It had been a lovely day for late September. Not a drop of rain. Instead, a pale blue sky, scudding white clouds and sunshine.
Now, early in the evening, the weather was still nice, and there was a light breeze as Blackie O’Neill walked up Town Street.
He was heading for Laura Spencer’s house; she had invited him to join her for a bite of supper with other friends. Blackie was looking forward to seeing her. He had been to her home in St Ives Mount three times now, and had grown fond of her. She was a lovely-looking young woman, with fair hair filled with golden lights, and soft hazel eyes.
But it was her character he admired the most; she had a warm, welcoming personality. Also, she was calm and made him feel comfortable, and whenever he was with her, he was peaceful inside, and somehow felt safe, protected even.
Aside from the lovely weather, Blackie knew this had been a special day for him. Lucky. He had received a letter from Lord Robert Lassiter himself. He knew it was from the Earl before he even opened it. There was a crest on the back of the envelope.
Lord Robert had written to him to ask him to build a small guesthouse on the Yorkshire estate. Furthermore, he had requested that Blackie design it. ‘Something of medium size, reflecting Bolton Manor,’ Lord Robert had suggested, and had asked him to come over to Harrogate within the next week to discuss it with Wilson and him.
Uncle Patrick had been as thrilled as he could be. They had built garden sheds, greenhouses and house extensions, and he himself had designed and built Mrs Wilson’s conservatory. But they had never been hired for a project like this. Uncle Pat was so proud they had been chosen.
Thoughts whirled in his head, mostly architectural thoughts: Palladian? Georgian? Elizabethan? He settled on Georgian, which would match the main house and would suit Lord Robert’s tastes well.
Turning into St Ives Mount, he grimaced. The whole street was filled with what he thought of as modern monstrosities, built during the boom of the past fifty years. Neat Victorian terraced houses with steps up to a front door. A parlour and small kitchen up those steps, with two bedrooms up narrow stairs.
Once he arrived at Laura’s house, Blackie rapped on the door. She saw him through the window and waved. A moment later, she was opening the door to him, her face full of smiles, her eyes sparkling, obviously happy.
‘Oh, how lovely to see you. Come in. Come in.’ She opened the door wider, the smile intact.
‘I’m early, I’m afraid,’ he said, smiling back. ‘But ye see, I never want to be late for ye, keep ye waiting, Laura.’
‘I’m glad you are early, Blackie. You can keep me company while I finish making supper.’
As he followed her into the parlour, he glanced around, as he always did. As usual the table was already set. Tonight it was for six, and there were vases of flowers here and there. The room was divided in half, in a sense. The big wooden table was for preparing food; the circular table in the centre of the room was the divider. Beyond it were a sofa and chairs that created the feeling of a parlour. A fire burned in the hearth, and there were two high-backed chairs on each side of it. The air was filled with delicious smells of baking bread and meat roasting that made his mouth water.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Laura asked, leaning against the wooden table. ‘Or a lemonade?’
‘Nothing at the moment, thanks anyway,’ Blackie responded, and reached into his pocket. He took out a small box tied with a ribbon bow. Smiling, as he walked over to her, he then said, ‘This is just a little something from Aunt Eileen. She made it for ye, and ’tis with pleasure she did it, faith and I knows that.’
‘Why thank you, Blackie, how nice of her.’ Laura took the little box from him, untied the ribbon, and lifted out a white handkerchief edged with a wide border of fine lace. ‘Oh, my goodness, it’s beautiful,’ she cried, unfolding it.
‘Look in one corner, Laura, and ye’ll see an “L” embroidered by Aunt Eileen.’
‘Oh yes, here it is. I shall treasure it. How thoughtful of her to make this for me.’
‘She likes ye a lot, but then ye knows that, I do believe.’
Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Laura, me sweet mavourneen.’
‘What does that word mean?’ she asked, as she went to the table and started to cut a freshly baked loaf of bread. ‘You’ve called me that before.’
‘It’s the Irish word for dear or darling. ’Tis a word of affection, Laura.’
She turned and nodded. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she answered, smiling shyly to herself.