Ramsay’s gaze moved to the carved dragon figurehead, miraculously identifiable after so many years of burial. “I want this to remain a secret for the time being. Curious people aren’t likely to do much damage to the stones of Fiona Brae, but it wouldn’t take much carelessness to destroy this old ship. It’s a wonderful scholarly find, and I don’t want to see it damaged.”
Looking properly impressed, Andor said, “I understand.” He walked up to the ship and, like Ramsay, touched it with a wondering hand. “This feels much more like proper Thorsayian history than those old stone huts. And a grave as well! It deserves respect.”
“Indeed it does,” Signy said. Respect and protection. She had an uneasy feeling that while Fiona Brae was of interest for its history, this long-buried ship might attract a different and more dangerous kind of interest.
Chapter 26
Two days after his initial visit to the Maxwell Gallery, Broc returned in hopes of meeting Sophie Macleod. He arrived early so as not to miss meeting her. After a cup of Maxwell’s excellent tea, he browsed through the gallery again, taking more time to study each item.
Following Waterloo, his regiment had been stationed in Paris to help keep the peace when the Allies who had defeated Napoleon gathered for a conference to work out the treaties that would deal with France’s sins and the future of Europe. One of the more colorful disagreements had been about art. France had looted the treasures of every country it invaded, and now the original owners wanted their masterpieces back. Though he was no art connoisseur, he could understand their point of view. And he certainly could appreciate Signy’s work. Her pictures were lovely, and they evoked his home.
He kept an eye on the customers who came and went, not wanting to miss his quarry. He had a mental image of Sophie Macleod as a tall iron-willed eccentric who might well brandish an umbrella when annoyed.
He was contemplating a statue of a nearly naked lady trying to avoid unnatural attentions from a swan when Maxwell called, “Major Mackenzie, Miss Macleod has arrived.”
Broc made his way back to the main desk and was startled to find a petite redhead with a disturbingly sharp gaze. She was younger than he’d expected, probably under thirty.
Maxwell made the introductions, adding, “Sophie, Major Mackenzie has a proposition for you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I may be an artist,” she said with a slight Scottish accent, “but I have no interest in propositions from debauched ex-officers.”
As Maxwell watched with amusement, Broc said, startled, “Notthatkind of proposition! I’m from Thorsay, and the laird asked me to see if I could persuade you to come north for a visit to tutor an amateur artist who is a great admirer of your work.”
“I’ve had men say they were great admirers of my work as a first step toward behaving dishonorably toward me,” she snapped.
Beginning to understand, Broc said, “Rather like the way some men assume that actresses are always women of loose morals?”
She glowered. “Exactly.”
“I assure you that neither the Laird of Thorsay nor I have had any such thoughts. The artist who hopes to study with you is female,” he assured her.
Before she could reply, Maxwell said, “Other customers are coming in, so perhaps you could continue this discussion in my back office.”
“Very well.” Sophie turned like an angry cat and made her way through the door that led to the back of the shop. Broc followed and was temporarily dazzled by the range of sculpture that was stored there. The largest was a nude Olympic athlete of startlingly male proportions.
The artist turned left into a private office that, unlike the desk outside, had stacks of papers held down by stone cherubs and bronze ornaments.
Sophie flounced down into the chair behind the desk. She still looked hostile, but at least she seemed willing to listen. “Tell me more about these people who want me to go to the end of the world.”
“I believe that Shetland is the end of the world. Thorsay is next door to the end of the world,” Broc said mildly. “You have a Scots accent. Are you by any chance an islander?”
Showing a hint of a smile, she replied, “Aye, I am. The Hebrides. Skye, to be exact. My island is cluttered with Macleods.”
Though none like this one, Broc suspected. He removed a pile of books from the chair on the opposite side of the desk and sat down to answer her earlier question. “The old Laird of Thorsay, Duncan Ramsay, recently died at a great age and has been succeeded by his grandson, Kai Ramsay. For years Duncan was assisted by Signy Matheson, a very capable young woman and an amateur artist who rarely had enough time to paint.
“Now that Signy has fewer demanding duties, she wants to spend more time on her art work but has never had any formal training. She believes that working with a professional artist would be beneficial for her, and I know she’d like to paint with oils. Because of Signy’s service to the old laird, his grandson hoped to persuade you to come to Thorsay for a few weeks and spend some time tutoring her.”
“What about transportation and accommodations? Thorsay is not an easy place to reach.”
“All of your expenses would be covered. The laird told me that it’s impossible to judge the value of an artist’s time, but there would also be an honorarium.”
Sophie was beginning to look interested. “How does this Signy even know about me?”
“Apparently she found your work in a book of prints?”
Sophie nodded. “Maxwell paid for the publication of a book of prints with work by several young artists he considered promising, but the number printed was very small. I’m surprised a copy made it all the way to Thorsay.”
“I have no idea how it did, but now that I’ve seen several of your paintings here, I can understand why Signy likes your work,” Broc said honestly.
