They went from farm to farm. At Partridge’s, Edward boxed the man’s ears with questions about missing sheep, while Isla asked after his wife’s rheumatism and recommended a broth her maid at Strathmore, Moira swore by. At Hewson’s, Edward inspected the state of the outbuildings while Isla sat on a low wall and let Hewson’s grandchildren show her their pet lamb with a ribbon round its neck.
“You cannot keep him in the house forever, you know,” she told them. “He will grow, and then he will knock over your chairs and try to eat the curtains.”
“He can eat Pa’s coat,” one boy said darkly. “Pa snores.”
“I shall say nothing,” Isla murmured.
She caught Edward watching her once, a strange look on his face. It was half perplexity, half something softer. She could not interpret it and didn’t try. Instead she rode on, asking names,making faces at toddlers, ignoring the murmurs that followed them like a wake.
By the time the sun had travelled past its highest point, they had covered most of the northern tenants and turned toward the village of Wexham. Isla’s thighs ached from the unnatural angle of side-saddle. She shifted slightly, earning a warning squeak from the horse’s leather.
“Do you regret coming?” Edward asked.
“Och, aye,” she said. “All this fresh air and conversation. I’ll be wanting three days of London ballrooms tae recover.”
He almost smiled. They crested a low hill and Wexham unfolded below. Stone cottages huddled with smoking chimneys. A church spire rose from the jumble of roofs. Somewhere, a swinging sign made a creaking noise. A dog barked at their horses as they neared and was silenced by an angry shout from a window. This world smelled strongly of peat and baking bread.
They walked their horses down into the lane. Heads turned. Hats were removed. People bobbed. Isla did her duchess best and inclined her head without appearing to look down upon anyone.
“Your Graces!” The call came from the front of the inn, a sturdy building with freshly lime-washed walls and a signboard showing a rather smug-looking lion. The innkeeper himselfstood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a cloth. “If I might have a word?”
Edward reined in. “What is it, Mr. Blake?”
“News from town,” Blake said, holding up a folded newspaper. His expression was uneasy. “I thought … seeing as how … your good lady is from north of the border” He glanced at Isla and shut his mouth on the rest.
Isla’s stomach tightened. “What news?” she asked.
Blake looked at Edward.
“It concerns Her Grace’s family seat,” he said carefully.
“Give it to me,” Isla said.
He hesitated only a heartbeat before coming forward. The paper was a London one,damp along the edges from its journey. Blake’s thumb marked a column. Isla unfolded it with fingers that were suddenly clumsy.
Her eye snatched at words.
Devastating Fire in Perthshire
Ancient Seat of the Dukes of Strathmore Gutted by Flames
Damage Extensive—Cause Unknown
Her vision narrowed. The rest of the paragraph arranged itself with cruel clarity. A blaze believed to have started in the east wing. Servants fleeing and the great hall collapsing. There was no mention yet of; casualties. But what was reported was enough to make her heart slam against her ribs.
Those poor people. Everyone who works for us. It was their home too.
The world tilted. She heard her own breath as if from a distance.
“Isla.” Edward’s voice came from somewhere beside her, low and steady. “Let me see.”
She handed him the paper without complaint. Her hands had begun to tremble.
“Strathmore is …” She swallowed, trying to shape the word. “Destroyed?”
“Not entirely.” He read quickly, lips tightening. “The structure stands. Parts of it. The damage is severe.” He glanced at her. “It does not name your brother among the casualties.”
Isla blinked. She felt as though her head was stuffed with wool.
