Read Online Wild Island by Antonia Fraser - Free Book Online

conceived a hatred for all roses, since her arrival in Scotland. In any case she had always hated red roses: a violent assault on the senses. She preferred bunches of white flowers: jonquils, narcissi in spring, with perhaps a touch of yellow permitted. White flowers suited the cool blues and pale greens ofher flat overlooking the trees of Holland Park where Colette was now keeping watch. Spring flowers smelt actually erotic to Jemima. People who courted Jemima Shore quickly learnt not to send anything as crude as red roses.
    In any case she decided she had had enough of Captain Lachlan and his problems: it was time to strike now if her whole holiday was not to be ruined.
    'Mr Stuart,' she said firmly in a voice which would have been recognized at a programme planning meeting of Megalith Television, 'I have no wish to receive these flowers from you.'
    'I have come to give you a message,' Lachlan continued, paying no attention to her interruption. His tone was oddly kind. 'These flowers are a message from the Red Rose. From our Chief. We bear you no ill will. We shall protect you. You  will still be our witness. When the day of setting up the royal island comes.'
    Jemima pretended not to understand the allusion.
    'I don't need your protection,' she countered. 'I have no interest whatsoever in the contest you seem to be having with the Beauregard family.'
    'But you must be interested in the Red Rose.' Lachlan sounded almost hurt. 'Seeing you're from the television. A reporter.' It seemed impossible at this stage to disillusion him sufficiently to explain the vast difference between the useful programmes of social comment and enquiry which Jemima Shore, Investigator, was wont to conduct, and the kind of reporter he evidently had in mind. Lachlan continued: 'Aye, but contest is the right word for it, you're correct about that. For you're knowing already about the Prince's island, I'm thinking.'
    Jemima said nothing. She saw no reason to recount her brief conversation with Colonel Henry.
    'The royal island,' said Lachlan impatiently. 'The Bonnie Prince Charlie Memorial. Here on the Wild Island. He told you, Mr Charles. You were to witness the setting up of it. That's why he invited you here, where no tenant has been for years. It was all part of his plan, seeing you were from television. You would make a programme about it all, and the world would see that justice had been done to the memory of the rightful King of Scotland. He wrote to you—'
    'I know very little about Bonnie Prince Charlie. And I know still less about Mr Beauregard's plans for setting up a memorial to him. He certainly mentioned none of this to me in his letter...' Even as Jemima spoke, she had a sudden vision of Charles Beauregard's last letter: that scrawled handwritten postscript, whose tone contrasted oddly with the rest of the business-like formality, typed presumably by a secretary, since his original letter had been convivial, even rambling. 'PS. There is another matter concerning Eilean Fas which I should like to talk to you about personally. It can't be put in a letter.' No, indeed. If the late Charles Beauregard had really hoped for some sort of television special on his Memorial Island, he would have been sadly disappointed. She tried to imagine the reaction of the head of Megalith Television, Cy Fredericks, to her request: 'Cy, I've discovered these charming Scottish eccentrics —' 'Most exciting,' he would say. 'Most exciting. We must discuss it.' And then, without a pause. 'As we were saying about Northern Ireland ...'
    Now she merely repeated more firmly than ever to Lachlan: 'The troubles of the Beauregard family, their finances, and indeed the Red Rose itself! am afraid do not concern me. No one here seems to understand that I'm actually on holiday.* The slightly desperate tone of the last remark echoed in her ears. To combat it, she stepped forward defiantly, picked up the bunch of reddish roses from the cracked, barely polished wooden table