Effie gave a guarded smile. Manners barred her from exclaiming that his son wouldn’t have a chance of keeping up with her on a rope. ‘We’ll mainly just be walking today, sir. I last saw the Leaches circling near Na h-Eagan, on the far side of Ruival there.’ She pointed to the mountain to their left, on the opposite side of the glen.

‘You call them Leaches too?’ The earl seemed impressed. ‘So then you know something of the birds, other than by sight?’

‘Aye, sir.’ She jutted her chin defiantly. Poor didn’t mean ignorant. Like all the younger generation on the island, she could read and write and spell in both English and Gaelic. ‘I read a lot.’

‘Quite so. And your dog . . .’ He glanced at Poppit, standing close by her legs, her head positioned as ever beneath Effie’s palm. ‘She won’t disturb the birds?’

‘On the contrary, she’s my secret weapon. She can smell them.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Poppit.’

‘That’s an unusual name.’

‘It’s on account of a meadow pipit she befriended as a pup.’

The earl laughed. ‘I see.’

‘I trained her myself. Her mother rejected the litter so I hand-reared her.’

‘Yes, I can see the bond from here. She doesn’t take her eyes off you.’

‘She’s a loyal lass.’ Effie couldn’t keep the warmth from her voice as she stroked the dog’s head. She looked back up to find both men watching her with curious looks. Didn’t they talk to their animals too? ‘. . . Shall we, then?’

They walked through the Street, Effie nodding and sharing a smile with Jayne Ferguson and a crafty wink with Lorna MacDonald as she passed by with the distinguished guests. Effie knew the gossip that would spill out now the women had charge of the village and she felt their sharp-eyed gazes at the men’s backs as they walked along. Even Mary McKinnon, who was rarely out of her bed these days – she was with child but carrying poorly – looked up from her knitting as they strode past her door.

They walked three abreast, the earl centrally placed as they began the climb up Mullach Geal. It was too steep to talk much, although Effie pointed out as many birds as she could – snipe and meadow pipits, wheatears and the native wrens particularly who hopped on the walls and cleits, singing loudly as they fought to be heard above the sea, wind and shrieking seabirds.

At the top of the Am Blaid ridge, an hour or so later and twice the time it would usually take her, they stopped.

‘Miss Gillies, a brief rest, if you will,’ the earl panted, leaning on his walking stick. ‘At my age, the spirit may well be willing but the flesh is sadly weak.’ Gingerly, he sat himself on the ground.