Sholto began pointing out landmarks, telling her about the works and plans executed by his ancestors: the fifth Earl of Dumfries did this, the fourth Marquess of Bute did that. She was amazed to learn they had more than one title, more than one name – Crichton-Dalrymple – as well as another seat, Mount Stuart, the home of the Stuarts on the Isle of Bute thanks to an ancestor’s favourable marriage: the Crichtons had honour but the Stuarts had money. His father was primarily known as the Marquess of Bute, the Dumfries earldom being a courtesy title only invoked when he stayed here, though he told her his parents preferred Dumfries House because it was more ‘homely’ and easier for the cities. They passed through what he called Cow Park, which was being grazed by several hundred of the glossy brown beasts, all nose down and shuffling slowly through the grass. She remembered her cheek pressed to Iona’s belly that May morning when the sloop had first nosed around the headland. How long ago that seemed now. How very far from here.

And yet, here they were, riding out together.

She looked across at him again, wishing he wasn’t quite so handsome. Just a little less golden.

‘And that’s Broad Wood over there,’ he said, pointing to a thicket. ‘Very good for badgers. I’ve lost one or two terriers down those setts over the years.’

In a flash, another memory was in Effie’s mind – Poppit nuzzling her hand with her muzzle, her ears hiked up in excitement when she found a puffin’s nest . . .

‘You know every last inch of this estate,’ she said, forcing her mind away from the past, even though the shadows slunk over her at every turn.

‘Of course. Didn’t you know every last inch of your home? And that was an entire isle!’

‘I suppose that’s true enough.’

‘I can’t imagine ever leaving here,’ he murmured, looking out into the distance at the faint smudge of distant hills, the rolling pastures, Dumfries House now but a bright spot behind them. He looked over at her. ‘It makes me realize what a brave thing you’ve done.’

‘I wasn’t brave. I just didn’t have any choice. I’d have stayed if I could.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ she said firmly. ‘I always said I had nothing to come to here – and I was right.’

She deliberately invoked the spectre of Sibyl. Between her and this place, they had never stood a chance. There could never have been a plan.

There was another pause. ‘Well, for what it’s worth,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m glad you didn’t stay. Even if you felt there was nothing here for you when you left, I hope you feel you have a home now. Friends.’

‘Friends?’

‘Yes.’

‘You mean like Mr Felton?’

He met her gaze, flashing her a brief rictus smile. ‘Quite.’

‘You’re right. I do.’