Ramsay just hoped his smile and his ability to listen thoughtfully would survive the next three days.
* * *
Tired but too restless to sleep after the long day, Ramsay made his way to the small family sitting room. Someone, probably Mrs. Donovan, had set up several bottles of drink and glasses on the table between the two wing chairs that faced the fire. He added a couple more blocks of peat to the embers, then inspected the bottles. The whisky would probably flatten him in his present state, so he poured claret from the decanter and settled down to watch the flames as he tried to sort out all the people he’d met that day.
It was near midnight when the door opened and Signy entered, dark circles under her eyes. “Do you mind if I join you?” she asked.
Ramsay rose politely. “Of course not, as long as you don’t expect dazzling conversation from me. Would you like a glass of Duncan’s excellent claret?”
“Yes, please.” She sank into the other wing chair and stretched her feet toward the fire. “I am thoroughly talked out. You must be too.”
“Indeed.” He poured her a glass of the wine and handed it over. The starkness of her black gown had been modified by a richly colored shawl woven of burgundy and gold and green yarns. She accepted the wine with murmured thanks and drank a third of it with one swallow. He topped her glass up before resuming his seat. “I thought you’d gone home several hours ago.”
“I did but only to collect a few of my things.” She released her braids from the coronet she’d worn all day, then began combing her fingers through her thick hair to loosen it. “Mrs. Donovan suggested that I stay at Skellig House until after the funeral. I agreed since she needs the extra help and it’s more convenient if I’m here.”
“You are always helping others, Signy,” he said softly as he admired the highlights glinting in the cascade of her red-gold hair. “Everyone seems to depend on you. Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Frequently.” She sighed. “But when things need doing and there’s no one else, I must do what I can. As the old laird aged, he could no longer manage everything. Since I’m good at organization and getting things done, I gradually took over a great deal of his work. It was often interesting, but there was no end to it.”
“It feels wrong that I’m being treated as the old laird’s chief mourner because I’m his grandson,” Ramsay mused. “But he hasn’t been part of my daily life for many years. You were with him all the time. Surely you miss him more deeply than I can.”
“Yes, he was the closest thing I had to a father.” She gave a soft chuckle. “And like a real father, he could be an annoying old devil! But we understood each other well.”
There was intimacy in enjoying a fire together after a long day of shared work, which made it easy to say, “Earlier today you said that after you’ve trained me, you’ll be free to pursue your own interests. What did you mean by that?”
After a long silence, she said, “I’d like more training so I can become a real artist. I want to learn to use oils and spend hours lost in painting. Most of my work now is quick sketching and watercolors. There’s never time for more.”
“You’re very talented and you have a gift for capturing the essence of what you see,” he said thoughtfully. “I can imagine the appeal of burying yourself in your work and not always taking care of others. You’ve earned the right to be your own woman.”
“I don’t want to bury myself altogether,” she said. “The world and people interest me. But I’d like to be selfish sometimes.”
“As I said, you’ve earned the right. Remind me of that if I become too demanding during our training sessions.”
“I imagine it will be easier to ignore you than it was to ignore the old laird,” she said with amusement. “You are warned.”
“Is Sea Cottage a good place for you to work when you have more time?”
“Yes, it’s why the laird said I could live there. I have room for a studio and I’m surrounded by the sea and sand and sky that I love to draw and paint.” She made a face. “The only thing I haven’t had is time. It’s the one thing the laird couldn’t give me.”
Another question had been tickling his mind all day. “You said that with all the bad luck Thorsay suffered, the laird was providing people extra help as needed and that you were his agent. How did that work?”
“I traveled around the islands regularly,” she explained. “In theory I was visiting the teachers I trained to see how they were doing, but since they’re an important part of their communities, they usually had a good idea which households needed help.”
“Clever,” he said approvingly. “What form did aid take?”
She shrugged. “Whatever was needed. Sometimes money but most often food. Potatoes, flour, dried fish. Sometimes labor for planting or sheep shearing or the harvest. In many cases, neighbors were willing to help with the work, but they were having difficulties of their own, so paying them for their labor helped both households.”
“No wonder everyone in Thorsay seems to know you,” he observed. “The aid you brought sounds necessary. Also expensive.”
“I’m sure it was, but I don’t know the costs. I’d tell the laird what was needed and he’d give me money or tell me to take food out of the storehouse. I know that he imported basic foods from the South and Norway when the troubles became serious.” She slanted a wry glance at him over her glass of wine. “You didn’t think you’d come back to great riches, did you?”
He laughed a little. “Never that. I never knew much about the family finances. The laird’s lands are extensive but not his bank accounts, I think. It will be interesting to hear what the laird’s lawyer has to say. Is that still Fergus Maclean?”
She nodded. “He’s bald as an egg now, but his mind is as sharp as ever. I expect he’ll want to talk to you after the funeral.”
“Something else to look forward to,” Ramsay said dryly.
“How long do you think it will take us to stop talking about your grandfather as ‘the laird’?” she asked with amusement. “After all, you’re the laird now.”
