I grinned. “I haven’t even told you the best bit yet.You’ll never guess who I ran into in the pub. . . .”
After she recovered from her initial shock, Dimity was enchanted to hear of my encounter with Peter Harris.
Peter Harris, incognito and in disguise, for I think we may consider the glasses a disguise—how perfectly glorious! He was such a solemn, conscientious little boy. I’m utterly delighted to hear that he’s being so very devious. And it’s simply delicious to think of him traveling incognito with a girl.
“A very pretty girl,” I said. “Hardy, too, if she was tramping around the island in that storm. Her name may or may not be Cassie Lynton. We’ll find out tomorrow.” I leaned back in the chair and looked at the bedside clock. “I’m sorry, Dimity, but if I don’t hit the sack soon, I’ll be too tired to walk the coastal path tomorrow.”
Good night, my dear. Do try to remember everything the young rascal tells you. I want to hear every word of it.
When the lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I climbed into bed, turned out the light, and smiled sleepily at my pink rabbit.
“Reginald,” I said softly, “I’m really looking forward to my date with Harry Peters.”
Eleven
Ipried myself out of bed at five o’clock the following morning, showered, and dressed with an eye toward the changeable weather. I layered a fleece pullover on top of a T-shirt and pulled on a pair of trousers I could convert into shorts if by some lucky chance the day became uncomfortably warm. Although a genius in the laundry room had restored my abused sneakers to good health, I elected to wear hiking boots. Damian, too, dressed in sensible outdoor clothes: a tightly woven black wool crewneck sweater, freshly laundered khakis, and hiking boots.
A sturdy, red-haired maid named Pamela arrived in my sitting room on the dot of five-thirty with breakfast for two as well as a pair of oversized day packs so stuffed with picnic provisions that Damian and I had to remove some of them in order to make room for our rain jackets. I could live quite happily without an extra jar of caviar, but my trip to Cieran’s Chapel had taught me never to step outside Dundrillin Castle without rain gear.
We didn’t talk much during breakfast. I was still groggy—I was not a naturally chirpy morning person—and Damian was still absorbed in his private reflections, so our discourse consisted mostly of “More tea?” and “Pass the marmalade.”
We left the castle by the side door we’d used the day before, headed south along the coastal path, and stopped almost immediately to put on our jackets. The pellucid sky held no hint of rain, but the morning air was crisp and the breezes swirling up the cliffs went right through my fleece top.
The fresh air cleared the drowsy cobwebs from my brain, and I began to take note of the landscape. The view from the headland was so stupendous that it would have been nerve-racking if the sunken path hadn’t been so deeply sunken. Centuries of passing feet had worn a wide groove in the rocky soil, with curving, grass-clad banks that were nearly waist-high. It would require a conscious effort to stray beyond the path, and it drifted so close to the cliffs in some places that only the suicidal would make the effort.
From Sir Percy’s headland, all of Erinskil lay before us, glimmering emerald-green in the early-morning sun, but as the path descended, our spectacular view of the island was cut off.To our left, the land rose steeply to form a low range of boulder-strewn hills. To our right, the ruffled ocean stretched out to the horizon. Dundrillin loomed behind us, adding a dash of drama to the headland, and the path meandered ahead of us like a verdant, roofless tunnel suspended between land and sea.
It was just as well that the sunken path kept me from straying, because I could scarcely take my eyes off the birds. There were thousands of them, perched on tiny ledges, taking off or landing, swooping, wheeling, and soaring in crazed, kaleidoscopic patterns that would have made an air-traffic controller throw his hands up in despair. I realized too late that I’d forgotten to bring my camera—again—but consoled myself with the thought that it would have delayed our meeting with Peter. I would have spent far too much time trying to capture still images of the birds’ fantastic flights.
Thirty minutes of brisk walking brought us to a place where the coastal path opened out onto a broad, flat shelf overlooking the sea. A prodigious heap of boulders straggled along the back of the shelf, and there, sitting atop a large, flat-topped boulder at the base of the rockfall, were Peter Harris and his pretty, dark-haired companion.