured into Mhairi’s world and that of the castle by an endless supply of hoarded history. Most of it was only mildly interesting, such as how much was paid for restoration works to the jetty due to storm damage in 1953 (the invoice had been made out to Tandy Gray, Rocco’s great-great-grandfather).
Those kinds of things should return to the castle, he resolved, since they made up part of its history, but others, such as Mhairi’s birth certificate, should remain in the family. And by that, he meant they should stay withhim, since he was the only surviving member.
Amongst the contents of box number six was a photo album filled with images of people whose names he didn’t know and places he didn’t recognise, so he put it to one side to come back to later. Unsure whether the photos had any significance, he didn’t know what to do with them, or even where to start finding out who ‘Pip and Ken in Cairo’ were, for instance.
He didn’t know who had taken the photo, when or why, so he was reluctant to dismiss the album out of hand, but he didn’t intend spending any more time on it, not when he had so much more to sort through.
Five more minutes and he’d pack it in for tonight. There was no hurry. He could take as long as he needed; it wasn’t as though there’d be anything in them which would be pertinent to the valuation or the sale of the castle. He might have to have Mhairi’s jewellery valued, though, because he could remember seeing some rather nice pieces. Which box had he put them in…?
Ah, here is something different, he thought, as he removed a pile of letters tied with a length of green ribbon. The top one was addressed to Mhairi at the castle, written in black ink. The handwriting was neat, if rather old fashioned, and he wondered who had sent it.
Feeling as though he was prying, Rocco couldn’t resist untying the ribbon.
All twelve letters were addressed to Mhairi, eleven of them written by the same hand. The rogue letter was the last in the pile. Opening the flap of the first, he removed a single sheet of folded paper, smoothed it flat, and began to read.
My darling Mhairi,
How I long to hold you in my arms again.
Rocco stopped. This was too personal. He shouldn’t be reading it. It didn’t matter that Mhairi was dead; it still felt like an invasion of her privacy. But before he returned the letter to the envelope, he quickly scanned the signature.
Your beloved and ever-adoring, Pip
Rocco knew for a fact that Mhairi had never married, but had Pip been a lover? He thought of the photo and wondered which one was Pip. What had happened for him and Mhairi not to end up together?
With so many unanswered questions, Rocco couldn’t prevent himself from going back to the beginning of the letter and reading it. And when he had finished that one, he moved on to the next, and the next.
Gradually, a story unfolded, and Rocco was transfixed.
Izzy was sitting on the floor, her back against the sofa, her legs stretched out in front of her, twiddling the stem of her wine glass. ‘I knew one bottle wouldn’t be enough,’ she declared, dropping her head so it rested on the cushion.
‘There’s a bit left, if you want it,’ Giselle offered. She’d drunk enough, and was actually feeling a little queasy. After a week of picky and desultory eating, devouring such a big, though absolutely delicious meal had left her feeling uncomfortably full. And tired. She was so very, very tired. Curled up on the sofa, she was also too comfy to move. The mound of dishes in the sink could wait.
‘Don’t you think it’s ironic,’ she observed, ‘that you work for a fashion house that designs clothes for skinny women, yet you’ve turned into the most brilliant cook?’
‘Italians love their food, but if you notice, I made the meal with good quality fresh ingredients.’
‘Don’t tell me you make your own pizzas from scratch?’
‘I have been known to. Gosh, I’m tired.’ Izzy stifled an enormous yawn.
‘Travelling will do that to you.’
‘You’d think I’d be used to it by now.’
‘Ah, yes. I keep forgetting you’re the jet-setting sister.’
Izzy twisted around to look at her. ‘And you’re the stay-at-home one,’ she rejoined with a smile. ‘Travelling so much becomes wearing, you know.’
