The stubbly fields to the east are dotted with newly wrapped bales, the combines and tractors all now returned to their sheds.
The cows and their calves have been rounded up from Rother Path and are now safely enclosed for the evening in their meadow, the great red bull lowing to them over the hedge from the next field.
Every farm worker from the cottages dotted over the hills behind the village has downed tools after their long summer’s work and is now taking to the country lanes in their smartest clothes, all scrubbed knees and swishing tartan.
The noisy gulls lift effortlessly onto the cool, late-August breeze which is scented with the workers’ cologne, lavender, willow sap and sea salt, and they glide high in the air, their serene glassy eyes fixed on Port Willow and the last of the afternoon’s tourist fishing boats now returning to the harbour with their small catch.
In the village, the streets are cleared of cars for the purposes of dancing and criss-crossed with cheerful bunting strung between every window and street lamp, and the white lightbulbs along the jetty gleam out in the dying light.
A boat, newly arrived from Skye and filled with red-haired children is mooring up at the jetty, and the older children help a white-haired, elderly woman step ashore in her ancient Highland mink and pearls.
All the villagers are leaving their houses and slowly strolling, remarking to their neighbours about how quickly the summer has passed and how the dark nights will soon be drawing in. Their chatter mingles with the drone of the piper’s chanter as he works his lungs and the rest of the ceilidh band try their instruments ahead of a long night’s dancing at The Princess and the Pea Inn.
This is the best and brightest night in Port Willow’s ritual year. This is Harvest Home.
No one sees the woman sitting in the inn garden on the promenade, shielded from the bustling street by bushes radiant with drooping red rosehips. A tartan blanket protects her white dress from the damp bench as she clasps her steaming mug of tea and waits patiently.
‘There you are. I’ve been walking the prom looking for you.’
Throwing the blanket off her shoulders, Beatrice stood and faced Atholl, smoothing down her white, full skirted dress and adjusting the tartan sash with its large bow at her shoulder. Mrs Mair had fixed it to the bodice only an hour earlier using a gleaming brown agate brooch with a small posy of white heather shoved behind its clasp, and the older woman’s eyes had misted and her voice wavered as she spoke about her daughter far away who had once upon a time been the bonniest girl at the Harvest Home celebrations.
Beatrice hadn’t felt so sure she could pull off Louisa Mair’s Highland look this evening, thinking it old-fashioned and just far too Scottish, but Atholl’s expression told a different story.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he uttered. Instantly abashed, the colour rose in his pale cheeks. Beatrice wondered if he’d meant to say it, but her thoughts were stolen away as she looked at Atholl.
Six foot of Scottish redhead stared back, his curls dampened and swept behind his ears showing his squared jawline and fine, high cheekbones. The muscles in his jaw worked and his blue eyes shone as he let her look him over in his Highland shirt, open at the throat and with the smallest touch of creamy lace at his cuffs. One shoulder was draped over with a heavy tartan sash which hung behind him in neat folds. The silver buckle on his thick leather belt glinted in the early evening light and the mossy green kilt hung in thick pleats to his knees. She scanned his taut muscled calves, the thick Highland wool socks and gleaming brown leather boots. Distractedly, she lifted a hand to her hair which was pinned up in a bundle of curls – Cheryl and Jillian’s handiwork – and tucked a soft strand behind her ear.
‘What are ye doing sitting out here?’ he asked.
‘I wasn’t sure if I was going in.’
‘And are you?’
‘I am now. I wasn’t going to fight against a tide that wanted me to stay away.’
Atholl’s brow crumpled in confusion.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly, dismissing her words with a wave of her hand. ‘Don’t you scrub up very nicely – once you’ve got the lavender twigs and the earth and salt out of your hair.’ She smiled unrestrainedly, so glad he’d appeared before her and in far better fettle than he’d been the night before at the But and Ben.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been away all day, and left you alone with setting up. I had a lot of things to attend to—’ he said.
‘That’s OK,’ she cut him off, not wanting to hear him explaining again how he wanted to put more distance between them. He’d come to find her, hadn’t he? He wanted her at the ceilidh. That was enough. ‘It doesn’t matter; you’re here now.’
‘The band’s ready to start up,’ said Atholl. And as if to confirm this, a slow lament drifted out through the open inn windows.
‘Is Gene back?’ she asked, her brows tilting and showing all her hope.
Atholl only shook his head.
‘What about Kitty, is she all right?’
‘She’s helping to serve the Highland punch at the bar.’
Beatrice sighed. ‘We messed up there, Atholl. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise to me. I was the one setting up the lavender oil still and racing to finish the planting while you slept. I was the one who didn’t tell Gene where I was for near on fifteen hours as I worked. I should have guessed he’d come looking for one of us. But I was consumed with wanting to work. After we got out of the rip current, after you’d opened your heart about Richard and your marriage and how you didn’t know where you stood with him, I was struck with terrible guilt at having monopolised your time here when you should have been recovering, and all the while I was wantin’ to see more and more of you. Selfish, I ken. So, I tried to leave you in peace and keep myself occupied. But when you woke up and ye came to me in the field in your sundress and your hair all loose, and… I knew I couldn’t help myself when it came to you, Beattie. I wanted to kiss you again. It felt like a great wave washing over me, and I wanted to drown in you.’
Beatrice stepped towards him, placing a hand on his shirt sleeve. ‘But you told me to talk to Rich, to see if he wanted me back. Is that what you want me to do?’
