“What is it?” Rose asked as she handed the cup to Myrtle, who was sitting next to her.
“A Scottish primrose.” The boy rocked back on his feet and puffed out his chest proudly. “They are very rare.”
“Especially this time of the year,” Margaret said solemnly. “It is fairly early to spot one.”
“It is beautiful,” Myrtle said.
“We think it grew just for you, Miss Van Etten,” Barbara said excitedly.
The girl’s twin nodded emphatically and added sagely, “Being that today you became laird and that Rose is your first name.”
“We just had to give it to you when Alexander found it,” Hannah added.
“Thank you,” Rose said, wishing that she didn’t feel that dreadful burning in the backs of her eyes again. What was it about these earnest children that turned her into a watering pot? Of all the hothouse flowers that she’d received through the years, none of them had moved her like this one tiny bud. An alien sense of belonging drifted through Rose.It had been so long since she’d felt it that she almost didn’t recognize the elusive emotion. And when she did identify it, worry immediately stabbed her ... for belonging was a fickle feeling whose absence lingered longer than its presence ever did.
And worse, she was experiencing a connection with the very family she might tear apart with her investigation. What would become of them if Mr.Sinclair was indeed the spy? What pain would she deliver upon them all?
“Freya,” Mr.Sinclair said suddenly, as if he sensed Rose’s growing discomfort, “I do think it is time for your tablet.”
“Waste of sugar, if you ask me,” Mr.Flett grumped from the head of the table.
Freya merely stopped to give him a swift kiss on his weathered cheek before she bustled over to where the fudge sat. “We all know it’s your favorite too, Da.”
The older man snorted, but his disapproval had turned into fondness. Freya beamed from ear to ear as she brought over her late mother’s special dessert. She made a production of cutting it at the table, and all the children leaned forward in their seats to watch, as if at a picture show. Their excitement seemed to slip inside Rose, and she felt a crackle of energy that had long eluded her.
Happiness.
She felthappyoverfudge? But then again, it wasn’t just any treacle. It was a gift, a celebration, a tradition that the Fletts were sharing with her. And that ... that humbled Rose.
Mr.Sinclair, Myrtle, and the Fletts did not touch their dessert as they waited for Rose’s first bite. Conscious of their eyes upon her, she took a healthy chunk. Sweetness exploded on her tongue, and she didn’t stop the enjoyment from showing on her face. Allowing her eyelids to flutter closed, she let out an appreciative “Mmmmm.” When Rose opened her eyes, she saw that Freya’s cheeks were pink with pride.
Myrtle took a taste and smiled broadly. “Thisisdelicious. You should make it for the ceilidh. I am happy to purchase all the ingredients you need for a massive batch.”
Little Alexander bounced up and down in his seat. “They liked it! They liked it!”
“I knew they would,” Hannah said crisply. “They are ladies of adventure, after all, and it is a sweet for the bold.”
Rose laughed at the twelve-year-old’s pronouncement, but the mirth seemed to catch in her throat for just a second when she caught sight of Mr.Sinclair. The man’s blue gazeburnedwith warm, wonderful heat.
Looking away before she shivered, Rose focused on the dessert. “This is the most delightful thing I have ever eaten. It is even better than fairy floss. Your cooking is truly a marvel, Freya.”
“What’s fairy floss?” Alexander asked.
“Spun sugar,” Rose said, surprised the children hadn’t tasted the confection before realizing that sweets were probably hard to get on Frest, where everything had to come in by boat.
“It sounds divine.” Mary sighed.
“I’ll bring some back with me the next time I travel to a place with a store that sells it,” Rose said unthinkingly. But as soon as the words fell from her lips, she almost started in surprise. Goodness, was she making plans? She needed to be careful about giving promises she couldn’t keep, especially to children. She’d sworn as a small girl that she’d never make a habit of causing disappointment like her parents had.
“What treat did your mother make for you when there was something to celebrate, Miss Van Etten?” Margaret asked as she neatly folded her hands on her lap after finishing her last bite of the tablet.
The question—the innocent, sweet question—seemed to fly through the air like a dart and hit Rose dead center in the heart. Old memories crowded her mind: celebrating birthdays alone in the nursery with her latest nanny, dressing for her debutante ball under the watchfuleye of a distant aunt while her mother was away in Europe and her father distracted by business, winning her first race only to be scolded about it by her father as her mother sobbed into her handkerchief ...
“I ... uh ... well, my mother doesn’t bake,” Rose said rather dully. She tripped over her words—something that she rarely did.
“Women of their class do not bother themselves with kitchen duties,” Mr.Flett waspishly said at the same time that Myrtle quickly added, “Mrs.Van Etten is not precisely what one would call a chef.”
“Did she buy you a special dessert, then?” Alexander asked. “Like the fairy floss? Or did your father pick up something like Thorfinn does sometimes when he brings us home treats from the market?”
