Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mason had said, as he’d left yesterday evening, that he was going to read up more on Port Starr around the time of the Highwayman and see if anything interesting came to light. Then he’d lingered by the doorway, saying he would text me with any news and drop by on Saturday.
I’d spent the rest of the evening sketching out and painting my impression of those beautiful roses in the carving I’d spotted on one of the bricks at McKerron Castle.
I’d tried again to correct the highwayman’s chin and jawline on my portrait, but every time I did, I found myself almost painting Mason instead and decided to concentrate on the castle roses for now.
Even though I’d taken only a couple of hasty photographs of them on my mobile, the fluttering, delicate beauty of the petals and the way their heads tilted together shone out of the screen.
Once my initial drawing was done, I’d set to work with my watercolours, sweeping the roses with blood-red strokes, defining the intertwined stems with bottle-green and capturing the thorns with sharp flicks of charcoal.
It really was a captivating piece. Whoever had so painstakingly melted and moulded that image into the McKerron Castle stone, possessed a real gift.
It was then that my phone pinged with a group text from my dad, including Caleb and Katie too.
Oh, good grief. What now?
I read it.
You will have heard me talking about a relative of ours called Lizzie Bishop.
She was a sister of our great-great-great-grandfather, Blake.
She was also employed as a maid with the Lapley family a good couple of hundred years ago.
She was treated terribly by that family, especially by that Augustus or whatever his name was. The poor girl was worked into the ground at The Hawthorns.
So much so, that she died at the age of nineteen from pneumonia.
Having our dad open up like this was a fascinating and unique experience.
He was always a disciplined person, reining in any emotion.
The only times I could recall seeing him like this were when I appeared as the donkey in my school nativity and then again when Caleb’s basketball team won the regional championships when he was a gangly fifteen-year-old.
Dad’s text continued:
I hope you understand why we didn’t say anything or make a big thing of the family rivalry. I suppose we just assumed it would settle down with the newer generations coming through and the Lapley family leaving Port Starr.
I digested the end of his message.
Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but there’s a fancy cooked breakfast awaiting me and your mother in the hotel restaurant and I’m rather peckish.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you and your brother sooner.
Caleb messaged me moments later.
Well, I didn’t see that coming. It all sounds like an episode of The Sopranos.
I inwardly agreed and set my mobile back down to refocus on my painting of the roses. I’d just begun creating a shadowy effect, when my mobile rang. As I moved to answer it, I saw Mason’s name shimmer up on the screen.
‘Everything okay? Any updates?’ he asked.
‘Yes, well, sort of but I’ll tell you more another time. How’re things going?’
Mason’s voice became more enthusiastic. ‘I’ve got a couple more items to check up on.’ There was a short pause. ‘How are you fixed for meeting up on Sunday at lunchtime?’
I knew what my common sense was telling me to do, but my mouth refused to cooperate.
I wanted to decline, but then a thought screeched into my head.
You both agreed that this is simply a working relationship.
So, what was the harm? If I became all weird about it, what message was that sending Mason?
That I was seeing more in this than just a passing flirtation?
I found myself saying, ‘That should be fine.’
‘Great. The weather is supposed to be lovely, so maybe we could take Darwin down to the beach. I’ll bring a picnic.’
‘Oh, please don’t go to lots of trouble,’ I insisted.
‘I don’t think shop-bought sandwiches, a couple of bottles of water and some fruit will be a lot of work.’
A picnic? Confusion and surprise gnawed at me. What was going on? ‘Okay, that sounds good. Thank you.’
An idea shot through my mind about Linus and The Scarlet Highwayman. ‘Oh, Mason, this is just a suggestion, but the terrain round here wouldn’t be the easiest to negotiate on horseback unless you were an accomplished rider.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I wondered about checking out well-known horsemen, stable owners, successful horse breeders in the late seventeen hundreds in the area?’
I could hear the enthusiasm in Mason’s voice. ‘Great idea! I’ll look into it. I’ll drop by your place at twelve-thirty,’ he added, before wishing me a good day and ringing off.
That evening, despite my best intentions, I struggled not to dream about silver eyes.