Mr Graves was looking at her with an expression that seemed intended to convey another message: one of disapproval. She pulled at the coarse wool cloth that had once been her beloved brother’s. ‘Of course. You can’t climb in a skirt. It wouldn’t be very seemly.’ She sensed that word carried weight here.

There was another silence, eyes back on the plates again.

‘It was my understanding that on your isle only the men climbed.’

‘Usually. But an exception was made, in my case.’

A pregnant silence bloomed but she left her full explanation hanging; she felt no need to give her family history to this room full of strangers.

‘So are we to understand, given your attire, that you’ll be doing much climbing here then?’

‘I’m not sure yet . . .’

‘Well, I would be intrigued to hear of where, exactly. Last time I looked, the land here was quite flat.’ More titters rippled the air as Mr Graves allowed himself a satisfied smile. It was his snide way of telling her to dress differently.

‘If his lordship doesn’t object to my way of dressing, then I don’t see why it should concern you,’ she said bluntly.

She knew from the silence that followed that she had affronted the butler, the most senior man in the room – but she refused to recognize his rank as superior to her, when she wasn’t a servant. The earl was employing her, yes, but in a capacity quite different to theirs. She wondered what they would say if they were to learn that the earl’s son had kissed her, pursued her, yearned for her . . . even if only for a little while.

‘When will Sholto be back from London?’ she asked, unable to delay asking any longer. She didn’t care what they thought of her. Let them think she was wild, primitive, savage, odd . . . It was the only thing she wanted to know. She was here. How long must she wait?

‘Lord Sholto is expected back tomorrow, Miss Gillies,’ the butler said with particular stress. ‘Though he may be delayed – partly on your account, I should add.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes.’ The butler sighed wearily. ‘Apparently your old landlord’s factor has gone missing. No one’s seen him since before the evacuation and Lord MacLeod is working up a lather wanting to know what’s happened to his man. It’s quite the brouhaha.’

Effie felt the blood drain from her face, a twist in her guts.

‘There’s a press man on the case now, I believe,’ Mr Graves continued. ‘A Mr Bonner. Do you know him . . . Miss Gillies? Apparently he was covering the evacuation for The Times of London and stayed on the isle for the last week.’

And now he was investigating Frank Mathieson’s disappearance? Mathieson was still missing? Effie’s mind was racing, her pulse too fast. ‘. . . But why should that be anything to do with m-me?’