Contents ( 57)
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by Sharon Gosling
As she relit the stove there came the sound of a large key being turned. Rachel looked up to see the arched door of the lighthouse beginning to open. She put down the matches, took a larger step than necessary over a non-existent dog, dodged around the duet of armchairs and small table with chessboard that stood beside the counter, and hurried towards it. She glanced at the time as she went. It was barely 8.30.
The stooped, white-haired figure of Cullen MacDonald appeared in the opening doorway, the dark misery of the day picked out as if in wet indigo ink behind him. The wind was up, the branches of the trees peeking from the far side of the hill whipping unhappily against the sky.
‘What are you doing here so early?’ Rachel asked, reaching out to take the wicker basket he had over one arm. ‘I thought you were going to have a lie-in?’
‘I did,’ her employer and landlord told her cheerfully, as he shook rain from the fine drift of his hair. ‘I got up at six thirty instead of six.’
Rachel led the way back towards the counter. The basket was covered with a pristine white tea towel and emitted the aroma of baked sugar and butter, as if it had been conjured from the pages of a fairy tale involving hoods and conniving wolves.
Cullen flopped down in his armchair, the one upholstered in olive green velvet, with the squashed yellow cushion and threadbare arms. Eustace appeared as if from thin air, hopped onto the old man’s lap and turned around once before curling up, purring with contentment that routine had once again been correctly observed.
‘It’s just shortbread,’ Cullen said, as Rachel uncovered the basket. ‘Thought I’d keep it simple today.’
Rachel smiled as she lifted the cake dome from beneath the counter and began to transfer the biscuits into it. ‘You’re finally getting used to the oven, then?’
‘Getting there,’ Cullen agreed. ‘Though I still don’t know why anyone would need so many bells and whistles on a device solely devoted to the preparation of food. To look at it you’d think it could make the trip to Mars and back completely of its own volition.’
Rachel finished with the shortbread and started on the coffee and toast for their breakfast, another part of her regular morning routine. When she had first come to Newton Dunbar, Cullen had still been living in the tower. But he’d reached his seventh decade and it had become apparent that the lighthouse was a folly in more ways than one. He’d finally conceded that he could no longer manage the stairs safely, or indeed at all. He took possession of the little gatehouse at the bottom of the hill instead, which was part of the remains of his family estate and had been empty for some years. There hadn’t been funds for full renovation, and Cullen was once more loath to change the essential nature of the building, but he had at least conceded the need for a new kitchen and bathroom.