Page 117 of A Scottish Island Summer

‘You read it out,’ managed Campbell. ‘I don’t think I can speak right now.’

‘Alright.’

I turned my attention from the stunned Campbell to the faded, smudged, delicate handwriting. The letter was dated 15 November 1909.

I began to read aloud, as the gulls shrieked into the sea air around us;

I wish to congratulate you on locating the Skye Lovers’ Cross and trust that you were able to piece together my clue about the light, sea and heart of Skye. Please accept my apologies for this rather dramatic method of communicating your success to you, but I should explain. I lost my brother in the most tragic of circumstances only very recently, and putting my emotions to paper is proving somewhat cathartic for my grief.

On 30 October this year, I am ashamed to say I gathered up my skirts and planned to enter the waters of Skye. I was of the opinion that I no longer mattered or was able to deal with my feelings, following the cessation of a romance. I recall standing for several moments in that icy cold water in the early morning, with the mist curling her fingers over everything. The water was slapping against my knees and all I could think of was bringing an end to the shame and heartbreak I was experiencing. But my intentions to meet my maker were not meant to be. For as I moved deeper into the water, my right foot caught sharply against a solid object.

At first, I believed it to be a jagged rock. But the sensation had been odd and caught me unawares.

I gathered myself and dived under the ceiling of the waves. After some desperate searching, my hand located what I had stood on and I resurfaced, gasping for air.

I had stumbled upon the Skye Lovers’ Cross.

Finding it saved me from myself. It gave me clarity and reason.

My late brother was struggling financially at the time, due to some rather silly investment decisions, and so I resolved to give the Skye Lovers’ Cross to him. Because of the cut-throat nature of the people he was associating with in Edinburgh, I decided to write to him and furnish a clue as to the cross’s whereabouts in that piece of correspondence. I also informed him that I wished to meet face to face, so that we could discuss the matter further and I could advise him of where I had concealed the stone. It seemed the most sensible plan of action.

However, my brother passed away before I was able to direct him to the treasure. I had no need or thirst for notoriety, fortune or fame by publicising that I had discovered the jewel. For me, its existence was proof enough that I had been right in my endeavours to locate it. And so I hid it in the place where I’d planned, confident that the letter to my brother would find its way into the right hands, and that my clue would lead to its discovery. By you.

The Skye Lovers’ Cross was always meant to find me and so I suspect it was always meant to find you, too.

Regards,

Victoria McPherson (Miss)

Campbell and I sat in stunned silence for a few moments; him clutching the Celtic cross nestled back inside the jewellery pouch Victoria had placed it in and me holding her letter. We were oblivious to the sharp sea air whizzing around us and the tumble of clouds over our heads. ‘Campbell.’ My face slowly broke into a grin. ‘You did it.’

He allowed himself to smile next. ‘You mean you did it.’ He patted me on the hand. ‘You followed your heart, Darcie. Literally.’