‘Am – I – clear?’ The words were enunciated slowly, threat lurking like shadows in the backs of them.

Effie knew she had to nod. If there was going to be a meal for her father’s table tonight, she had to nod. But she could see in this woman’s eyes that she wanted more than a ‘yes’. She wanted wholesale submission. Humiliation. A line had been drawn in the sand and – contempt established – Effie knew she would get no peace from this woman now.

Another expectant silence quivered even though there could only be one outcome.

Finally, she nodded.

‘Good.’ The woman gave a small, victorious sniff as though a trifle had been settled. ‘My name is Mrs Buchanan, I am the manageress. Your neighbours already have been trained to use the looms, you’ll have to catch up.’ Slowly, she looked Effie up and down in her men’s garb. ‘And I don’t know what passes for civility where you’re from, but over here, men and women don’t share each other’s clothes.’

A titter of amusement escaped from behind one of the looms. Effie’s head whipped round but all eyes were downcast.

‘It’s lucky for you we’ve no visitors today as Mr McCaughrean, our buyer in Glasgow, has just cancelled. I’ll not lose any more time to accommodating your antics. You’ll stay as you are for today and turn up properly dressed tomorrow – if you want to be paid.’ She went to turn away but looked back with a glimmer of amusement in her rheumy eyes. ‘They tell me that on the isle, only the men wove. The women only carded and spun the yarns?’

Effie blinked a vague assent.

‘So then it’s men’s work you’ll be doing here after all. That should please you.’ Sarcasm sparkled off her words. ‘Everyone, back to work!’

Effie watched her go as the clatter of the looms started up again.

Flora came over – she appeared to be limping – and clutched Effie’s hand in her own whilst smoothing her reddened cheek with her palm. ‘Eff, are you well?’ she whispered. Her long black hair that had blown free in the wind like a pirate’s flag on the ship yesterday was pulled back in a braid and pinned up. Effie read it as a sign of submission from her fiery, beautiful friend. A ready – and bewildering – surrender.

‘No!’ Effie hissed below her breath, her gaze skirting sideways and taking in the curious stares of the women on the looms. She was a wildling to them, no more than a savage. She could still feel the heat in her cheek at her public striking. Where Angus McKinnon had failed, little Mrs Buchanan had succeeded, and Effie didn’t doubt he’d hear about it soon enough. ‘I hate it here, Flora! I can’t stand it!’