“Never heard of them.” Mr.Flett shook his head dismissively. “And my father’s family has been living on Frest since long before the king ofNorway foolishly lost the Northern Isles to the king of Scotland in the fifteenth century over a failed dowry payment.”
“I suppose I was mistaken, then.” Rose shrugged airily, while inside she battled back disappointment at another dead end.
“There are a lot of Craigies and Inksters here in addition to us Fletts and Sinclairs,” Freya added helpfully as she passed a plate of sliced cheese to Rose.
“What are common first names? So many of yours sound more Scandinavian than Scottish,” Rose asked, trying to steer the discussion in a direction where she could inquire about any Tamsins.
“We are Orcadians,notScots.” Mr.Flett rather ferociously stabbed his smoked herring.
“We are a mix of cultures,” Mr.Sinclair explained more helpfully as he cast his stepfather a warning look.
“Some of us more than others,” Mr.Flett grumbled, side-eyeing his stepson.
“Is Tamsin one of the British names used in Orkney? I always found it rather a pretty one myself.” It might not have been the most elegant way to ask the question, but at least Rose had managed to make her inquiry not a complete non sequitur.
Mr.Flett made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat as he heaped pickle onto a bere barley cracker. Mr.Sinclair, however, gave her a warm smile. “That is more of a Welsh name, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve never heard of it before,” Barbara piped up. “But I think it sounds wonderful.”
It did not appear as if Rose would be learning anything more about the mysterious Tamsin Morris, at least from the Fletts. Biting down on a piece of the cheese, she let the sharp flavor prick her tongue. Perhaps she needed another line of inquiry.
“This is an absolutely wonderful meal, Freya. You are an excellent hostess. Did you ever entertain the Earl of Mar or his late son?”
That had not been the right thing to say. Tension swamped the room like humidity during a Floridian summer. Everyone, even little Alexander, shifted uncomfortably. Mr.Flett’s dour expression devolved into something deadly. The right side of his body stiffened while his left stayed limp. He made a fist so tight that he scraped the tines of his fork against his plate. The resulting shriek was the only sound that filled the now-silent room.
“Well, Iamflattered to be an occupant of Muckle Skaill who’s been invited to eat at this table.” Rose made a clumsy attempt to settle whatever dust storm she’d inadvertently kicked up.
The children dipped their heads lower toward their plates, while Mr.Sinclair half swallowed, half choked, the harsh motion causing his Adam’s apple to shift. The squeaking coming from Mr.Flett’s dinnerware only increased.
“I suppose you weren’t well acquainted with the earl and his family. Their loss, of course. I assume Mar and Barbury mostly stayed on Hamarray when they visited.”
Mary’s head bounced up. “The viscount—”
“Was by all accounts a decent sort,” Mr.Sinclair hastily broke into his sister’s sentence, and Rose did her best not to show undo interest in his interruption. WhathadMary been about to say? Had they known Barbury more than Mr.Sinclair was willing to let on? Why would he hide a connection like that? Was Mr.Sinclair one of the spies, and had he realized that the viscount suspected him?
Mr.Flett, the champion of disgusted sounds, emitted another one, but he otherwise did not comment. Instead, he went back to eating, chewing as if attacking his meal. At least he had stopped making the earsplitting scraping noises against his plate.
“Was anyone on Frest particularly close to the heir apparent?”
Barbara bounced in her seat this time. “He was—”
“Not as arrogant as the earl,” Mr.Sinclair again interrupted. “He would at least acknowledge the presence of us locals. He would have made a better laird than his father.”
Mr.Sinclair was definitely hiding something—perhaps many somethings. Unfortunately, he was also extremely talented at steering the conversation in the direction he wanted. He seemed unlikely to permit one of the children to slip and admit something that he didn’t want her knowing. Rose had a feeling he had known Barbury better than he wished to admit, but again, why was he so eager to keep that fact from her? Had they been friends? Enemies? Could Mr.Sinclair be thehim, or could he be the spy?
“I suppose a landowner should get to know his or her tenants,” Rose said, seizing the chance to lay the groundwork for interviewing the rest of the crofters. “Do you think you could serve as my guide, Mr.Sinclair, and introduce me to them? Perhaps the day after tomorrow? That way you can give them advance notice so it doesn’t seem like such an intrusion—more like a neighborly visit.”
The best scoff yet erupted from Mr.Flett. Mr.Sinclair, however, did not make his feelings quite so apparent. He looked a little bit dumbfounded, definitely a tad concerned, and perhaps, just perhaps, a touch pleased.
“You could come to the sheep count tomorrow, Miss Van Etten,” Margaret said solemnly. “Everyone from Frest will be on Hamarray helping to round up the flock. We put them in pens that we callpundsjust like they do on North Ronaldsay, except our breed isn’t adapted to eating seaweed like theirs.”
“I’d love to help,” Rose said, eager to begin her investigation almost immediately and not wanting to give either man a chance to protest.
It seemed, however, whether any of them truly wished it, including her, Rose was about to play Lady of Muckle Skaill come hell or high water.
Chapter 4
“Don’t be a gappus over a lass.” Sigurd’s low words carried through the small byre that Sinclair had built.
