“What’s to happen next?” David Craigie asked, while Kilda Gray, who was a maid at Muckle Skaill, added, “How long are we to wait until we can start producing again?”
More questions poured from the islanders, which Sinclair readily answered. All of them were perfectly reasonable and raised no alarmuntil Astrid cupped her hands and called, “Are you sure it’s necessary to shut everything down? You said that all the damage was concentrated in one area.”
Sinclair knew that Astrid and her grandmother sorely relied on the illicit money—perhaps more than even the other crofters. For the last two years, Astrid had finally managed to avoid traveling to another island during herring season to make money preparing fish as a gutter girl—a job she’d always detested. It made sense that she would worry about any delay in production, but she was the only one to question his decision to halt operations to investigate the Fornhowe collapse.
“Aye. I’m sure. Is there any reason you think we should not?” Sinclair kept his voice casual without a single hint of sharpness.
Astrid, who’d been standing on tiptoe to be better seen, sank back to the ground. “I ... I suppose not as long as we don’t get too far behind. It just seemed like you were so certain that only the beginning of the tunnel was affected immediately after it happened. But you are probably right that we should be cautious. We do not want anyone hurt.”
Sinclair waited a few beats to see if Astrid would expand upon her statements. When she did not, he asked, “Does anyone share my cousin’s concerns? This is the time to talk it over if you do.”
The islanders all shook their heads. Most of them seemed to understand the need for precaution. Sinclair’s stepfather’s face had sunk into an impressive glower, but it normally did during these meetings.
Sinclair glanced surreptitiously over at Rose, and she briefly inclined her head—their prearranged signal to move the discussion along. He returned his gaze to his people. It was time to begin the discussion about their future.
“As you have all heard, Miss Van Etten and Miss Morningstar have agreed to keep the contents of Fornhowe a secret for now. What you might not know is that Miss Van Etten has agreed to be our silentpartner in a legitimate,licensedbusiness. Eventually, instead of hiding our production in the mound, we will be able to build an actual distillery.”
An excited murmur arose. The questions now punched through the air like blows in one of the boxing matches that Mar had forced his servants to hold to entertain his drunken guests. But unlike then, Sinclair didn’t need to dodge or block or even strike back. He handled each inquiry easily—from the details of the arrangement with Rose to the logistics of the new operations. The crowd’s wariness grew into excitement.
David Craigie shifted his broad shoulders and asked, “I do not wish to sound like I am not in support of the idea, for I think it is a fair plan, except for one thing. The Grand Fleet is gone. Who are we to sell all this whiskey to?”
Sinclair stepped back and glanced at Rose. Although he still did not like her idea of a hotel, Widow Flett and Astrid did. It was only right for him to allow Rose to present her case to the people of Frest. After all, this impacted all their livelihoods.
“Miss Van Etten is in a better position to address that question than me.” As Sinclair gestured for her to step onto the rock, he thought he saw a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. The sight of it stunned him. She was always in perfect command, and he was certain she’d spoken before crowds much bigger than this.
He did what she had done for him only a half hour before. He jerked his chin down in a nod to indicate that he had faith inher, even if he was not keen on turning Muckle Skaill into a retreat for the rich.
She smiled then and strolled forward with such confidence he wondered if he’d mistaken the self-doubt that he’d thought he’d seen lurking in her eyes. She swung around, her expression warm and friendly, the perfect hostess or, in this case, lady of the manor. He could feel her power bestowed by birth, wealth, and education, but unlike the earl, she wasn’t lording it over people but using it to welcome them.
“I am sure you have heard rumors of an auto race to be held here on Frest. I am planning to use the event to test the viability of turning Muckle Skaill into a hotel. It will not be my decision alone but all of yours, as you will be active participants in the running of the retreat.”
Immediately, the crowd broke into factions, some loving the idea, some hating it.
“But why will people come?” someone called out.
“That is a question many are asking, but as an outsider, I can only say that your home has so much to offer—natural beauty, delicious food, a sense of seclusion—it is a place where a visitor can feel both thrilled and contented at the same time.”
Rose’s words reached down inside Sinclair and grabbed hold of him. Her love for the land was almost a palpable thing and something he instantly recognized, for he felt it himself.
“Are you planning to bring back the hunting? Will there be more hares imported?”
“No,” Rose answered, “and I understand your concern. Orkney has enough stunning wildlife of its own. Mr.Sinclair and I have agreed that you may trap and otherwise take care of any hares eating your crops.”
Sinclair nodded in affirmation. In that, he and Rose were perfectly aligned.
“It’s never been a good thing for locals to work at Muckle Skaill.” Sigurd spoke now, his gravelly voice silencing everyone.
Although Sinclair agreed with the sentiment, he did not particularly like his stepfather’s delivery. It seemed personal, but then again, it was to him and to Sinclair. They both knew how Sinclair’s mother had suffered nightmares long after she and Sinclair had escaped from the mansion’s walls.
“I will not run things in the same manner as the Earl of Mar,” Rose said, calm in the face of Sigurd’s ire. “This will be a business operation.”
“I like working at Muckle Skaill.” Young Thomas spoke up. “I’m earning good money helping fix up the mansion, just as good as on theherring boats. Miss Van Etten is less demanding than a lot of the old sea captains.”
“You’ve only just started, and you are a lad taken by a pretty face.” Sigurd scoffed and shifted his eyes toward Sinclair. “There seems to be a great deal of that lately.”
Doubt pricked Sinclair like he’d run headlong into a briar bush. Was he allowing his attraction for Rose to obscure his better judgment just as his mother had fallen for Mar’s deceit? But Rose was not the old earl, and Sinclair wasn’t his mum. And he wasn’t swayed by her looks but by her spirit, her words, even her practicality. Still, the sting remained inside Sinclair—faint but still there.
Sigurd’s words also hit Young Thomas. The poor lad’s face turned as red as a scarlet sunset, and his shoulders slumped in embarrassment when titters arose from the crowd.
