Even out of the corner of her eye, she could see Lord Sholto’s grin. The short journey back was but a straight line after all.

‘I think we’ll manage. Thank you, Miss Gillies, for an illuminating day.’ For all their directness and bright-eyed smiles yesterday, she had found it increasingly hard to hold the younger man’s gaze. Something she couldn’t quite grasp, an undercurrent, seemed to pass between them and as the day had progressed, she had fallen into a pattern of directing her comments, conversation and looks almost entirely towards his father.

Her own father said something to her. She looked back at the guests.

‘Oh. My father says the minister came round earlier, asking if you were back. With Mr Mathieson gone on the expedition, he has invited you to dine with him tonight.’

There was only the barest of hesitations. ‘How kind,’ the earl murmured.

‘Very,’ Lord Sholto added.

There was a pause.

‘And what shall we be doing tomorrow, Miss Gillies?’ the earl asked.

‘Well, I thought I might show you how to snare the puffins, if you’re willing,’ she said.

‘Indeed we are.’

‘And perhaps you might be interested in teaching me some of your roping skills too, Miss Gillies,’ Lord Sholto said.

‘Have you climbed before, sir?’

‘I’ve done some mountaineering in the French Alps,’ he replied. ‘But from what I saw today, I think you can probably still teach me a thing or two.’

‘If you like, then, I’ll pack both ropes. And you, sir?’

The earl shook his head with a surprised laugh. ‘I rather think not. I’m here for the birds, not the thrills.’

‘Very well. I’ve chores to get on with, but I’ll be ready whenever you are in the morning. Just come here, I’ll not be far.’

‘Very well. Good day, Miss Gillies. Mr Gillies,’ the earl nodded. Lord Sholto simply smiled.

Father and daughter watched the father and son walk away, both tall and imposing, both with a similar erect gait. Even from behind, they looked like lords, elevated to all the rest. Their suits were well cut, the cloth fine, their manners impeccable. They smiled and spoke easily to the villagers, to her, but she sensed there was an invisible shield around them, their own sense of remove.

‘Are you running hot, missy?’ Mad Annie asked, needles still clacking.

Effie pressed a hand to her forehead. ‘No. I don’t think so,’ she said warily. ‘Why?’

The old woman shrugged. ‘Your eyes are bright. You look feverish.’