‘Only because he’d never seen me like that before,’ Effie said quickly. Every time she’d looked over, he’d been staring at the floor.

‘Or because he’d never seen you in that way before – as a woman,’ Henry countered. ‘I was there. I saw it all. So did Mr Graves, didn’t you?’

‘I saw no such thing,’ the butler contradicted. ‘Everyone was quite appropriate in their behaviour. His lordship would never dream of . . . crossing the line.’

Effie said nothing. Gossip, tittle-tattle, innuendo . . . If they only knew the story she was sitting on.

‘Stop teasing, Henry,’ the housekeeper said. ‘It was a shame for the evening to end the way it did, on such tragic news. Did you know the man well, Miss Gillies?’

Effie didn’t reply immediately. He had been monstrous in life. Was she to speak well of him in death? ‘Well, I didn’t know him that well,’ she said edgily. ‘I was only wee when he became factor and first started coming over.’

‘Oh? How . . . wee?’

‘Eleven? Twelve? He spent most of his time with my Uncle Hamish and Ian McKinnon, the postmaster. And the minister too of course, although I don’t think he was a religious man.’ Her words seemed tied together, quiet and indistinct, running into one another.

‘Still, you must have been happy to see him on his visits over. His lordship said the factor was your principal contact with the wider world?’

Happy to see him? He’d been the very last person she wanted to see. ‘He only came over twice a year, so like I said, I really didn’t know him that well. But he’d arrive in the late spring, just as soon as the water calmed, and he’d bring us provisions, so we were pleased for that. Then he’d come again for a week at the end of August to collect our rents before we were cut off again.’

‘So you had no contact at all through the winter months?’ Barra asked, looking pitying.

‘Occasionally we’d get whaling ships or trawlers stopping in the bay if there was a storm, but for anything smaller, from September to May, the sea was too rough.’

‘How did you pay rents?’ William asked. ‘With what?’

‘Feathers, fulmar oil, tweed, knitted socks and sheep’s wool.’

‘It all sounds so primitive,’ Billy muttered.

‘I think it sounds romantic,’ Fanny sighed.

‘Romantic?’ Billy laughed. ‘Where’s the romance in poverty? I’d like to see how long you’d feel romantic with an empty stomach and skirts held up with bent nails.’

Fanny gasped, shocked by his rudeness, but Effie was beyond affrontery. ‘I never felt poor till I came here,’ she said simply. ‘You can’t long for what you don’t know. Sometimes I think it might be better to live in ignorance and just be happy with your lot.’

‘So you think ignorance is bliss?’ Henry asked.

‘Aye, maybe.’