In the living room, after the gloom of the tower rooms, the picture seems even more vivid, more full of life. Cal holds it horizontally and blows gently along the surface, but it seems to have been protected by the silk and by the larger pictures that were standing in front of it and the years have been kind to it.
‘I think this is its original frame,’ he says, examining the back of the picture. ‘Looking at the way it’s constructed. I’m amazed it’s so clean. Maybe it was hung somewhere in the house. Away from direct sunlight, that’s for sure. I can’t believe it was just stored in your old tower for all these years. It would be in much worse condition if it had been.’
‘I suppose it depends when they stopped using the tower. Nobody’s lived in it for a while from the look of it. Certainly not my grandmother.’
‘No. It looks very much as though she used only this part of the house.’
‘I don’t think she even went up to the servants’ quarters very much. One person would just rattle around this place.’ She pulls a face, thinking of herself, trying to sleep in her mother’s old bedroom. ‘I suppose they must have just decided to move out of there completely. I honestly thought we’d find it empty. I thought maybe Viola or her parents had cleared it out. Instead it’s a mediaeval glory hole.’
‘It isn’t so easy to get rid of stuff on an island. It can be an expensive business just transporting things, even if you want to sell them.’
‘I suppose so.’
He shifts his gaze from the portrait for a moment to smile at her, but keeps his own counsel. It occurs to her that he is being careful not to upset her. Perhaps he has an ulterior motive. She likes him a lot already, but she doesn’t trust him. She still can’t help feeling that he might be sizing up her possessions. After all, it’s part of what he does. She’s all too aware of the pitfalls because it’s what she does as well.
He props the portrait on a side table. ‘Look, there’s a name on the frame.’
In the very centre of the heavily carved frame, almost obliterated by leaves and flowers, is a single word: Lilias.
‘A bonnie name for a bonnie lass,’ he says suddenly. ‘‘Hence the lilies. In the picture and on the frame.’
‘Is it as old as I think it is?’ she asks. This is a find. And with it comes a certain responsibility.
‘Sixteenth century, I’d say.’
‘You mean, Elizabethan. Genuine Elizabethan?’
‘Aye. The first, not the second.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Look, there’s text on the picture. Bit faded, not surprisingly. Although maybe it’s deliberately quite subtle.’
She peers more closely. Lilias, whoever she is, has been painted against a very dark background. That’s another reason why her fresh face, her red hair and her golden gown stand out so vividly. There are small letters, painted onto the background.
‘Un temps…’ He squints at it, then fumbles in the pocket of his jacket and brings out a jeweller’s loup, a small magnifier.
‘You came prepared,’ she says, and can’t keep the faint note of accusation out of her voice.
‘I always carry it. I’m always prepared, hen.’ He grins, wickedly. She has a sudden throb of inadvisable desire in the pit of her stomach. Don’t go there, she thinks.
‘Un temps viendra,’ he says, dropping the lens back into his pocket.
‘A time will come.’ She translates automatically.
‘Get you.’
‘I’m not daft. Just don’t know as much about pictures as you do. Is it French, then? Is she French?’
‘I don’t have a scoobie. I don’t think Lilias is a particularly French name. And what’s she doing here, anyway?’ He gazes at her, thoughtfully. ‘She has your hair.’
‘It’s a mixed blessing. It was my mum’s hair too. You know the fishermen don’t much like to have red-headed women on their boats?’
‘So I’m told. Well, you can come on my boat any time you like.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t belong here at all,’ she says. ‘Maybe the Neilson family bought her. It. The picture. They were industrialists, weren’t they? Wealthy. This was their rural bolt-hole.’
‘I don’t know. They’re your family.’
‘But that’s the thing, Cal. I don’t know either. I don’t know the first thing about them except that my mother more or less eloped with my dad and cut herself off completely from her own mother. From Viola. You don’t do that kind of thing lightly.’
He shrugs. ‘Maybe you do. People have their reasons.’
‘But I don’t know, do I? My mum died when I was too young to be able to ask her and even my dad says she never properly explained it. She loved him to bits. I’m pretty sure of that. He certainly loved her. And I can just about understand why he never brought me here after Mum died.’
‘Why?’
‘He thought Viola would fight to get custody of me. Normally, she wouldn’t have had a hope, but he says he was a bit of a mess after Mum died. I never noticed. He was never anything but a great dad to me, but he was afraid of Viola and maybe he was right.’ She looks around. ‘All this represents a certain power and influence, doesn’t it?’
‘If you’re the laird it does anyway. This was a McNeill stronghold. And a string of McNeills would have had a hell of a lot of power and influence here. Don’t you just feel it?’
She gazes at him. ‘I do. It’s overwhelming. Five hundred years of it. Maybe more. And now it’s all mine, God help me.’
‘Aye, poor you.’ He grins at her. ‘Anyway, the Neilsons were incomers. Even if there was some family connection somewhere. And I don’t think they ever owned that much land. What do you have now?’
‘Five acres, Mr McDowall said. Nothing useful. Woodland and willow scrub and moorland.’
‘Even when the Neilsons bought the place, there would have been a few tenant farms at the most. Which they’d probably sold off before Viola inherited. But they must have been wealthy.’
‘Probably the kind of industrial wealth folk made on the backs of other people in Glasgow or Paisley or somewhere. And then Viola’s grandfather or great-grandfather or whoever decides to come over all paternal and exploit some islanders for a change.’
‘I can see you’re going to take to the role of lady laird in a big way.’
‘You should hear my dad on the subject of land ownership. I think that’s one of the reasons why he’s keen for me to sell the place.’
‘So what about Lilias? Who do you think she was? Don’t you want to know?’
‘Of course I want to know. I always want to know the history of everything.’
‘Me too.’
‘But maybe she was just one of their acquisitions. The Neilsons, I mean. She looks a bit too wealthy for a small island laird’s wife. Or daughter. Especially back then. That’s a pretty posh frock for starters. Not to mention the pearls.’
He frowns. ‘But not impossible. They didn’t just hang out on their islands all the time, you know. The McNeills. The MacDonalds. They went to Edinburgh. They acquired a few luxuries when they could. Auchenblae might have been quite comfortable back then. They were quite civilized.’
‘But it’s such a small island.’
‘Good harbours. Strategically placed too. The Garve McNeills were dedicated fence-sitters, I believe. Liked to make as few enemies as possible. Imagine your old tower with fires burning, tapestries, floor coverings, that oak bed with proper hangings and hand-woven linen. I’d lay bets that carved bed belongs here. Maybe Lilias belongs here as well.’
They stare at the picture in silence for a moment. Lilias stares back at them, enigmatically.
‘It’s a lot to take in, Cal.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
He sets the picture down flat, reverently. Wraps it up again in its silk. ‘You’d better look after this.’
She makes more coffee. The day is wearing away but he is making no move to leave. Not that she is in a hurry for him to leave, but she’s surprised. It feels as though they’ve known each other for years. She doesn’t want to be left alone in the house. Not today. Not yet.
‘I’ll tell you what we could do,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘We could do a bit of research. Lilias. It’s a fairly unusual name. I mean, it’s not like Anne or Mary. And if she does belong here, I think she would have been a McNeill or some variation on that name. They were lords of this particular isle for hundreds of years, even when they held it with the agreement of the proper Lords of the Isles, the MacDonalds. I’m sure some of the genealogy sites might be able to help.’
‘I have a tablet but I don’t have a broadband connection yet. I have to sort all that out.’
‘I have a laptop in my cottage.’ He stands up. Hector leaps to his feet in anticipation, runs to the door, wagging his skinny tail. ‘Do you want to come and see my cottage? Well, I say see, but if you blink you’ll miss it. Not like this place! Hector wants you to come as well. Don’t you, Hector?’
It will be something of a relief to get out of the house for a while. She can’t ignore her inheritance, but she needs some sort of perspective on it as well.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We’ll take my car. I’ll bring you back later. You look as though you need a break from all this.’
‘I do really.’
‘Come on then. Grab your bag and let’s go.’