“And people might view any payment as a type of alms.”
Miss Van Etten stopped abruptly. At first, he thought he’d insulted her, but she appeared neither cross nor hurt.
“Mr.Sinclair, this is not disguised charity. If I have any notoriety in the world other than for my racing ability, it is my ability to throw a rollicking good party.”
Miss Van Etten’s statement sounded oddly like self-recrimination. It reminded him of her rather cynical statement about the aristocracy appointing others to rear their offspring.
“Newspapers have even likened me to a hedonistic successor oftheMrs.Astor,” Miss Van Etten continued, “but do you thinkIwas the one doing the work when I threw a fete? I employ people for that, and I compensate them handsomely.”
“Folks around here see helping out at a ceilidh and bringing food as just being neighborly. There’s no need for ‘compensation,’ especially for the children helping you plan it.”
“I have a skeletal staff here at Hamarray,” Miss Van Etten pointed out, not so much arguing with him as being extremely logical. “Your siblings would be filling a role normally assumed by my housekeeper and her assistants, and I always give a bonus when I ask them to perform extra duties. It only seems fair.”
“Although the older ones will be of great assistance, I am not sure that the bairns will be much help.”
“I’m sure they will contribute something. I would have no idea how to have a proper ceilidh without them.”
“But—”
“Your sisters and brother all have chores, correct? And schooling?”
“Aye.” The croft couldn’t be run otherwise. He’d barely managed when the children were small and his stepfather couldn’t move from his sickbed.
“Therefore, their playtime is precious, and they will be sacrificing it to help me. Why should I not account for that, including the benefitthat I receive from their assistance? Would it not be me, otherwise, accepting something that I have not paid for?”
Sinclair rubbed the bridge of his nose again, wondering how he could explain to Miss Van Etten how the islanders would view it. “It is just being neighborly, same with the crofters bringing maet.”
“Maet?”
“Food.” Sinclair hadn’t meant to use the Orcadian word, but it had slipped out. “You cannot ascribe an economic value to every act.”
“I’m the daughter of an industrialist. I have known from the cradle that everything is, at its root, a form of currency.” Miss Van Etten spoke the words flippantly, but he could hear a seriousness in her undertone.
“Even love and affection?” he asked, partially fascinated by her cynicism and partially dismayed by it.
“Why, yes. It is the oldest barter of them all.”
“You don’t truly believe that nonsense, do you?” Sinclair had no idea why he cared so much about this discussion, but it seemed rather ... well ... tragic for one not to believe in simple, kind regard.
“It is at the root of all relationships,” Miss Van Etten said, her voice curiously detached, as if discussing international wool market trends rather than what was the most profound part of human existence: the capacity to care and form bonds.
“My parents’ union is a perfect example. They have a contented marriage because they each obtained what they desired. It is all very conventional. My mother received wealth and security, while my father benefited from her elite New York Knickerbocker connections. They are mildly affectionate toward each other and are not overly annoyed by each other’s presence. Mother still manages Daddy’s social calendar and is a famed hostess. Despite his money, his standing in society would wither without her, and he knows it. And Mother is happy to have the money to spend creating their world of luxury.”
Sinclair slowed his pace at her astonishing words. How could this woman exhibit so much patience toward his siblings yet hold such cold, almost mercenary views? Sinclair’s motherhadmarried his stepfather out of necessity, and she had become a good wife to him. But there had been real, abiding love between them, a tenderness that, despite being a mere child, he’d noticed. Even now after his mother had been in the ground for over half a decade, both Sinclair’s and his stepfather’s esteem for her still bound them together despite the tension simmering between them. What but love for her and the bairns would allow them to live under the same small roof?
“Which is why,” Miss Van Etten continued, “I fully intend to remain unattached to the end of my days. I have wealth, status, and independence and no need to barter any of it.”
The words were not a boast but what she clearly considered a logical conclusion. Yet Sinclair still felt a need to challenge it, unable to permit such a jaded view to stand. “What of companionship?”
Miss Van Etten shrugged. “That is what the occasional lover is for—an unspoken agreement to banish the loneliness of human existence, if only for a night.”
He choked and tried to cover it with a cough. Miss Van Etten ignored his clumsy reaction and simply kept walking, as if she hadn’t just said something rather scandalous. He realized that she hadn’t said the words to be shocking. They were merely a philosophical and exceedingly melancholy observation.
Something shifted inside Sinclair as he searched for a way to respond to her words—not just to her but within himself as well. He felt balanced on a razor’s edge with the dark unknown on either side of him. Before he could attempt to understand his bearings any better, a familiar voice called out his name.
“Sinclair!” David Craigie repeated as he waved enthusiastically. Relief flooded Sinclair at the interruption. Knowing David’s fondness for chatting about his mill, Sinclair expected the man would provide more thanenough distraction from the unexpectedly weighty conversation with Miss Van Etten. The crofter had already unfurled the sails on his windmill, and they looked like the white, outstretched wings of a fulmar as they spun through the blue sky. Winds were low today, and it wasn’t the time of the year when most of the milling was done. Nor was it the day of the week when the islanders normally brought their grain. David had the canvas fully stretched across all six wooden frames, trying to take advantage of any current. Generally, the gusts were so high David had a devil of a time keeping the speed low enough not to cause damage to the machinery inside.
“Miss Van Etten, I am exceedingly honored that you chose to visit my mill.” David’s round, red face was stretched into a wide smile as he fairly bounced up and down on his feet. He was a big man, and the sight of him acting like a peedie child over his great-great-grandfather’s creation always warmed the heart.
