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Menai Castle was huge.
I wasn’t entirely sure it was actually a castle—not in the sense of somewhere like Windsor Castle, for example, where it was a great ruddy building that was closer to a fortress than anything Walt Disney came up with—but it was most certainly toeing the line. It seemed to be somewhere between a small castle and an extremely large manor house, but whoever had named it Menai Castle definitely had some delusions of grandeur.
Welcome to British history.
‘Delusions of grandeur’ could be a book title spanning everything from the eleventh century onwards.
I successfully managed to navigate my way to the kitchen where Christopher was using the expansive kitchen island to organise the spices. There were more pots and jars than I could count, and that didn’t include all the empty pots that he had pushed to one side.
“I think you’re missing a few there,” I joked, setting my bag on a stool.
He peered up from where he was pouring oregano into a small jar and smiled. “Not for long. It is my life quest to have the largest collection of spices in Wales.”
His Welsh accent was really quite pleasing—if a little jarring. It’d thrown me until Matthew had pointed out that North Wales and South Wales actually had different dialects, and the North Walian accent had a little bit of… northern… in it. There was the barest hint of scouse, and Christopher himself had explained that the further East you went, the more of a scouse lilt the accent had.
I had no evidence to support it, of course, but I did rather like it.
“How far away are you?” I asked, sitting down. “With the spices.”
“That depends on what you buy me for my birthday.” He winked, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Christopher reminded me a lot of my father—he was fun, full of jokes, and usually had a story that related to whatever you were discussing at any given moment.
He was a bit like a walking TV sitcom, if I was honest.
“I’ll be sure to study them all and see what I can find.” I smiled and propped my chin up on my hand. “Did you go shopping?”
“Yes. We needed a few things, and I thought I’d top the spices up while I was there since my new jars came. Would you mind helping me write these labels?”
“Of course not.” I took the stack of black labels and the white pen, then the list. “Should I just work my way down?”
“If you don’t mind, Eva,” he said, tapping the bottom of the oregano pot to get every last bit out of it. “Nice and neat, in all caps, please.”
“Okay.”
“How was your walk with the dogs? You were gone quite a while.”
I got to writing, taking extra care to keep the letters as neat as possible. “It was lovely, thank you. I followed the path right down to the water and sat for a while. The dogs were quite happy, so I was glad I’d taken my sketchbook with me.”
“Matthew mentioned you’re an artist.”
“Depends how you define artist,” I replied, handing him the oregano label. “I have an art history degree and I suppose I’m a relatively accomplished sketcher and painter, but I’ve never achieved anything. Unless you consider not murdering my previous boss an art, then I am exceptionally successful.”
Christopher chuckled, securing the lid on the jar. “Every day we do not kill a co-worker, we’re successful.”
Amen.
“As for defining the word artist, if you create art, then I believe you’re an artist. It’s the same as when people say they’re an aspiring writer. I ask if they’re writing, and if they say yes, then I tell them they aren’t aspiring. They are a writer.”
I smiled. “That makes a lot of sense.”
“So, Matthew mentioned you’re an artist.” His eyes twinkled with his repeated words.
“Yes, I am an artist,” I replied, trying not to laugh myself. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear. If you have a chance, you should go into the public area of the house. There’s a lot of art on show, including some paintings by the Fifth Earl of Anglesey. He was quite talented with the oil paints.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.” I crossed off on the list as I wrote each label. “Is there another way in or do I have to go in through the public door?”
Christopher paused and looked over at me. “That boy really hasn’t told you anything, has he?”
“Well, it’s only been a couple of days, and—”
“Eva, don’t make excuses for him. I know he’s opening the hotel tomorrow, but he should have scheduled the wedding for a time when he could take a week off to help you settle in. You’ve uprooted your entire life for something to benefit him and he doesn’t even have the decency to be here for you.”
