Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
‘Bloody hell!’ gasped Katie. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Goodness knows. I mean, I know the Lapleys have a reputation for being Port Starr’s answer to the Borgias, but still.’
The other customers in the shop and the two women serving behind the counter were still gawping towards the doorway, even though Eliza was well gone.
I shook my head. ‘She looked terrified.’
She frowned. ‘Or she could just be doing that for attention. I mean, she’s always been a bit of a diva.’
While Katie ordered our paninis and Liam’s roll, I thought again about how alarmed Eliza Compton had been and her dire warning.
‘What do you think of Mason Cooper, then?’ probed Katie, breaking through my deliberations.
I fiddled with my bangle. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you think he’s hot?’
I shrugged and refused to maintain eye contact with her. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’
As an elderly gent moved past us to view the selection of freshly baked scones, Katie snorted. ‘Oh, come on! I’m an old married woman and I’ve noticed how delicious he is.’ Her chocolate eyes sparkled. ‘He’s got that dark, wolfish thing going on.’
‘You make him sound like a wild animal.’
She winked. ‘I bet he is too.’
I gave her an affectionate dig with my elbow. ‘Even if I was interested in Mason – which I’m not – he’s made it plain that relationships aren’t for him and after what Nick put me through, I agree with him.’
Katie considered what I’d just said. ‘Did he actually say that?’
‘Loud and clear.’ I explained to her about Mason’s forthright dismissal of relationships and mentioned him going out for dinner the other night.
Goodness knows if that was with a woman or not.
‘He wasn’t forthcoming about it. In fact, he wasn’t forthcoming about very much,’ I summarised, shuffling by the counter as I tried to change the subject.
‘And anyway, a modern man couldn’t live up to the Scarlet Highwayman. He’s a tough act to follow.’
I tried to make it sound like I was making a joke, but underneath, my words rang true in my own ears.
‘Do you know what I think?’ interrupted Katie.
‘No, but I’ve got the feeling you’re just about to tell me.’
‘Too right I am.’ She moved forward and collected our order. ‘I think you do feel safer crushing on the Scarlet Highwayman – a guy who’s been dead for over two hundred years.’
Her words rattled through me, the truth of them bouncing around my head. I flicked one hand in a dismissive, embarrassed gesture. ‘Don’t be daft! I was only joking. Do you know how creepy that sounds?’
Katie’s open expression then caught my eye; with the way the light was casting artful shadows on her cheekbones through the bakery window. ‘I wish I had my sketchpad and pencils right now. The light is fantastic, the way it’s travelling down one side of your face.’
We emerged onto the street, clutching brown paper bags with our lunch and Liam’s roll. Katie jangled her car keys at me with a grin. ‘Poppy, you really do have changing the subject down to a fine art.’
We both let out a bark of laugher.
What Katie said, resonated. I’d grown accustomed to escaping questions about Nick and staying safe and protected.
‘Still working on your highwayman portrait?’ she asked.
‘I’m getting back to it.’
Despite the whirlwind of setting up a new business, I kept my promise to myself and continued my portrait of the Scarlet Highwayman in the evenings, as well as planning smaller sketches of Port Starr harbour and McKerron Castle.
For my latest appreciation of the castle, I’d decided to use watercolours in a full range of warmer tonal values, such as amber and raspberry, to capture it at sunset.
There had been an evening just recently, when the shadows had stretched languidly over Port Starr in an early, almost spring-like halo, and they had cast an intriguing array of shades across the castle and the clifftops.
I’d used the lightest, palest gold on my palette to achieve the glint of the light sparkling g off the granite walls and turrets.
However, being a somewhat highly strung artist, I was never satisfied with my efforts. Katie did the same with her ceramics, ringing me on a couple of occasions to moan that the crackles or crazing effect she was trying to achieve on her latest creations hadn’t turned out as well as she’d hoped.
‘I’m sure you’re just being overly self-critical,’ I assured her.
‘Huh!’ snorted Katie with derision. ‘That’s so hypocritical, coming from you!’
We both knew it was all well and good to turn the cottages into irresistible tourist accommodation, but we also wanted to try to sell our paintings and ceramics. If we could feature varied examples of those in each cottage and attract interest from the visitors, all the better.
Katie suggested we channel inspiration from Scotland, McKerron Castle and our surroundings, so we decided to focus on locally themed artwork and ceramics, to tie in with the Scottish themes in each of the cottages.
She enthused about crafting bespoke mugs, featuring wild Scottish birds and images of McKerron Castle.
Thursday morning saw me lying in bed exasperated, unable to sleep. I thrashed around under the covers, trying to fight the temptation to look at my alarm clock.
The alarm clock won.
Bugger!
Five o’clock in the morning flashed neon red on my bedside table.
Nerves and apprehension clawed at me as I sighed out loud.
Was I doing the right thing? There was no point in being spread-eagled in bed and overthinking everything.
Knowing I couldn’t continue to lie there in a tangled heap under my duvet, I headed into the shower and then threw on my jeans and my pink checked shirt.
I ate a slice of toast, glugged down a cup of peppermint tea and pulled my hair into a topknot after brushing my teeth. I then snatched up my sketchbook and pencils, stashed them in my rucksack and threw on my cosy cream fleece, before heading out the door.
Port Starr was just stirring when I walked down towards the harbour. I reached the end of the cobbles and headed for the harbour wall, perched myself on top of it and arranged my sketchpad.
The early-morning sky was a smudged concoction of apricot and steel, and there was a solitary fishing boat sliding out to sea.
The water swirled behind it, the waves jostling and slapping against one another like kids in a playground trying to outdo each other for attention.
The beach below was deserted, a pale-gold river of sand reaching from end to end.
I lifted a grey pencil and started to draw, the scooped silhouette of the boat emerging out of the blank, white paper. As the sea approached the shore, the little vessel was pushed and pummelled by the tide. The waves spread out across the sand like greedy cobalt tongues.
My right hand flicked and swished the coloured pencils, which I’d brought with me in my small, quilted pencil case while the smattering of grey-tinged clouds scudded above the boat’s cream-and-red wheelhouse. Then I stippled the sea with the tiniest flecks of deep green.
Satisfaction rippled through me as my drawing began to emerge, bringing life to the empty sheet of paper. It was as though my hand was dancing across the paper on its own. My artwork was improving here, taking on a life and energy that I hadn’t seen or felt for a long time.
Shit! Was that the time already?
This always happened when I got lost in what I was drawing or painting.
I scrambled down from the wall, gathering my pencils and pad, so that I could head back and get changed before speaking to Katie and Caleb about my ideas for a revamped website and promotional material. I was just about to slide my sketchbook inside my rucksack, when a sudden voice made me jump.
‘Good morning.’
Mason was striding towards me, his thick, dark hair ruffling in the breeze. Darwin was trotting by his heels. He was sporting dark combats and a chunky jumper in deep grey that made his eyes even more mirror-like than normal.
I bent over and patted Darwin on the top of his solid, fluffy head, trying not to freak out his handsome master by staring at him. ‘Good morning. I thought I’d grab the chance for a bit more art before getting distracted by the cottages.’
Mason pointed down at Darwin. ‘This one is the reason I’ve been out walking along the beach since early o’clock.’ He gestured at the sketchbook under my arm. ‘May I?’
I offered him the pad, and he flipped over the front cover. His thick lashes cast minute shadows on his face. ‘Wow! This is wonderful.’ He appreciated the view and then swung his attention back to my drawing. ‘You’ve got a real talent. Have you exhibited any of your work?’
‘Thank you. No, not yet. I’d love to do that,’ I admitted. ‘But what with taking on the cottages, and the Scarlet Highwayman…’
Darwin plonked his furry bottom down by my feet and gazed up at me with his spangly eyes. I rubbed behind his ears, before accepting my sketchpad back from Mason and putting it back in my rucksack. I hoisted it back over my shoulders.
He leaned against the harbour wall for a moment. He looked more like an aftershave model in one of those magazine adverts than a historian.
He grinned down at me and my stomach squirmed. ‘Time to go,’ I said in a rush, keen to put distance between us. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got lots to do.’
‘I’ll be in touch soon when I have some more information.’
I nodded and hurried back up the hill to the cottages, not daring to look back over my shoulder.