The Lost Lover

Chapter Six

The girls convened in Effie’s box room, pretending to be knitting, as they always did when they wanted to gossip. The day’s excitement had been all the talk, even before the evening news, as word had spread quickly about the near-miss double tragedy. Mad Annie had been in a temper about it all afternoon, for she had been widowed when her own husband had drowned in the bay twenty-six years earlier; she had held a grudge against the sea ever since. The reverend, interrupted from his lunch, had insisted on saying prayers for the young lady in Lorna’s surgery, which had only served to alarm her mother who, having been raised a Catholic, feared he was furtively delivering the last rites.

The visitors were back aboard their yacht now, light spilling from portholes to speckle the darkening sea. The sun had yet to set behind Ruival, but a slim lick of fire was beginning to sizzle along the horizon, the summer days so long here that nightfall was merely a moon’s bounce of darkness.

It had been a volatile day in which lives might have been inexorably changed, as well as lost, and yet there had been nothing to suggest such alchemy in its inauspicious start as Flora had swept the hearth on her hands and knees that morning. Even if the Misses Rushton hadn’t almost drowned, she herself had had her first picnic, eaten cakes and tarts and sandwiches – salmon mayonnaise, she repeated to herself, recalling its exact shade of pink. She had drunk lemonade and felt bubbles fizz on her tongue. She had made a rich man fall into desperate desire for her, and a dour one smile (once, anyway).

The day had crackled with possibility, promise and threat – and yet now, at the close of it, what had really changed for her? She was still here, knitting socks with her friends in a room without windows. Edward Rushton wanted her, of that she was certain, but tomorrow they would waken to flat seas and he would sail away on the tide, her name forgotten by landfall.

Flora let her hands fall to her lap and pressed her head back against the rough wall, her eyes closed. She felt a heaviness in her chest she couldn’t explain, an agitation in her bones that made her both restless and exhausted at once. What irked her? Why couldn’t she settle?

‘Look, she’s dreaming on him,’ she heard Effie say, then felt the kick to her ankle. She opened her eyes to find the others watching her.

‘What?’ she pouted, giving an irritable shrug.

‘Did you make him fall in love with you?’ Molly Ferguson asked. If it had been Effie doing the asking, the words would have been laced with sarcasm, but Molly’s eyes shone brightly. She loved a love story; she was, herself, quietly falling in love with Flora’s brother David, but she had yet to speak on it and few seemed to have noticed – certainly not her own abrasive brother Norman, nor Flora’s parents. Flora herself had only guessed it when she had caught sight of a shared look in the kirk.

‘I’ve known him less than a day,’ Flora scoffed. ‘And in that time, his sister almost died. There’s barely been time to think, much less fall in love.’

‘Aye, but there’s nothing like a tragedy to focus the heart,’ Molly shrugged, effortlessly turning a heel as she echoed Edward’s own sentiments.

‘Every time I looked over, he was staring at you,’ Effie grumbled.

‘He’s devilish handsome!’ Mhairi tittered. ‘That smile! And his teeth are so white.’ She sighed. ‘I think it’s the tow hair, though,’ she mused. All the men on the isle were dark-haired and blue-eyed, and most grew thick beards. They were handsome but in an earthy, sullen way, never looking fully scrubbed, even on Sundays. Their bodies were stocky and muscular, with strong shoulders and broad hands like plates, though none were especially tall. Men like Edward Rushton – bright and polished, boldly coloured, with a jaunty nature – sat apart from them, as foreign in St Kilda as a parrot among the fulmars.

‘I like his friend better, that Mr Callaghan,’ Effie muttered. ‘He doesn’t talk drivel and he was fair decent on the rope.’

Flora thought again of James’s ankles, though she had no idea why. She frowned, pushing the image away.

‘He was all Miss Rushton could talk about when we were knitting,’ Molly sighed. ‘She’s smitten, says she’s been in love with him for years and has just been waiting to come of age so he can propose.’

‘And what if he doesn’t love her?’ Effie asked with a wry look. ‘She’ll have been waiting in vain.’

‘But he does love her.’

‘Has he said that?’ Flora asked, a little too quickly.

Molly shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But she must feel it’s reciprocated to say those things to a stranger, surely.’

Effie made a small sound that was neither agreement nor disagreement, her eyes flashing in Flora’s direction. ‘She seems a little silly for him, to me, that’s all.’

‘You don’t know her,’ Molly said loyally. ‘We had a lovely conversation about the places she’s visited and the book she was reading. She’s almost finished it and she’s offered to leave it for me – but you wouldn’t know that, because you couldn’t wait to escape the knitting lesson.’

‘Aye! Because we were knitting! You know I’d rather chew my own leg. Besides, he was the one who couldn’t wait. That Mr Callaghan was dead set on having some climbing instruction.’

‘Tch, we could have done without the interruption,’ Flora muttered. ‘Throwing the rope down like that. Honestly Eff, of all the bluffs you could have chosen—’

‘Wanting privacy, were you?’ Mhairi winked.

‘He was beginning to talk in a promising manner,’ Flora shrugged. ‘If we’d had a little more time to ourselves, who knows where it might have led?’

‘Well, don’t blame me,’ Effie tutted. ‘He was very specific about where he wanted to try and he said Ruival. I just wanted to earn my coins.’ She gave a hapless shrug.

‘Let me guess: he wanted to stop and look for fossils there?’

‘No, I can’t say he mentioned those—’

There came a knock at the door and all four of them looked up as Effie’s father peered in. ‘You’re wanted, missy,’ he said, looking across at Flora.

‘Me?’

‘Aye. Your father’s here.’

Flora cast a frown at the others as she scrambled off the bed, carelessly dropping some of her stitches off the needle as she went and drawing a gasp from Molly, who tried to rescue them for her.

‘Papa?’ she asked, walking through into the Wee Gillies’ main room. Her father was standing by the doorway, looking out across the bay. Had she forgotten to rinse a pot? Fetch a turf? Churn the cream? She was never knowingly diligent about her chores, but with all the day’s disturbance, something must surely have slipped her mind. ‘Is everything all right?’

Archie MacQueen turned and looked at her. Of all the men in her life, he was the only one who didn’t seem to register her beauty; to him, she was simply Floss, his first-born daughter and second child, headstrong but kind-hearted, more likely to be found playing with the children than doing her chores; and, as he always called her in relentment, his songbird.

He gave a nod as if she had passed muster. ‘You’re invited for dinner.’

Dinner? She hesitated at the word. Tea wasn’t for another half hour and didn’t usually warrant an invitation.

‘With them. On the boat.’

Her eyes widened and she heard the collective gasp at her back, the girls all gathered in the bedroom door. ‘... What?’

‘Aye. The family wants to thank you for your help today.’

Flora blinked. She would hardly have described herself as a key helper in the rescue effort – finger-pointing had only done so much – but her heart soared as she understood what this really meant: James Callaghan might not be the only one for whom a near-tragedy would focus the heart. Edward Rushton was disregarding his friend’s scorn too.

A smile escaped her as she automatically brushed her hand through her hair. ‘And I can go?’ she breathed.

Her father nodded, though he didn’t look too pleased at her primping. ‘Your mother doesn’t trust them to return your clothes otherwise. She says you’re to bring back Norman and Donald’s things too.’

‘Of course,’ she nodded solemnly. It had been a source of smothered amusement watching the smart visitors climb aboard the smack in the St Kildans’ tweeds earlier – lumpen, was it, Edward had said?

She turned back to the others with a rare moment of uncertainty, tucking her blouse into her skirt and tightening the waist. ‘How do I look?’

‘As bonny as the finch,’ Molly beamed.

‘But if I only had a dress—’

‘A pretty face suits the dish-cloth, Floss,’ Mhairi reminded her quickly. It was how she often consoled her when the rich tourists departed and Flora was left feeling their want a little too keenly.

‘Ugh,’ Effie dismissed with a roll of her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

‘Hurry now,’ her father said impatiently. ‘Hamish is waiting at the jetty for us.’

With a parting look to the girls – each biting their lips, eyes wide – she stepped out into the evening. The moon was rising fast in the still-light sky. She pulled her shawl close around her shoulders, feeling the night’s chill already drawing in.

Her father said nothing as they walked past the brightly lit cottages and the darkened factor’s house towards the stone pier. He wasn’t a man given to much conversation at the best of times but Flora wondered if he sensed something of the undertow to this mission, because he caught her by the elbow as they passed the featherstore, slowing their steps.

‘Don’t get your hopes up, lassie. They’re not for the likes of us, and we’re not for them.’

Flora swallowed and nodded, stung by his words; but what did her father really know? She had already drifted from the bedrock of her roots, the education into another life already begun. Edward had indicated that he was a man who could show her another life. Might he now offer to give it to her?

The smack lilted on the soft waves, protected by the pier wall, and carefully they stepped aboard, Hamish nodding tersely in greeting as she settled herself primly on the bow. Within moments they were cutting through the water, the two men rowing in harmony and silence so that only the creak of the oars in their cups, and the sprinkling of droplets falling off the blades, could be discerned above the flurrying breeze. The waves grew bolder in the open bay, crested with sharp tips that occasionally caught the smack at the wrong time and splashed against her, but Flora scarcely noticed, her breath becoming more shallow with every stroke.

She kept her gaze fixed upon the yacht all the while. It looked like a bird, sleeping – the masts tucked and tightly wound, the creamy hull rocking back and forth on the anchor chain, everything in a state of slumber. But then came the sounds, low at first... music, drifting like a mist over the water... The two men swapped looks but Flora sat a little straighter, sensing beauty ahead of them.

In no time, it seemed to her, they were drawing alongside the vessel and Hamish gave a sharp call that drew a figure to the rails.

‘Aye,’ the captain said, raising a hand in acknowledgement and heading towards the stern. Moments later, a fixed ladder was lowered down and Hamish looped a rope around the bottom rung, tethering them together briefly.

‘We’ll be back for you when the moon hits Mullach Bi,’ her father said, kissing her forehead once and looking pained, though not out of breath. ‘So be ready.’

Flora glanced at the sky and saw it would take the moon two hours, or thereabouts, to track the path.

‘And remember to bring back the clothes, or your mother will scalp you.’

‘Aye.’ She put a hand to the ladder and climbed upwards, not looking back.

The skipper got an arm to her elbow and helped her up with a roughness the Rushtons would never encounter. She righted herself quickly, striving for dignity.

‘Good evening,’ he said, looking back at her with black eyes and a scowl. It probably defied his belief that an island girl, dressed in homespun clothes, would be dining with them.

‘Good evening,’ she said after a moment, her gaze scanning the deck, though her head never moved. With relief, she saw there was no sign of her hosts and that she had another moment to compose herself. Soft light flickered from oil lanterns and she took in her first glimpses of life aboard a yacht: railings gleamed like gold, the wooden decking was the colour almost of Mhairi’s hair, and thick white ropes – so unlike theirs used for climbing – were pulled taut in a web from the masts onto cleats. The back of the deck where they stood was an open space, with a small rowing boat tucked in at the end and a shuffleboard painted on the floor. A long table was bolted to the decking and covered by a fixed shelter that extended across to a double-height cabin which was just like a house upon the boat. To one side of a window was a door, to the other a staircase leading up to another level, winding around on itself like one of the shells that was occasionally washed up after a storm.

‘You can go through,’ the captain said, gesturing towards the cabin. ‘They’re having cocktails.’

Cocktails. Another new word.

He bounded up the staircase, disappearing from sight and leaving her there; she stared at the door, wondering what she would find inside when even the outside was like a palace. Suddenly she understood why the visitors treated the villagers with such... bemusement. The life she knew, the only one she had ever known, must be as alien to them as this was to her.

She put a hand to the doorknob – solid, gleaming – hearing a staccato laugh on the other side of the door and a babble of voices all talking over one another. The door opened with a creak of the hinges and she stepped through.

‘Ah, Miss MacQueen!’ Edward jumped up from his seat, an elegant chair of a reddish colour she couldn’t even describe. He looked delighted to see her, and infinitely more distinguished again now that he had changed into an ivory linen suit.

He rushed over to her and, reaching for her hand, pressed it to his lips. ‘Thank you for agreeing to come tonight.’

She blinked at him, too dumbstruck to speak. This couldn’t... this couldn’t be a boat. Paintings in gold frames hung on wooden-clad walls that were so glossy she couldn’t be absolutely sure that water wasn’t running down them. Silk curtains hung at the windows, crystal lights shimmered; there was a bookcase, flowers in vases. Even a fireplace!

‘My parents wanted to thank you for everything you did for Sophia today,’ he said, leading her through to the area where everyone was congregated on long, soft chairs.

‘But I really didn’t do—’

‘Nonsense. Had it not been for your excellent vision, James could never have found her, nor got to her in time.’

‘Edward is right, Miss MacQueen,’ his father said, stepping forward, taking her hand and bowing slightly so that his whiskers brushed her skin. ‘There were many factors that came into play to protect our daughters this afternoon, and you were one of them. We’re exceedingly grateful.’

‘It was really nothing,’ she murmured, looking over at his wife too who was sitting, pale-faced and clutching a glass, on one of the chairs. ‘How... how is Miss Rushton?’

She looked around in closer detail now at the gathered faces all watching her and found Sophia in the corner of one of the chairs, surrounded by cushions. James Callaghan was sitting beside her, clutching a drink as well and looking distinctly displeased to see Flora, though he nodded politely in greeting. He too was wearing a light suit.

Sophia had changed (no doubt at speed) from Flora’s Sunday best drugget skirt and cream wool blouse into a floaty primrose-yellow dress with a blue ribbon at the waist. She looked nothing like someone who had almost died that day. Were they celebrating already, Flora wondered, feeling again that tightness in her chest.

‘I’m perfectly well, thank you. It’s so sweet of you to ask,’ Sophia purred. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes burning with almost feverish intensity, and her hair had been combed through and styled in soft waves. Too late, Flora realized her own hair was still in a braid from this morning. Babyish. Gauche. Inelegant. And as for her clothes...

‘I’m sorry that I didn’t... change,’ she faltered as she looked back at the Rushtons in their finery, her fingers clutching her thin skirt. She had no other clothes, for her spare set was still drying by the fire.

‘We gave you no time,’ Edward said quickly. ‘It was rude of us to give you no warning, but by the time we got our heads straight... Besides, you look simply sensational. I swear you could wear a potato sack and make it look like a Vionnet.’

She looked at him blankly. A what?

‘Come, what’s your poison?’ he asked her, taking her by the hand and walking her towards a cabinet set out with sparkling crystal decanters. Instantly, she felt all eyes fine-tune upon their physical contact, and she sensed it had been a deliberate move on his part. ‘Or shall I choose for you?’

She looked at him, knowing that he was saving her, that he had remembered – only fractionally too late – that the St Kildans rarely drank. She nodded and watched as he mixed a concoction of different liquids (and – was that an egg?) into a silver container. Covering it, he shook it extravagantly, while she stood there, silent and awkward. Music was playing quietly from... somewhere... She saw the gramophone in the corner and remembered her earlier conversation with James Callaghan in which she’d told him she longed to see one. And here it was. On a boat.

She watched as he poured the mixture into a glass, stirring it and handing it over with a smile. ‘A White Lady cocktail,’ he said.

‘A White Lady cocktail,’ she repeated.

‘I did consider one called Death in the Afternoon, but given today’s events, I don’t think my parents would appreciate the humour.’

‘Edward!’ his mother scolded. ‘That’s not funny!’

‘See? Come, sit,’ he grinned, turning his back and winking at her, before leading her over to one of the long chairs. Carefully she lowered herself next to him; she was used to hard wooden settles but this was cloth-covered with feather cushions. The ground was covered with a soft, pale rug that extended to the walls, and she remembered her grubby feet were bare. She scrunched up her toes, trying to minimize contact with the floor, her gaze tangling with James Callaghan’s as he clocked her private shame again. He had a knack, it seemed, for catching her out.

She placed the glass to her lips and took a sip, having to stop her face from registering every emotion of shock and surprise as the tastes hit. Unlike the lemonade, they were too complex to break down, her system immediately overwhelmed by the mix of sweet and sour, bitterness and syrup. It burned her throat – and yet she liked it.

‘Good?’ Edward asked her.

She nodded, the glass still at her lips.

‘Drink it slowly,’ James said quickly, from across the room. ‘... It’s stronger than you think.’

Obediently, she lowered her hands, but she glowered at him, feeling a burn in her cheeks that he had shown her up and made a point of her lack of sophistication, even though it must already be perfectly apparent to everyone here.

‘Ignore him. It’ll help you relax, take the edge off. It can’t be easy coming in here and joining people like us,’ Edward said, shooting an annoyed look at his friend. ‘Have another sip.’

She obeyed again, aware that the room had fallen into a stiff quietude since her entrance. Edward’s excitement at seeing her again was evident – but had he forced her presence upon the rest of them?

‘Where’s Martha?’ she asked, realizing the younger girl was absent.

‘In bed, I’m afraid. Today’s fright has wiped her out rather,’ Mrs Rushton said.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been dreadful for her.’

‘To endure the waves herself, only to then have that ghastly wait as James saved Sophia...’ Mrs Rushton pressed a hand to her heart and looked gratefully across at the hero.

James made a dismissive motion, shaking his head, but Sophia gazed at him with more than gratitude.

‘I’m sure she’ll have nightmares tonight,’ Mrs Rushton continued, looking back at Flora. ‘The water’s so treacherous here. It’s a wonder to me that more of your people aren’t lost to it.’

‘Well... we steer well clear of it, largely.’

‘But you go out on the rowing boat.’

‘Only in the bay, mostly. And it’s only ever the men. They’re strong, and they can read the conditions well. They won’t even try if they don’t like the look on it.’

‘Mostly?’ James cleared his throat as she looked over at him in surprise.

‘What?’

‘... You said they row in the bay mostly. Where do they go occasionally?’

She hesitated at his apparent interest, seeing a sharpness in his gaze. Was he trying to trip her up again? ‘Well, the men make occasional trips to the other isles in the archipelago – mainly Boreray in early summer, to pluck the sheep.’

‘That’s four miles hence?’

‘About that.’ She was impressed he knew.

‘That’s a long way in a rowing boat.’

‘Aye, but as I said, the men are strong and they check conditions first. They take no unnecessary chances.’

His eyes narrowed with seemingly further interest. ‘Where else do they go?’

‘There’s a cave round the back of Dun where they tie up overnight for the ling fishing in spring.’

‘Ling?’

‘Aye, they can get a half dozen men sleeping in the boat.’

‘That must be cramped.’

‘Aye.’

She went to look away, but he didn’t let her go, the questions still coming. ‘Anywhere else?’

She felt pinned by his gaze. ‘They go to Stac Lee for the gannet harvest in April.’

‘Stac Lee? Now that’s the needle-shaped rock, just outside the bay?’

‘Aye. It sits between here and Boreray.’

James frowned, never taking his eyes off her. ‘But it’s sheer vertical rock. How do they land?’

‘By jumping.’

He gave a shocked laugh, his entire body jolting like she’d jabbed him with a hot poker. ‘They jump from the boat onto the stack? But what if they miss?’

‘They don’t,’ she shrugged.

‘But it’s still one hell of a risk to take. One wrong move and they’re certain to drown, surely?’

He spoke as if they had a choice. ‘Well, we need the harvest. We can’t afford to pick and choose,’ she said grudgingly, not wanting to spell out how difficult it was to scratch an existence from this rock in the ocean. How appetite or taste had no consideration when enough was all that mattered. ‘Besides, the risk is minimal now. Someone in the past managed to get an anchoring into the rock at the landing point. It gives the men something to hold onto, and their feet are used to gripping, of course.’

‘Well, of course,’ he echoed.

She looked away this time, knowing he was mocking her and hating how he seemed to unnerve her.

Everything was rounded here – no sharp corners, she noticed. Furniture bolted to the floors or walls, rails on every surface so that even in a storm this room would remain just as serene, just as tranquil. The Rushtons’ lives had brushed against horror today, but no trace of it remained, and Flora felt like she had stepped inside a painting – into a world that was too beautiful, colourful and soft to be real. Were her friends really, even now, still sitting in Effie’s room, knitting on the bed, while she sat here, sipping on a cocktail? How could two lives – so completely different – sit beside one another so closely?

She could feel Edward’s eyes upon her, an intensity in them willing her to integrate and belong. Over his shoulder, almost as a mirage, she saw that door open again and the other world – his world – glide past. This was it, her opportunity. She had to... fit, somehow. Show him she could belong; become friends with his friends and charm his family. She sat straighter as she caught his gaze and she smiled at him, forced at first, but he beamed back so readily that it spread to her eyes and she felt herself relax.

He stretched an arm along the back of the chair, as if her confidence was contagious. ‘We were, uh, just discussing the Glorious Twelfth before you arrived.’

‘Oh?’ She swallowed. Every new line of conversation threw her.

‘Yes. Friends of ours have a grouse shoot in Yorkshire – we go every year, but Callie thinks he’ll have to swerve.’

She swallowed again. ‘Oh?’

‘He’s adamant he has to prepare for his beastly expedition to the North Pole,’ Sophia complained, resting a hand on James’s thigh. ‘It’s so unfair.’

‘It’s to Greenland, Sophia, not the North Pole,’ James murmured, letting his gaze fall briefly to her hand before looking back at her again. ‘And I really don’t have any choice. Most of the expedition team have already left. It’s bad enough that I’m having to join them in the Faroes as it is. The rest of the team left London last week.’

‘Where did you say they’re setting up base camp?’ Edward asked.

‘Forty miles west of Angmagssalik,’ James replied, looking surprised by the question.

‘Ah yes, that’s the spot.’ Edward looked over at her and gave a roll of his eyes. ‘Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?’

Flora smiled, but she was intrigued. ‘What is the purpose of the expedition?’ she asked him.

‘It’s called the British Arctic Air Route Expedition. We’re investigating the possibility of a new transatlantic air passage between England and Canada.’

Flora didn’t know much about air passages but she knew her geography, for there were maps hanging in the schoolroom. ‘That’s a long way.’

‘It is. But that’s the point. We’re looking into the potential for a shorter route that connects the two via the Arctic Circle – namely the Faroes, Iceland, Greenland, Baffin Island and Hudson Bay, before coming to a stop in Winnipeg.’ He traced a sweeping line in the air as if there was a map before them both. ‘We’re mapping two hundred miles of coastline. And surveying the least known part of the ice path along the east coast and central ice plateau of Greenland.’

‘It sounds dangerous,’ she murmured. James Callaghan, fossil-hunter, hadn’t exactly struck her as an adventurer or thrill-seeker earlier; but then she thought of him cragging with Effie, barefoot; his strong ankles diving into the waves... He was more than he seemed.

‘No more dangerous than people who can’t swim leaping onto vertical rocks in the middle of the ocean, I’m sure,’ he rejoindered. His eyes flashed with an inscrutable look and she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

‘It sounds fun to me!’ Edward said. ‘Lots of dog-sledding and larking about in seaplanes, from what I can make out.’

‘Seaplanes?’ she queried, but he just laughed, as if she’d been joking.

James caught her look of confusion but he looked away, choosing not to highlight her ignorance for once.

‘How will you survive? What will you eat there? It’s hard enough here, but on the ice...’ She found herself fascinated by the idea of it. She wanted just to get to the mainland, but he was visiting a whole other continent.

‘Provisions have already been taken out on the ship but we’ll supplement with whatever we can hunt there – fish, seals, birds. We shan’t starve.’

‘How many are you?’

‘Fourteen, which is a goodly number. We’re not too large as to be unwieldy but we’ve a solid core of men to keep us going should sickness strike.’

‘Is that likely?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s as likely there as it is here.’

His gaze was steady and he held himself almost preternaturally still as they talked, his attention wholly upon her even though Sophia’s hand still lingered on his thigh. Something sat behind his eyes whenever they talked, but she couldn’t pinpoint what exactly. Disapproval? Dislike? Disgust?

‘Why are you going? I thought... I thought Edward said you have a textiles business?’

‘Callie fancies himself both a businessman and an explorer,’ Edward said dryly.

‘If we discover the route is viable, then it will become my principal business,’ James replied in clipped tones. Flora sensed it was a bone of contention between them. ‘I’d like to diversify my family’s business away from just textiles. Commercial air travel is the future, and a transatlantic route will open up the world in a way that’s been denied until now. No more week-long ocean crossings to New York. The world is speeding up. Efficiency is key...’

Was it? She listened, feeling intimidated by his careless knowledge. She had no idea that it took a week to sail to New York, or why anyone should even need to do that. The St Kildans only ever crossed to the other Hebridean isles when there was an urgent need for flour, or a doctor, or – following the smallpox epidemic of 1727 – more husbands. But it wasn’t to her that his words were directed.

‘... As I’ve told you countless times, Rushton, it could change the world.’

‘Could, dear boy. Could.’ Edward glanced at her. ‘He’s been after me to invest for months now.’

‘It’ll make you rich, brother,’ Sophia said loyally to Edward, while smiling at James.

‘We’re already rich.’

‘But a man can always be richer,’ Sophia purred, crossing her legs.

‘Well, I’ll certainly drink to that!’ Edward said, raising his glass and draining it.

James’s eyes flashed, but he made no further comment.

‘And you’re quite sure it’s not dangerous, dear?’ Mrs Rushton asked him.

‘Quite. We’re well prepared and well equipped.’

‘The team are using Shackleton’s old vessel, Mother, the Quest,’ Edward said, before glancing at Flora again. ‘... You know of Shackleton, the explorer?’

‘Of course,’ she lied, taking another sip of the White Lady.

‘Poor chap. Still, he died doing what he loved, I suppose.’

‘As long as you don’t die doing what you love,’ Sophia gasped, looking at James with alarm.

‘I’m not planning on it.’

Flora gave a small laugh at his dry manner, but no one else joined in and she tried to turn it into a cough. The ghost smile hovered on James’s lips again.

‘Tell me, what do you love to do, Miss MacQueen?’ Sophia asked her suddenly.

‘Me?’ Flora froze. ‘I...’ She faltered, glancing at Edward again and seeing the urge in his eyes that she find a way to connect with his family.

‘She loves to sing,’ James replied for her, meeting her gaze.

Sophia sat a little straighter. ‘Really?... How would you know, James?’

‘Miss MacQueen was my tour guide to McKinnon’s Stone earlier. We chatted while we walked.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ Sophia settled back, regarding Flora coolly as a small silence bloomed. ‘... Well, perhaps you would like to sing for us now?’ she asked Flora, before immediately turning to her father with a keen look, as if he got the casting vote.

‘Oh, but—’

‘Why not? A little pre-dinner entertainment would be splendid, if you’re quite sure, young lady?’ he replied.

Flora hesitated. How could this have happened? Why had James put her on the spot like this?

‘Go on,’ Edward murmured encouragingly. ‘Show them.’

‘Very well, then,’ she said quietly. She took another sip of her drink, then another – the alcohol infusing her blood so that she felt the loosening of her limbs and the relaxing of her spirit in this stiff space; it seemed to narrow the chasm between her and them, and she wanted more. Instead, she stared down at the ground as she tried to think of something short and fleeting to sing.

‘Oh, you must stand. Do it properly,’ Sophia urged her. ‘I wish I could sing, but I just sound like a hippo with a sore throat whenever I try.’ Her staccato laugh rose into the air, her hand touching James’s thigh like a flitting butterfly.

Flora looked at her for a moment, sensing disingenuousness in her words despite the apparent friendliness. Miss Sophia Rushton had been raised as a cultured gentlewoman and Flora didn’t doubt that singing, and no doubt playing an instrument too, counted among her many accomplishments. But, for some reason, she wanted Flora to have the limelight, to be on the spot.

She was expecting her to fail.

Flora handed her drink to Edward to hold as slowly she rose, smoothing her palms on her skirt. She could feel every set of eyes upon her but that, at least, was something to which she was accustomed, and she raised her focus to the painting above the fireplace as she began to sing.

It wasn’t anything they would recognize, she was sure, for it was an old Gaelic ballad that her grandmother used to sing by the fire – winsome and forlorn, it nonetheless trickled over the octaves like a dancing wind, showcasing her range. Her voice was always a surprise, even to herself – rich yet light, she was capable of hitting the high, airy notes as well as sinking into deeper, lower caramel tones with ease – and she forgot her audience as she allowed the music to travel over and through her. It was the only time she ever escaped her body and became a soul.

She sang just three verses out of the six she knew, not wanting to go on too long, and the ending must have felt abrupt to her hosts because there was a long silence for several moments afterwards, as if they were waiting for more.

‘Er... well... that’s it,’ she shrugged, sitting back into the chair again and seeing how everyone was staring at her, open-mouthed; Edward had a glazed expression on his face that only changed as she took her drink back from him. Instantly he began clapping.

The others followed suit, the ripple of applause fringed with swapped looks of surprise.

‘Brava!’ Edward cried, delightedly clasping her hand and again pressing it to his lips. ‘Why didn’t you say?’ he asked, incredulous.

‘Say what?’

‘That you have a gift!’

‘Oh,’ she recoiled. ‘It’s no—’

‘It most certainly is! You sing like an angel! A lark! Doesn’t she, Mama?’

‘I – indeed, dear,’ she faltered, her gaze fixed upon their clutching hands.

‘Quite exquisite,’ his father added. ‘Edward’s right: you have a gift.’

‘Thank you, Papa,’ Edward said, as if the compliment had been aimed at him. ‘Sophia?’

Sophia, mute for once, nodded vigorously, straining a smile.

‘Callie? Don’t you agree?’

There was a hesitation. James had been clapping politely, but with a look in his eyes that made plain he was tired of this charade of entertaining the island girl. ‘Most pleasant,’ he finally murmured.

Edward turned back to her. ‘You see? Not only are you the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen in my life, but you’re also the kindest, most talented—’

‘Steady on!’ James scoffed. The words seemed to take him by surprise as much as anyone, and he frowned into his drink.

A frown puckered Edward’s brow too as a small silence bloomed, tension ratcheting between the two men as Flora saw a flash of temper cross Edward’s good-natured visage. ‘Actually, no, old boy – I don’t think I shall. Not this time. It’s never been truer that time and tide waits for no man and I know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t speak from my heart now, while I have the opportunity.’ He looked over to his parents as Flora saw James and Sophia swap horrified looks. ‘Surely today was proof that tomorrow is not a given? How very different things might have been, but for a few quirks of fate that kept us just on the right side of joy.’

‘Eddie, I’m fine!’ Sophia protested with a weak laugh. ‘Don’t make a song and dance about it, please.’

‘No. We were lucky, that was all, and we shouldn’t assume happiness is our given, something to squander or take for granted. We have a responsibility to actively hunt our happiness down, and I know... I know I have found mine.’

He turned to Flora again, reaching for her hand, his blue eyes brimming with an ardour that took even her aback.

‘Rushton,’ James murmured, a growl in his voice that was exactly the same as the warning he had issued at the picnic earlier. Flora looked at him, locking eyes and seeing clearly all the disapproval he harboured for her.

But Edward would not be deterred. He squeezed her hand in his. ‘Flora – I never dreamt when I came ashore this morning that my life could be turned around so completely in the course of a single day, but—’

A bell sounded. It rang like the kirk bell but was far closer, too close to have come from there.

‘Aha!’ Mr Rushton exclaimed, slapping his thighs. ‘Is that the time?’

Flora looked at Edward in confusion. Were they to pray?

‘Dinner is served,’ Mrs Rushton said stiffly, waiting a moment so that her husband could rise first and then help her from her seat.

Flora watched as together they shuffled towards the door. Sophia, rising gracefully, smoothed her hair away from her face in a self-soothing gesture as she waited for James to put down his drink; they too moved as a pair, it seemed. There was a pause before he knocked it back and set the glass down hard on the table, his eyes locking with Edward’s in silent disdain as he passed.

‘Talk about saved by the bell,’ Sophia murmured to James as they got to the door.

‘Mm.’

Flora and Edward watched in astonishment as the party cleared the room within moments, his proclamations hanging in the air like an unfinished requiem. Nothing had been said by the others, but they both knew judgement had been passed.