“Economic situation,” Sigurd repeated as he managed another stamp with his cane and good foot. “It is phrases like that that hoodwink the islanders into thinking you are the lad to parlay with the gentry.”
Sinclair had never found responsibility uncomfortable—until now. The people of Frest did not really wish to trust him. They would much rather put a more favored son in charge. But many had not returned. Aye, sons and fathers were trickling back. Any one of them could theoretically take up the position of de facto leader, but none of them understood the upper classes like Sinclair did. Although they’d all attended the local school, they hadn’t spent the years Sinclair had studying old, dusty tomes from the earl’s personal library or treatises on everything from agriculture to mechanics.
“I shall do what is required of me,” Sinclair promised.I always do.
Even though he had not said the last words, Sigurd had clearly sensed them. The right half of his mouth twisted downward at the additional reminder of his and his children’s dependence on his stepson. The man had always been a powerful force—he still was, even if his body did not always obey his commands. Yet Sigurd saw only what he could no longer do, not all that he did. The man still worked hard, helping wherever he could and teaching his children how to survive the harsh life of a crofter. He kept his body in shape by taking daily walks to the cliffs of Hamarray when the tides were low. There was much about the man to be admired.
Unfortunately, the esteem that Sinclair felt toward his stepfather would never be returned. Most of him had long ago both recognized that fact and become resigned to it.
The other part of Sinclair ... well, it was destined for disappointment.
“You didn’t mind having the Royal Navy’s Grand Fleet at your doorstep?” Rose asked Mrs.Janet Inkster the next day as they stood together with Myrtle near the base of two knolls on Hamarray. The grassy lumps evidently formed a natural barricade that the islanders used to help round up the flock. The three of them were supposed to make sure that the sheep did not break loose and scatter when they emerged from the shallow pass. Rose, however, was much more interested in what the middle-aged islander had to say about her feelings toward the British and her thoughts about Mar and his late son.
“Nay.” Janet shook her head. The ends of her yellow-and-white tweed scarf tied about her head fluttered in the wind. “Those big ships were a welcome sight, made us feel protected, living so far as we do out here in the North Sea.”
“The sailors didn’t cause any problems with the locals? They can be rowdy on shore leave,” Rose asked.
“My Texas Ranger grandpa had a few tales about drunk mariners carousing in Galveston,” Myrtle added.
“They were mostly good lads,” Janet said. “It was nice having so many young men around—especially with our boys off at the Fronts or serving in the navy themselves. Made me miss my Jack and William both a peedie bit less and a peedie bit more. My Davy—now, he was stationed in Scapa Flow, and he’d visit me whenever he had the chance. He’d always bring a friend or two around who were hankering for some home-cooked food. When my boy died at Jutland, his old mates who survived still came around and helped me out when they could.”
Rose swallowed, thinking of the soldiers she couldn’t bring to safety quickly enough. All the world carried death around with them these days, one way or another. Here, on this island, where the population had been declining since the brutal Enclosures, every soul who did not make it back threatened the continued existence of these people.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Myrtle said gently as Rose struggled to compose herself.
“We—we lost so many good people.” Rose finally managed to speak. Her voice was still thick, but at least it was steady. “I cannot imagine how you must miss your son.”
“Aye.” A raw pain sprang into Janet’s eyes that ran deeper than tears could reach. The woman let her thin shoulders drop for just a moment, as if permitting the agony that she normally held at bay to wash through her. Then she straightened, her pale-blue eyes not exactly bright but resolved. “At least the older boys will be home soon. Others, like Widow Craigie, aren’t so lucky. My Ann and I will be glad to have two more hands around the croft again.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t been easy without your sons.” Rose thought of the work the Fletts had put into providing just one meal. She’d never considered before how vital families could be—how necessary to survival. Then again, until the war, Rose had never couched the act of living in those terms—survival and necessity.
“It has been a peedie bit of a challenge every now and then. Mr.Sinclair helped us out a time or two, but he had his own croft and the other islanders to help.”
The mix of bitterness and reluctant gratitude in Janet’s voice shocked Rose as she realized that Mr.Sinclair hadnotfought in the Great War. She’d originally assumed that he’d lost his eye in the trenches early in the conflict, but now she wondered if he’d received the wound in childhood. It would explain why he hadn’t been able to join the cause. There was no shame in that as far as Rose was concerned. War held no glory, and male crofters had been sorely needed to keep the people and armies fed. It had been a constant struggle for the rural French farmers who were torn between their obligations to the plow and to the gun. Yet it was clear that Janet did not feel the same as Rose—at least not entirely.
“Without the income the men would have earned from fishing, Ann has had to work for that horrible ...” Janet trailed off and then glanced out of the corner of her eye at Rose and Myrtle. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore now, does it, with the men coming home.”
Rose’s heart stuttered. Why had Janet paused? Had Ann found employment as a courier for the spy ring? “For thathorriblewho? Someone on Frest?”
“I shouldn’t have called him horrible. It isn’t my place,” Janet added quickly.
“The earl?” Rose asked, not sure if that should allay or heighten her suspicions. Mar remained one of her chief suspects. Was Ann the timid maid she had met her first night at Muckle Skaill? There were not too many people from the island to choose from, but the name was common enough.
“You were asking about what it was like with the Grand Fleet here.” Janet seemed eager to change the conversation. “It was good for Frest. We’d never sold so many lambs as we did in those years, and we still have a bigger flock than I can remember. It’s like the times my granny would tell me about, before the Enclosures.”
Although Rose knew she should not let Janet distract her from exactly how Ann was employed, the woman’s words caused an entirely new flicker of concern to drift through Rose. Everyone from Mr.Sinclair to the wise-beyond-her-years Margaret had impressed upon Rose the importance of the flock to life on Frest. But what would the islanders do with all these sheep now that their primary market had literally sailed away?
“The lads themselves were always buying things from us islanders. Sweaters and scarves—some for themselves or to send home to their sweethearts. Some good boys even thought of their dear old mothers. And of course, all the sailors ...” Janet trailed off again, looking very much like she had when she’d suddenly stopped before.
“All the sailors what?” Rose prodded.
“Mind the sheep!” Mr.Sinclair’s voice boomed like an engine misfire. At the shout, Rose felt herself start to slide back into memories of the war. The bleating of the sheep mixed with the phantom cries of men and horses. A wall of wool bore down on Rose, and she dug her nails into her palm.
“Wave your arms, Miss Van Etten!” Margaret yelled out.
“Stop them from going left!” Mr.Sinclair ordered.
“Spread your feet, miss!” Freya called. “Make yourself look big.”
