‘Follow me.’
Guinevere carried Dolly out of the room and then put her down. The dachshund seemed excited to explore the castle and dashed ahead of them, up the steep winding stairs inside the tower.
Despite the suitcase Oliver was carrying for her, he took the steps two at a time, and Guinevere had trouble keeping up. Sweat formed on her forehead and between her shoulder blades as she laboured up one broad, worn step after another. There didn’t seem to be an end to them. How much higher still?
She called out to Oliver, ‘Your father … doesn’t like … this Haydock?’ The mention of Haydock threatening him with assault charges suggested they had come to blows. Bolingbrooke’s casual remark that he had ‘barely’ touched him wasn’t very reassuring, given his obvious inflammable temper.
Oliver didn’t seem to have heard her question, or pretended that he hadn’t.
When Guinevere reached a landing, she was positively panting. A door stood open, and muffled sounds came from inside the room. ‘Oliver?’ she called. ‘Are you in there?’
‘Yes.’
She stepped to the door and peeked in. Oliver was brushing his hands over several surfaces, blowing away dust and kicking something under the bed. Dolly scooted after it and dragged it out again, shaking it. It was a woman’s slipper, dark blue with embroidered roses on it. It was covered with dust that scattered under Dolly’s shaking.
‘Give that to me, girl.’ Guinevere rushed to extract the slipper from the dog’s mouth and put it on the old dressing table in the far corner. A velvet-covered chair sat in front of it, while the wall beside it was covered with a wall tapestry showing a hunting scene full of hounds and horses. A cherrywood side table held a marble statue of a deer on a pedestal and a tall mirror in a brass frame. The metal had gone dim but Guinevere bet that with a little polish it would shine again.
In fact, her fingers itched to give this entire room a good cleaning and restore all these beautiful items to their former glory. Put together like this, they formed an odd mix of different periods and different styles, but judged individually, they were all well preserved and had stories to tell.
Guinevere held her breath at the possibilities. The woman at the bakery had been so right: opening up but a part of this castle would pull in the tourists in droves. Oliver could take photographs for a brochure, and she could write up the text. They could also work on a website together.
Together.
Hmmm, as if Oliver would want that.
If his father could be believed, Oliver was dead set on selling off the castle or at least handing over the care for it to a trust or some other kind of organization while he travelled the world to protect wildlife. He wouldn’t want to put time or energy into a plan to keep the castle in the family and still make money off it.
She wasn’t even sure Bolingbrooke himself would be open to that. He didn’t seem a big fan of change.
Frowning, Guinevere walked to the window. The view with its bright colours hit her in the gut again. It was so intensely alive and inviting, whispering to her that this summer had amazing things in store for her.
Keeping her back to Oliver, she said softly, ‘You wrote the acceptance email to me, right? You are O. Bolingbrooke.’ That was how he had known her name.
‘My father doesn’t touch computers. He thinks they might bite him.’ Footfalls betrayed Oliver was pacing the room. ‘Meraud didn’t want to come here. She has her hands full with her bookshop so she asked her brother to recommend someone. And he recommended you.’
Guinevere turned to him in a snap. ‘You mean …’ Her mind whirled. ‘Mr Betts is actually related to someone here on the island?’
‘Apparently.’ Oliver surveyed her. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘No. So there was never any advertisement in the paper either.’
‘What?’ Oliver asked.
‘Your father didn’t advertise for someone to come help him.’ Bolingbrooke probably didn’t even know how all of this had been set up behind his back. By Oliver, the son he didn’t see eye to eye with.
The son also who had other plans for the castle than his father did.
Had Oliver set this up with Mr Betts, hoping he could persuade his father to sell?
But why would Mr Betts be a part of something like that? She couldn’t imagine him letting himself be used.
Or using her.
Guinevere felt an unpleasant wriggle of worry in the pit of her stomach again. The surprised responses of the locals to Bolingbrooke accepting a stranger to his keep now took on new meaning. And she wasn’t quite sure what part she was supposed to play in all of this.
Slowly she said, ‘Mr Betts did give me a letter I should read once I was settled in.’
Oliver hitched a brow. ‘Sounds mysterious. Why would a girl like you spend her summer holidays here anyway on an island in the middle of nowhere?’
Guinevere shrugged. ‘I grew up in the countryside. And I love books. Your father has an amazing collection, I heard. Besides, there wasn’t anything to do for me in London, with the theatre closing for renovations. I hope I can also help out with the re-enactment. Mr Betts must have known about that and sent me here for that reason as well. I read in the leaflet about the re-enactment – that the tale is a very old one and an important part of Cornisea history?’
She pulled the blue leaflet out of her bag and read aloud, ‘The trial against Branok the Cold-hearted is legendary. He was the steward at the castle many centuries ago. He was cruel and he oppressed all the people under his rule. His master chose not to see what he did. Then one day Branok burned down a house to set an example and it turned out there had been two young children in it who died in the fire.’
Guinevere shivered. ‘How terrible.’
Oliver said, ‘It was never proven he had actually set fire to the house. Fires happened a lot in those days as houses were often made of wood and thatch. Burned like dry tinder. And people all had open fireplaces inside. The fire Branok was accused of may simply have started from a spark or a lamp falling over.’
‘So he wasn’t convicted?’ Guinevere asked.
‘No, he never was,’ Oliver said. ‘He was made to leave the island. On the night he left the sea was wild and he never reached land. He must have drowned.’
He held her gaze. ‘But some say he didn’t drown. Some even say he lives until this day …’ he lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper ‘… to haunt the beach at night with his lantern in his hand, cursing everyone who comes in his path. Locals don’t dare go near the beach.’
‘I’m no local. I want to take long walks and see the sunset.’
Oliver shrugged. ‘I won’t stop you. Just saying that Cornwall has a lot of ghost stories.’
‘So did Devon, and it never kept me from going out at night to listen to the owls or count moths.’
‘Count moths?’
