Hope on the other hand felt restless. While the castle certainly provided a great deal of entertaining opportunities for exploration, what with its hidden passageways and ancient history, she felt rather confined. Deciding that she needed to walk—far, wide, and aimlessly—to quiet her ever growing thoughts, Hope made her way to the walled garden one afternoon.
The scent of late springtime flowers filled her nostrils as she climbed down the hidden stone staircase that led out of her bedroom. The gardener, Mr. Fitzpatrick, had his back to her, tending to a holly hedge at the southside of the garden. Not wishing to disturb him, Hope moved with a quickened pace towards the little wooden door that led into the bee yard. As gently as possible, she unlocked the little metal latch and pushed open the rough-cut door, closing it quietly behind her.
Turning around, Hope saw several dozen egg shaped wicker domes, each sat on a wooden table on an upward sloping field, edged on three sides by a forest. Frowning, she had just taken a cautious step forward when the faintest of buzzing sound hit her ear and she froze. She had quite forgotten all about the bees.
She was frightened at first, until she realized that the bees wouldn’t attack her simply for being there. Still, she kept to theleft of the field, avoiding them until she found a path leading through a pine tree grove.
The sun filtered through the tall branches, dappling the dirt path with fragments of light. Hope inhaled deeply. The scent of earth and pine resin settled over her in the most comforting way. London had never been a joy to smell, but the air around Lismore was somehow sweet.
Before long, the trees thinned somewhat and the horizon shone in the distance. Hope could see several massive mountains, surrounded by a mist that seemed to be rolling up the sides of the foothills, sitting behind a large expanse of water. The puffy white clouds and blue sky reflected brightly in the loch and hundreds of tall, pointy purple flowers, swaying gently in the breeze.
Hope let out a little huff of amused breath, stunned at the beauty of this place. It was strange to feel so comforted in such a vast landscape, but she had never felt so at home in her entire life, not even in her own bedroom back in London. Heading down to the water’s edge, she found a large, flat rock to climb up on.
Sighing, she stretched out her legs beneath her blue-and-cream-colored skirts, and looked out over the water, enjoying the solitude of the highland wildlife. Laying down, she folded her arms behind her head and closed her eyes. The warmth of the stone radiated against her back as the sun kissed her face. This place was truly lovely and she wondered how long she could stay before her aunt would send someone to look for her.
By the sounds of the cursing Scotsman, not long at all.
“Bloody bowfin trout!” An unfamiliar, masculine voice yelled. “I’ve not had a bite all damn day.”
Hope lifted herself onto her elbow and looked behind her where she believed the voice had come from, but she didn’t see anyone.
“What are you doing on this side of the loch anyway?” another voice said and to Hope’s surprise, she recognized it.
It was Graham.
“I rowed clean across it and I still couldn’t find one boggin fish,” the other man said, just as she finally spotted them.
A tall, somewhat fair-haired man came out from around a group of trees, dressed in a kilt, shirtsleeves and what looked like a gansey. Hope had heard about the knitted fishing sweaters from some gentleman or other, bragging about their sporting skills during a ball in London. Supposedly it was so tightly knit that water couldn’t sink into it. Two wicker baskets bounced against his kilt-clad hips has he walked, with two straps crossed diagonally across his chest. He was carrying a long wooden pole as he made his way toward the edge of the water some several yards away, where a little boat sat. He was completely unaware of Hope.
A few steps behind him was Graham, dressed in his usual dark gray trousers, shirtsleeves and a partially buttoned gray striped vest. He looked rather charming in a devil may care, natural sort of way, causing a faint fluttering feeling in Hope’s stomach.
“You know, fishing is supposed to be a peaceful pursuit,” Graham said, stepping around a large rock on the shore.
“So, everyone keeps telling me,” the slightly fair-haired man said, throwing his things into the small row boat. “It’s a delusional sport. I’m not doing it again.”
“Och, you don’t mean it.”
“Yes I do.”
“I’ll come with you next time, eh? Show you how it’s done.”
“It’d be a waste of time,” the man said, as he bent down at the front of the boat. With apparent ease, he lifted and pushed it into the water, jumping onto it as it freed itself from the muddy shore. He turned back. “I’ll see you at your uncle’s then?”
“Aye,” Graham said with a nod, lifting up his hand as the man sat, rowing away.
Hope was sure that Graham was going to turn back but just as he did, he paused and she felt a sudden trail of gooseflesh flare up the back of her neck, causing her to shiver. Slowly, he turned around and—without searching, almost as if he knew instinctively where to look—his eyes pinned her to right where she sat.
She inhaled sharply as he tilted his head, staring at her as if he couldn’t quite believe that she was there. Embarrassed that she had been caught eavesdropping, she shifted her body, bringing her legs over the edge of the rock as he came forward.
“Hope?” he said, confused. “What are you doing out here?”
“I was thinking,” she said, before shaking her head. “I mean, I went for a walk, to think and ended up here.” She turned her head, gazing out over the water to the row boat, before looking back at Graham. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“You’re out here alone?” he asked, ignoring her apology.
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit unwise?”
