Since he was in Clanwick, he’d start by speaking to Fergus Maclean to tell him of the disastrous loan. Perhaps the lawyer would have useful suggestions, though Ramsay wasn’t optimistic about that. But Fergus could complete the property transfer of Sea Cottage to Signy as soon as possible so that her ownership was secured no matter what happened to Skellig House and the estate.
He was about to head to the lawyer’s home when a familiar voice called out, “Good day, Kai! How is your lairdship this fine sunny morning?”
Ramsay turned and saw Broc Mackenzie. His heart lifted. “Broc! It’s good to see you. We still haven’t sat down with a bottle of Callan’s whisky to drink and talk. If you’ve some time, today would be a good chance to make a start.”
Broc grinned. “It’s a little early for whisky, so how about we go down to the harbor and pick up some mutton fritters and clapshot at Gordon’s? Then we can sit and watch the harbor while we eat and exchange lies.”
“That is the best idea I’ve heard today,” Ramsay said. “As long as we don’t forget the beer to wash it all down.”
“Beer goes without saying.” They fell into step together and made their way down the high street toward the harbor. His voice more serious, Broc continued, “When I was riding in this morning, I saw that Sea Cottage was wrecked in the storm. Is Signy all right?”
Ramsay repressed a shiver as he thought of that night. “She got out just in time, thanks to her dog Fiona, who came to me for help. They’re staying at Skellig House until the cottage can be rebuilt.”
Broc glanced at him askance. “It is safe to rebuild when the location is so vulnerable to storms?”
“There’s some risk,” Ramsay admitted, “but the cottage has been flooded occasionally in the past, though not usually so badly. My grandfather gave the cottage to Signy as a reward because of all she did for him and Thorsay over the years. She loves the place, so it needs to be repaired for her.” Ramsay suddenly wondered if the laird had given her the cottage because he couldn’t afford to leave her money.
Broc nodded with understanding. “In that case, rebuilding makes sense. This time with storm shutters.”
“I had the same thought.” Ramsay realized that despite the years that had passed they’d slid into the easy rapport they’d always had. This was just the sort of friend he needed today. “Do you know if Peter Swenson is still well and running his building business?”
“Yes, and he now has two strapping sons to help him. A fortnight back they were out to the farm to make some improvements to one of the barns where people are living now. They made short work of what needed to be done.”
“Does he still live in that house on the western edge of Clanwick?”
“Yes, he and his lads have been expanding it when they’re not busy elsewhere.” Broc glanced at him. “By the way, has anyone shot at you again?”
Ramsay had almost forgotten that incident. “It only happened once, so it was probably a careless hunter.” He hoped so, because he had enough other troubles without someone trying to kill him.
Gordon’s was a cook shop on the harbor that served both the town’s inhabitants and sailors. When Ramsay and Broc went inside, the ancient Mrs. Gordon glanced up and said, “Mutton fritters and clapshot and two bottles of beer?”
Both men laughed. “You have a fine memory, Mrs. Gordon,” Ramsay said. “How many years has it been since Broc and I have been in here together?”
The old woman thought. “Fifteen years. About time you both came home.”
She moved into the kitchen and called out their orders to another member of the Gordon family who was doing the cooking. It took only a few minutes to present the customers with a basket containing the food and drink.
When Ramsay reached for his wallet to pay, Mrs. Gordon said gruffly, “No charge just this once.”
“Thank you,” Broc said, looking as surprised as Ramsay felt. “That’s very kind.”
“It’s good to see you two rascals home and safe,” she said with even greater gruffness. “Now off with you. Don’t forget to bring the basket and bottles back.”
Meekly accepting their dismissal, Ramsay and Broc left the cook shop and by unspoken consent made their way around the harbor to the left. There were benches scattered along the waterfront, and one in particular had been “their” bench back in their school days, when they’d both attended the Clanwick grammar school.
When they’d settled, Broc investigated the basket. “It looks like we’ve been given double-sized orders.”
“Because we’ve grown?” Ramsay pulled out a mutton fritter, which had just been fried up and smelled tantalizing. Gordon’s also made the best clapshot in Clanwick. The dish was the Thorsayian version of what Scots farther south called neeps and tatties. Turnips and potatoes were mashed together with onions, butter, and a bit of salt and pepper, then served hot. Delicious, and very much the taste of home.
There was relaxed silence while they ate. After Broc finished his share, he said, “This certainly takes me back in time.”
“We’ve both traveled long and winding roads since our school days,” Ramsay said. He studied his friend’s profile. Broc had the Celtic good looks of many Thorsayians, with dark hair and intense blue eyes. He was still Broc, who had been a friend since the nursery, but his features were harder and more wary than when they were boys. “Are you glad or sorry you went into the army? Your parents weren’t keen on your going, but there was no holding you back.”
Broc didn’t shy away from the question. “Mostly glad. There was excitement and mud and danger and deep friendships, and in the end we defeated Napoleon. A miracle that I survived with only the odd scar here and there.” He unconsciously touched the one on his cheek. “But after Waterloo, there was no point in staying on. Now it’s time to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.”
Ramsay asked, “How are you adjusting to being back in Thorsay?”
“You always were too curious,” Broc said dryly. “But since you ask, it’s a mixture of feelings. It’s grand to see my family and to live by the sea again. I used to dream of the North Sea when baking on the plains of central Spain.”
