“Aye,” Mrs. Rollins said, voice kind. “Lord Farnell has told us much of your accomplishments, Mrs. Newton. And to know that ye have done so much already in your young life, why it is even more a marvel.”
Chrissi murmured her thanks, trying to understand why the pair were here. Had they stopped in for a visit? A mother looking to secure a husband for her daughter?
Alis motioned for them all to be seated. Mrs. Craib bustled in with another tea tray. Mrs. Rollins poured this time.
It appeared a well-versed routine between them all.
When offered, Chrissi shamelessly added another roast beef finger sandwich to her plate. The ladies chattered with Alis about the vicar’s sermon Sunday last and the unwise changes Farmer McLean was making to his east field.
Clearly, theirs was an acquaintance of some standing.
The conversation finally turned back to Chrissi and her presence here.
“Do ye ken the excavation will uncover something dreadfully exciting, Mrs. Newton?” Miss Rollins asked, balancing a square of Victoria sponge on the edge of her plate.
Had Chrissi ever viewed the world with such wide-eyed innocence?
Perhaps once. Before Alis and heartbreak.
“I always hope to uncover something exciting and new on each excavation,” Chrissi replied.
“Have I told ye the plan for the excavation, Miss Rollins?” Alis asked, gaze solicitous and, Chrissi disliked admitting, fond.
The reason for the ladies’ visit was becoming more and more apparent with each passing moment.
“No,” Miss Rollins beamed, “but I should dearly love to know.”
“Come,” Alis motioned, rising to his feet.
Setting down her plate, Miss Rollins eagerly followed him over to the large window, cooing and giggling as he gestured toward the hills outside, expounding his thoughts on the excavation.
Mrs. Rollins studied the pair from where she sat beside Chrissi. The woman loosed a contented sigh. “They make such a handsome couple, do ye not think, Mrs. Newton?”
“Yes. They do,” Chrissi agreed. “Pretty as a picture.”
And they were.
Alis’s dark head bent near Miss Rollins’s fair one, arm outstretched to point out features of the landscape. At one point, Miss Rollins turned her head to gaze up at Alis, a fetching blush on her cheeks and starshine in her eyes. Chrissi challenged the celebrated painter Sir Ewan Campbell himself to capture a more perfect expression of adoration.
Chrissi dropped her eyes to the Victorian sponge on Miss Rollins’s abandoned plate—a bead of strawberry jam dripping down the side into a puddle. As if the cake were weeping.
Clearly, the emotions pricking Chrissi’s eyes were clouding her thinking.
Enough. How many tears could one woman shed over Alistair Maclagan?
Any thought Chrissi had of fighting to complete the excavations died a thousand deaths at the sound of Alis’s laugh over some witticism Miss Rollins murmured.
Better an empty stomach than having to stoically watch Alis court, and likely marry, another woman. Better the cold comfort of Aunt Eunice’s “hospitality” than to drag the grief and pain of their splintered past into the light of day once more.
“I say, Mrs. Newton, your color seems off,” Mrs. Rollins said. “Are ye feeling poorly?”
Bless the woman. She must be the Catholic Saint of Lost Lovers in the guise of a Scottish matron.
“I am rather unwell.” Chrissi pressed a hand to her brow and rose to her feet.
Alis and Miss Rollins turned toward her.
“I do beg your pardon,” Chrissi said, attempting to affect a look of pain. “I fear the events of today have given me something of a headache. Do you mind terribly if I retire to rest my head?”
