A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Deanna Raybourn (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📖

isle was the only one, but that the owner of the castle had four beautiful daughters, so beautiful he was jealous of them, and guarded them so that they would never love anyone but him.”

“He sounds a dreadful bore,” I remarked. “And possessive to boot.”

“No doubt,” he said. “And no doubt his daughters agreed, for three of them built themselves a boat in secret, and one day, when he was not watching, they set out to sea in their little craft, determined to escape him once and for all.”

“What happened to them?” I asked.

“It is said that the father was so angry, he summoned up three rocks from the depths of the sea and the little boat was dashed upon them, killing his three eldest daughters.”

“How could a mere man raise islands, no matter how powerful his rage?” I asked.

“Ah, he was no ordinary man,” Malcolm Romilly told me. “Have you heard of pellar families?”

“I have made the acquaintance of Mother Nance,” I replied.

“Ah, then you have met our resident witch,” he said with some satisfaction. “It’s all nonsense, of course, but the legends draw sailors to our shores and coin to our businesses, so we must nurture them.”

I cast my mind back to the stories of my childhood. I remembered clothbound books of faery stories and one, of drowned blue, that talked of mermaids and selkies and other magic of the seas. “Mother Nance told me that pellar families are given special powers, derived from consorting with mermaids, I believe.”

“Indeed! A pellar family is a family not to be trifled with in these parts. In each case, an ancestor has rendered aid to or fallen in love with a mermaid. In return, they were given a precious gift. In some cases, it is the second sight or an ability to foretell doom. In others it is healing magic or a way with animals.”

“And the Romillys are a pellar family?”

He smiled ruefully, the expression warming his face to real handsomeness. “You mustn’t believe Mother Nance’s tall tales,” he teased. “The first Romilly to own the Isle came over with William the Conqueror and was given this island in return for his service. He married a Saxon maiden and built a proper castle here to maintain William’s defenses and then set about breeding a line of very dutiful descendants who have served their kings ever since. Dull and worthy people,” he finished, the smile deepening.

I protested. “Mother Nance’s story is much more engaging.”

“Ah, yes, the one where the first Romilly caught a mermaid in his net. There’s a third story, somewhere in between, that says my ancestor married the last of the pellar maidens, the youngest of the sisters who perished upon the rocks. She did not set sail with her sisters, so she alone survived, bringing pellar blood into the family.”

“A much better story,” I told him. “But you must finish it. What happened to her father, the sad old man who cursed his daughters?”

He shrugged. “The legends do not say. Perhaps he walked out into the sea and drowned himself. That has been a popular method of ending one’s misery here. Or perhaps he drank himself to death or was struck by lightning or died in his bed of comfortable old age.” He fell quiet a moment and I wondered if he were considering his missing bride and the dire fate she might have met. His eyes were shadowed, and I hastened to fill the silence.

“Or perhaps his youngest daughter avenged her sisters and helped him along,” I suggested.

He raised a brow. “My dear Miss Speedwell, what a ghoulish imagination you have!”

“It seems like a rough sort of justice. One could hardly blame her,” I argued.

His smile was sad. “No, one could hardly blame her. Well, that’s enough of me prattling on about family stories. I am quite certain I have bored you to sobs.” He hung the map back on the wall.

“Perhaps you would care to walk out a little. The rain has stopped, I think.”

He led the way out onto the terrace beyond his study, guiding me down a series of staircases until we came to a tiny stretch of beach on the western edge of the island, the same that had been marked upon the map. It was a mixture of rock and shingle and sand, liberally festooned with seaweed. Heavy drops of fog pearled our hair. “Here now, you can see the Sisters properly,” he told me, pointing in the distance. The shifting patches of mist obscured the islands on the horizon, but now and then a bit of wind would blow the edges of the cloud ragged and I could just make out the three shapes.

Malcolm gestured towards the small rowing boat beached at the water’s edge.

“The storms will come and go for a few days more. It always happens at summer’s end on the Isle, but once they clear, one of us will be happy to row you to the First Sister, if you would like. The nearest one is little better than a rock, but the views are superb and the bird life is most interesting. It makes for quite a pleasant outing with a hamper from Mrs. Trengrouse,” he added.

“I should like that,” I told him.

“I must warn you against rowing yourself,” he advised, his expression suddenly anxious. “We leave the boat about, but we really oughtn’t. The passage between here and the First Sister is deceptively calm. The currents change often, and it takes a strong rower to navigate the challenges.”

“I am a good rower, but I promise not to take a boat without permission.”

He smiled and he looked boyish suddenly and winsome. “Good. If the sea is calm enough, you can take the oars for a bit. My father always insisted on every houseguest who wanted to take a boat being given a test—if you could not row right round the island, you were forbidden from so much as getting into a boat. I am not quite so draconian.