Wouldn’t it be great if she could just believe that instead of immediately annihilating a compliment with her self-critical thoughts? Just a little more confidence wasn’t a bad thing, right?
She retreated to the door. ‘If you do need a particular book, ask Lord Bolingbrooke for it when he’s back from his walk with the dogs. He has a system and he’ll notice when someone has been in his things.’
‘I will. Thanks. Goodnight.’ Max folded his hands behind his back and smiled at her, not moving from the spot.
Guinevere turned away and closed the door behind her. For a moment she was tempted to listen for sounds indicating he was climbing up that ladder again to continue doing what he had been doing. Men usually didn’t listen to advice – that she had already learned from her friends in London. Especially Old Carter, their props man at the theatre, who had been great at getting himself into a pickle because he was always so sure he knew best.
Speaking of theatre friends … She had some postcards to write to them. Whatever Max did now was his business. If Bolingbrooke had given him permission, it was probably all right.
She made for her bedroom in the tower, saying to Dolly, who jogged beside her, ‘Now we just have to convince Oliver to think better of Max. But that’ll be hard. He didn’t like Max from the first moment he saw him photographing through a window and caught him by the neck to drag him in. Is there something like antipathy at first sight? What do you think, girl?’
Dolly made the sounds Guinevere always called chatter. It was like the dog was talking to herself, being undecided about something. Max?
Or Oliver? To be honest, she didn’t know him well. The events after the murder during the re-enactment had brought them closer fast, as they had sleuthed together and even been in danger together. But the bond this had forged didn’t seem to guarantee they saw eye to eye all of the time. Guinevere sometimes just didn’t understand Oliver. Why he suddenly had a strong opinion about something or someone and didn’t want to see reason.
In her room Guinevere went to the window to shut the curtains. As she always did, she let her gaze travel across the view. The skies were clear with just some very light puffs of cloud. The first stars were visible, as was a bright half-moon. It illuminated the beach and the figure standing there, looking up at the castle, holding something up to its face.
It seemed to be a woman and judging by the white trousers and tall boots, it could be Lady Serena. The thing in her hands could be binoculars.
She had said she’d keep an eye on the castle, but Guinevere had thought it was a mere threat to underline her point as she had left. Much like a slamming door in an argument, something you don’t take very seriously.
To see Lady Serena actually surveying them now made Guinevere a little cold inside.
How serious was Lady Serena about being entitled to the goblet of Rose and Stars? And about making sure that she got, as she had put it, what was coming to her?
A sound at the door startled Guinevere. She pressed a hand to her throat and felt her pulse against her fingertips. There had been so much tension created over a couple of hours that her nerves were on edge.
A rustling sound indicated that something was shoved under the door. She stared at what appeared. The corner of something colourful, then …
She walked over and picked it up. It was a full-colour shot of Dolly, printed off at letter size. The dog looked happy and perfectly in her element staring out onto sea from the harbour. When had Max taken this? And how had he managed to capture Dolly’s essence so well?
He was really talented.
Guinevere ran a finger over Dolly’s figure on the smooth sheet in her hand. If this was Max’s way of making up to her for being curt with Dolly earlier, he had hit a winner. At the same time she wondered how he had printed this beautiful portrait for her. In the library most likely. On Bolingbrooke’s printer there?
Had he used his alleged need to print something as his excuse to be there and look into the books on the upper shelf? Why was he interested in those books anyway? He had denied having a part in trying to locate the goblet.
But at the same time he had taunted Wadencourt claiming someone else had worked out the clues for him. Who?
Max himself maybe? Did that explain for the strange bond between the men, an alliance even though they didn’t like each other?
And what had Max been discussing with Bolingbrooke as they had entered the dining room? Just if he could look in the library? Max had said with emphasis, ‘You do see my point.’ As if he had been trying to convince Bolingbrooke of something.
Chewing her lip, Guinevere took Dolly’s portrait and put it beside her bed where it would be the first thing she saw as she woke up in the morning. She couldn’t help smiling as she ran her eyes over it again. She couldn’t help looking forward to the next day and spending time with Max again. He was an exciting new presence at the castle, someone who had shaken things up, deep inside of her.
Even as she took out her postcards and the addresses of her friends, she still saw Max’s eyes, the dimple in his cheek when he smiled. The intensity in his features when he was doing what he loved to do: photographing the world around him, large scale or in minute detail. Max was just into the moment, something that Guinevere sometimes found hard to do. Her mind wanted to rationalize, understand, order. Max was just taking it all in, letting himself float on the feeling. It made him impulsive and rather hard to follow, but it also had a sort of instant appeal.
Resting her pen’s tip on the first postcard, Guinevere couldn’t quite remember what she had wanted to write as her head was so full of all that had happened today. Like Max’s arrival had put more colours into the world and dispersed a breathless energy through her system. Instead of sitting here quietly she wanted to go out onto the beach and race the wind, spread her arms wide and feel like she could fly. She wanted to reach up to the half-moon and pretend to catch it in her hands.
But there was the goblet’s charged history, the squabbling claimants, and Max’s obscure part in it all. She couldn’t turn off her thoughts about that, her questions. Maybe the next few days would reveal more about it. Until then she wasn’t running and flying yet. She leaned over her cards and forced herself to begin to write.
The next morning when Guinevere awoke she immediately saw the portrait of Dolly beside her bed. The postcards for her friends were resting before it, ready to be taken along and mailed in the only mailbox on the island, near the harbour where it was emptied once a day and its contents taken to the mainland.
She lay back a moment, her arms folded behind her head, a luxurious feeling of freedom and expectation coursing through her still-drowsy body. She intended to embrace everything this Cornish summer had to offer.
Humming a tune, Guinevere washed and dressed quickly, choosing her favourite poppy dress with broad red belt and matching shoes. The shoes didn’t have high heels so she could move around on them easily. With Dolly by her side she dashed down the stairs. There was nobody near the kitchen unit, but there were used plates and mugs, suggesting somebody had already breakfasted. Oliver? Max?
Either way it would pay off to go out via the beach to post her cards near the harbour. Guinevere drank a quick cup of mocha coffee while Dolly had her breakfast, then she grabbed a banana and took the doggy outside. The great tit who had his nest in the wall was gathering insects in the yard. Breakfast for his family on the brink of fledging.
From beside a pot with an orange tree Guinevere collected the sturdy toy