‘But, as a young woman alone, guiding . . .’ The factor let his words fade, allowing an insinuation to speak for him instead.

‘Yes . . .?’

There was an awkward silence as the factor looked between her and their esteemed guests, his employer’s personal friends.

‘It’s nothing, sir, you’re quite right. I’m glad an arrangement could be found.’ Frank Mathieson went to withdraw, looking like a kicked dog.

‘Mr Mathieson, before we leave,’ said Ian McKinnon, the postmaster, stepping towards him. ‘I’d like to talk with you about the matter we raised on your last visit in September . . .?’ He tailed off into a diplomatic silence, not wanting to go into details in front of their guests.

The factor’s mouth settled into a flat line. He often seemed displeased by the realities of his work. As the laird’s man on the ground, he had to not only bring over supplies but listen to and address their problems, illnesses, needs and wants: the roofs weren’t secure, it rained inside the houses as well as out, the harvest had failed . . . On his second trip of the season, at the end of August, he would collect the goods they bartered for rent and would again leave any necessary supplies to see them through the long, hard winter, when the isle was cut off from the mainland by the heavy seas.

‘Can it not wait till we return, Mr McKinnon?’ he snapped. ‘I’ve just endured one hellish crossing only to find I must immediately take another.’

The postmaster looked clearly affronted. ‘Well, I dare say it can, aye, sir.’

‘Good,’ the factor muttered with a look of scorn as he turned on his heel. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve to prepare for counting sheep.’

The decision to see to the sheep put the village into a spin. Chores were abandoned as the women put together food supplies and blankets were sought, old sacks retrieved from cleits and folded down for the plucked wool that would be coming back with the men. The dogs ran along the shore, barking excitedly and sending the birds scattering skywards as the boat was pulled towards the water.

But within the hour they were ready, and the women and children waved with handkerchiefs in their hands till the village’s boat rowed around the headland of Oiseval and out of sight.

‘Shall we get such a fond farewell when it is our turn to leave, Miss Gillies?’ Lord Sholto asked, amusement dancing through his eyes. He had emerged from the factor’s house as he heard the commotion and had come to stand on the beach with the rest. Now, somehow, they were standing together.