For herself, Isla had never been taught how to run an estate as a whole. A household? Yes. An entire estate? No.
When faced with the enormity of it all, she discovered something about herself:
She wasn’t timid or compliant.
She might be unsure and untrained in this particular task, but determination roiled in her breast.
So, despite feeling desperately young and out of her depth, Isla had rolled up her sleeves and set to work. She was intelligent and capable. She merely needed to learn estate management. Matt, as ever, refused to deal with people or leave the house, but he had an excellent listening ear and provided advice. He propped her up as she learned to spread her untried wings.
The old steward was let go and a new one hired—a younger man, Mr. John Cranston, who brimmed with energy and clever ideas for modernization that assisted tenants instead of penalizing them. With Matt and Mr. Cranston guiding her actions, Isla authorized repairs and mediated disputes. She discussed planting schedules and tallied account sums until her eyes ached. Some days, it felt as if all she did was breathe through one catastrophe after another.
But slowly, through trial and error and an astonishing amount of work, she brought the estate back to life. Leaking roofs were rethatched,and crumbling harling refreshed. Crop yields dramatically increased, and her tenants smiled more readily.
Most importantly, witnessing the changes filled Isla with an almost holy sense of purpose and protectiveness. She had begun the task as a way to channel her grief over Tavish Balfour. But it had ended with Isla discovering entirely new horizons within her heart, as well as carving out a place for herself in a new community.
She became a favorite with Dr. and Mrs. Sumsion and always praised his Sunday sermons. She took Mrs. White’s advice on how to improve the health of the damask roses in the back garden and Sir Arthur’s recommendations on excellent sheep breeds for the home farm. She hosted an annual fete each October and awarded prize ribbons for foot races and laughed when Mr. Johnshaven told her the same tired joke for the twelfth time. She wept with Lady Wintrose when word came that her son had been killed at the Battle of Vauchamps. She held Mrs. Peterson’s hand as she drew her last breath after a catastrophic apoplexy.
In short, Isla became one of them, a trusted pillar of the community. She shed her old life—Tavish Balfour and their crazed “love”—and grew vibrant wings, launching into the sunshine of her future.Timidandcompliantstopped nipping at her heels. She embodied stronger words—brave, intrepid, resolute.
Malton Hill became the bedrock of her existence.
Isla would do whatever it took to retain ownership of the estate, and by extension, the new person she had become there. Anything to ensure she didn’t lose her community or the woman she was at Malton Hill. She would beg Tavish for a divorce. She would dance to Gray’s tune and marry where he dictated. Anything, really, to secure her dowry in full.
Because giving up Malton Hill was the one thing Isla refused to contemplate.
Reverend Stronach endedhis sermon with a loudAmen.
Gray shifted beside Isla as they sang a hymn in closing, his bass voice steady.
Services finished, Isla stood. Gray murmured something about needing a word with a local squire before adding, “I will meet you in the carriage momentarily. I shan’t keep you waiting long.” He walked off, his gait smooth. At least seeing the Balfours in church hadn’t overset him.
Matt, of course, had not come to church. Years ago, he had refused to attend, claiming that someone had to keep their Grandmama company while Gray and Isla were away. Their English grandmother had held rather inflexible opinions about the Church of Scotland and preferred to attend “regular” church (as she called the Church of England) when they were in London. But after Grandmama had passed on, Matt hadn’t resumed his attendance.
Gray no longer at her side, Isla pivoted and scanned the gathered villagers and parishioners.
The Balfours easily stood out. Not only were Lord Cairnfell and Tavish some of the tallest men in the congregation, but their good looks and charming manners always elicited smiles and shy blushes.
Certain facts would never change.
Some might consider it surprising that two families, sworn to bitter enmity, would attend the same parish church. However, the joint attendance was rather by design. When King Charles II elevated the Balfour brothers to the titles of Northcairn and Southcairn, he ordered them to worship in the same space, thereby forcing the families to maintain a veil of civility. Upping the ante, the King’s charter also decreed that they each contribute to the cost of the church, as well as the minister’s salary.
From Gray’s lengthy diatribes on the subject, Isla gathered that Northcairn hadn’t paid his portion in more than a decade.
Just one more black mark in the never-ending quarrel between their families.
The knowledge didn’t quell Isla’s urge to stare and stare at Captain Balfour across the church nave, to catalog every minute change that had taken him from her Tavish to this towering man. But to do so would generate curiosity from their neighbors and censure if Gray learned of it.
So instead, as Isla made her way toward the door, she flitted a brief gaze over the assembled Balfours.
Captain Balfour boldly met her eyes. As if he, too, were unable to ignore her presence.
He slid his eyes subtly to the right.
Oh, gracious.
She had nearly forgotten about that. Their signal. The way that they communicated with each other when around others.
I left you a note,his look said.
