“I don’t think one can get close to Daddy. He’s too absorbed in his projects, but I couldn’t help digesting things from all the comings and goings. He ‘retired’ early, but his hobby is investing and starting new enterprises. Since his office has always been in our residence, a lot of prominent industrialists are constantly dropping by.”
“A child always sees and learns more than the adults suspect.” Mr.Sinclair spoke the words gravely, and his profundity caused Rose tostudy him. Before she could discover what she was searching for in his countenance, a new, cheerful voice called out.
“Welcome!” A woman with a weatherworn face poked her head out from the low door of the blackhouse. Her bright smile gave her round face a girlish glow that contrasted with the lines bracketing her lips. “I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“Tea sounds absolutely delightful,” Rose called back.
“Be forewarned, she often puts a nip of whiskey in her pot,” Mr.Sinclair told her in a quiet voice that wouldn’t reach their hostess.
“My kind of beverage,” Rose purred throatily, and she was rewarded with a grin from Mr.Sinclair.
“Mine too.”
When they entered the old-fashioned building, they found Widow Flett bustling about the peat-fed stove. She waved to them. “Take a seat. Take a seat.”
The only chairs in the tiny room were ancient-looking wooden ones by the table. On its scarred surface lay a half-finished sweater. Like the one Mr.Sinclair wore, it had the most intriguing geometric pattern.
“Your knitting is absolutely beautiful.” Rose leaned forward to study it more closely. The woolwork managed to appear both homespun and chic.
“Thank you.” Mrs.Flett beamed as she settled into a chair across from Rose. “My mother was from Fair Isle in Shetland. She taught me everything I know about making patterns and dyeing wool.”
“You add color to the yarn yourself?” Rose asked as she lightly traced one of the X designs.
Mrs.Flett chuckled. “I card it and spin it too. There isn’t one step that I don’t do myself, except for the shearing. In my younger years, I used to do that too.”
“It must take ages.” Rose glanced up. Although she always had cultivated close relationships with the designers who made her coutureclothes—including the famous Paul Poiret—she had never thought about the work that went into the cloth itself.
“Aye.” Mrs.Flett laughed. “But it is a chore I’ve always enjoyed.”
“Where do you get the dyes?” Rose asked.
“Astrid or Sinclair bring me back indigo and madder from the stores in Kirkwall, and I gather lichens for the yellow.”
“The colors are just so bright.” Rose studied the work. “How do you manage it?”
“That’s a question you probably don’t want the answer to,” Mr.Sinclair warned just as Mrs.Flett leaned forward conspiratorially and said in a stage whisper, “Urine.”
“Urine!” Rose jerked her hand away from the yarn.
“Aye.” Mrs.Flett was chuckling so hard tears had appeared in the corners of her eyes. “It’s the ammonia in it, or so Mr.Sinclair tells me with all his book learning. Whatever it is, it sets the dyes nice and bright.”
Feeling a bit like when she’d read Upton Sinclair’sThe Jungle, Rose stared down at the knitting. Yet even knowing how it had been dyed didn’t distract from its beauty.
“Do you ever sell any of these? I could see them fetching a pretty penny back in the States—as long as the ammonia part isn’t mentioned.”
“Aye.” Mrs.Flett bobbed her head proudly, causing the ends of the scarf tied about her head to flutter. “I often knit for the Frest lads when they lend Astrid and me a hand with this old place.”
“Is that how you got yours?” This time, Rose twitched the cuff on Mr.Sinclair’s sweater. She didn’t miss the amused gleam in Widow Flett’s light-green eyes at the gesture.
“No.” Widow Flett patted Mr.Sinclair’s other hand. “I did him a turn better with all the work he does around here. I taught him how to do it himself.”
Mr.Sinclair ducked his head, much like an embarrassed schoolboy. “Now, Mrs.Flett, you said that would just be our secret.”
“And I’ve kept it, haven’t I?” Mrs.Flett winked at Rose. “Mostly. It wouldn’t be right to hide things from the new Lady of Muckle Skaill, now, would it?”
“Oh, definitely not.” Rose laughed, taking the woman’s cheerful, teasing words in the spirit they were meant. Part of her, though, couldn’t help but wish that the statement were true. However, she was certain now that the islanders were all concealingsomethingfrom her.
“He was at his wit’s end trying to keep the bairns clothed when his mum died and his stepda was laid up in bed. Little Freya was ten and had been learning how to properly use the needles from her mother. Astrid—that’s my granddaughter—and I did our best to help out, but Mr.Sinclair insisted on learning how to knit himself. Said he needed something to occupy his hands when he was up with the colicky babe. Alexander, now he was a fair crotchety infant. You wouldn’t know it now, as he’s the sweetest bairn you’d ever meet. I think his temperament was on account of him losing his mum in childbirth and his da taking to his bed only a few weeks later from an apoplexy. People don’t believe newborns know what is going on around them, but those peedie ones, they sense things all right.”
