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.
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 with him, 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.’
‘Aw, diddums. I feel so sorry for you,’ Giselle teased.
‘You’d hate it,’ Izzy pointed out. ‘I’m beginning to dislike it, too.’
Giselle’s tired eyes widened. ‘You are?’
‘I’ve met someone.’
‘Ah.’
‘His name is Edoardo. He’s thirty-seven, divorced and he adores cooking.’
‘Is he a chef?’
‘A plumber. We met when he came to fix a leak in my shower.’
‘When was this? And why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Six months ago, and I didn’t say anything because…’ Izzy shrugged. ‘You know me, easy come, easy go. I didn’t think it would last more than a couple of weeks. They rarely do. I wanted to be sure before I said anything.’
‘Sure about what?’
‘That it’s the real thing. I love him, Zelle.’
Giselle cautiously asked, ‘Does he feel the same way?’
Eyes sparkling, Izzy nodded. ‘He’s asked me to marry him!’
Giselle was thrilled for her. That explained her sister’s glow. Izzy was in love. Bending forward, Giselle gave her twin a hug. ‘That’s fantastic news! Congratulations! Can I be your bridesmaid?’
‘You’d better be. I’m depending on you.’ Izzy’s voice was muffled by Giselle’s hair. When she pulled away, she was beaming, but her expression quickly sobered. ‘Are you OK with this?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m so happy and you’re…’
‘Heartbroken?’ Giselle supplied. ‘Of course I’m OK with it. I’m more than OK; I’m over the moon. You deserve all the happiness in the world, Izzy.’
‘So do you. I worry about you up here, alone.’
‘I’m not alone. I’ve got Avril and Jinny, and Tara, and everyone else at Coorie Castle.’ Everyone except the castle’s owner.
‘What happens if the craft centre is forced to close?’
‘I don’t know.’ It made her heart ache to think of the happy band of crafters drifting apart.
They’d keep in touch, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same.
‘Anyway, no more talk of me and my problems. I want to hear all about Edoardo and the wedding. And where’s your engagement ring?
’ Giselle’s gaze flashed to her sister’s conspicuously naked finger.
‘We haven’t bought one yet. We’re going to choose it together.’
Giselle knew how particular Isadora was, and knew she had excellent taste and a keen eye, but it was hardly romantic, was it?
Neither was their meeting; a meet-cute it most definitely wasn’t.
If Giselle ever received a proposal of marriage, she wanted to be presented with a ring that the man she loved had picked out for her, which would be perfect because he’d chosen it, and also because he’d know her so well that he’d know what she’d like.
Then again, Giselle’s own meet-cute hadn’t worked out too well, despite it happening in one of the most romantic cities in the world and with one of the handsomest guys she’d ever seen.
So maybe Izzy’s way was better. Romance didn’t always lead to happily ever after.
In her case, it had led to a broken heart that she despaired would ever be whole again.
Rocco examined the ring. It was a ruby, oval in shape, with tiny diamond chips on its built-up shoulders and around the band.
Was the metal platinum? He thought it might be.
It felt substantial as he weighed it in his palm, and he tried to make out the hallmarks but they were tiny, and he wouldn’t know what he was looking for anyway.
It wasn’t the most noteworthy of Mhairi’s jewellery – a diamond necklace had that honour – but it was the most poignant since it was the only one with a story.
A love story, one with the saddest of endings.
It explained why Mhairi never married, because Pip, the man she loved, the man she’d been engaged to, the writer of eleven of those letters tied up with green ribbon, had died before they’d had a chance.
The last letter had been written by his brother Ken, the other man in the photo, informing Mhairi of Pip’s demise. It had been heartbreaking to read, and Rocco had had tears in his eyes at the end. Pip’s last words had been for Mhairi, his final thoughts for the woman he’d hoped to marry.
The ring had been in the twelfth envelope, wrapped in a scrap of ivory silk. Cut from a wedding dress? Rocco wondered. He’d never know.
There had been something else in the envelope too: a half-written letter in Mhairi’s own handwriting.
It was an outpouring of grief and desolation, and Rocco wasn’t sure whether she’d intended to send it but hadn’t been able to, or whether she’d been trying to express her overwhelming emotions by putting them down on paper and hadn’t had any intention of posting it. Another thing he’d never know.
And although he felt as though he’d intruded on something incredibly private, he was glad he’d read them.
Mhairi was no longer a distant relative who’d bequeathed him a castle because she’d had no one else to leave it to.
She’d become a real person, and his heart ached for her.
Whether his feelings would have run as deep if his own heart hadn’t recently been broken, he couldn’t tell, but it didn’t lessen his pity for her.
Stiff and uncomfortable after sitting on the floor for so long, Rocco clambered slowly to his feet, groaning at the ache in his back. It was very late, and he was shattered.
But even though he was dog tired, when he crawled into bed his brain refused to shut off.
He kept thinking about Mhairi and her lost love, and her regret that she hadn’t left her Scottish castle to be with the man she’d loved.
She’d assumed she’d have a lifetime to be with him, years and years, so when he’d gone to Egypt to work on a newly unearthed antiquity, she hadn’t felt the need to accompany him.
Besides, the heat didn’t agree with her, so she’d remained on Skye.
She’d missed him, obviously, and had been counting the days until his return, but not for one moment had she doubted he wouldn’t come back. Then he’d fallen ill…
Pip had returned to Skye, but not to marry her. He’d come back in a coffin, and he’d been buried in the very churchyard where Mhairi had been laid to rest, in a plot next to his. She’d bought it the day after his funeral, when she’d thought her broken heart would kill her.
However, she’d lived a further sixty years, and in all that time she hadn’t found another man to live up to her Pip. She hadn’t found another man she’d loved as much as she’d loved him.
Rocco turned his pillow over yet again, searching for the cooler side, sleep continuing to elude him. What if he didn’t find a woman who lived up to Giselle? What if he couldn’t find anyone he loved as much as her? Would he be destined to spend his life alone, or would he settle for second best?
He didn’t relish the thought of doing either.
Mhairi had written:
Life is so short. If I’d known just how little time we would have together, I would have grabbed it with both hands and wrung every last drop of love from it, my darling.
Please forgive me. I don’t regret loving you.
How could I ever regret that? But I do regret not being by your side every minute of every day when I had the chance.
Mhairi was right. Life was short. Was he going to live the rest of his, regretting not giving love his best shot?
Skye was calling him, and it was time he heeded her voice.
Rocco mightn’t be able to persuade Giselle to fall in love with him, but he had to try, and he couldn’t do it while he was here and she was there.
He owed it to himself. He owed it to Coorie Castle.
And he owed it to Mhairi, because he was praying that if he sold his house and his shares, and cashed in his investments, he just might be able to keep the castle after all.