The spot she chose wasn’t especially high, but it afforded a dramatic view over the spine of Dun and out to open water. They were looking westwards, the sun tracking a high arc through billowing clouds and intermittently throwing down bright puddles, through which a few silhouetted seals slipped and played.
They were on the very edge of being in sight of the village now, right on the headland and perched on a flat, grassy area below the Ruival cliffs. It had been a short walk to get here, the ground plateauing after a steep scramble from beach to path. Flora had had to convince Edward to keep his shoes off and walk barefoot, for he seemed in a hurry to dress himself again, but the grass on this aspect was in fact not grass at all but a sea moss – the salt spray that was carried on the wind hindered grass establishment on this slope. It was so spongy and slippery that the leather soles considered smart on the streets of Piccadilly would be treacherous here.
‘This will do nicely,’ she said, angling them so that the wind would lift her hair back and off her neck, and not into her face. She dropped casually to the ground, no longer bothered about hiding her own bare feet – she sensed there was something in her undone wildness that excited him. She watched as Edward settled himself beside her. The basket – the treasure trove – was set between them and he unbuckled its leather straps.
Flora peered in, her eyes widening at the sight. Plates and glasses were tethered to the inside of the lid and in the well of the basket was a panoply of covered shapes. She was intrigued.
‘For you,’ he smiled, handing her a glass and pouring from a small bottle that had its own strap in the corner. ‘You do like lemonade, I trust?’
‘I’ve never had it,’ she murmured, holding it suspiciously.
‘Try. I think you’ll like it – it’s both sweet and tart at the same time.’
She took a tiny sip. It fizzed on her tongue and she startled a little at the unexpected sensation; fizzing wasn’t something that happened here, but the taste was both pleasantly sharp and sugared. ‘Mm.’ She took another sip, feeling bolder now, as he unfastened the plates as well and handed one to her.
‘Are you familiar with sandwiches?’ he asked, unwrapping a linen napkin bundle secured with a length of string. Inside was a quartet of triangles of bread, padded with assorted fillings. ‘We only have a limited selection, I’m afraid, on account of being at sea. It’s a matter of what will stay fresh during the trip. We’ve got cucumber with mint, beef with horseradish – my personal favourite – and salmon mayonnaise.’
He held out the selection towards her and for several seconds, Flora just looked between him and the food. The arrangement of it, the smells, even the colours . . . A look of bemusement spread across his face. He couldn’t possibly understand how overwhelming it was for someone who had only ever eaten boiled fulmar – or, on high days and holidays, roasted puffin – to be presented with such choice. There was no variety to their meals here and there were certainly no embellishments.
‘Go on, try one,’ he murmured, nudging the bundle towards her again.
She reached for the triangle with the pinkish filling, her eyes closing as her teeth sank into the soft bread, a symphony of flavours exploding on her tongue. When she opened her eyes again, Edward was staring at her with a hunger of his own.
She chewed even as her mouth watered. ‘What did you call it?’
‘It’s a salmon sandwich.’
‘Salmon sandwich,’ she murmured, staring sadly at what remained in her hand; it would be gone with another bite.
‘Fear not, there’s plenty more. Have another one.’
She took it from him, feeling a giddy rush of need. Hunger she was familiar with, but she had never known appetite before now. Eating the next one, she watched as his finger pointed at the rest of the food in the basket. ‘We also have sliced chicken, potted meat and some cheese.’
‘We make our own cheeses,’ she said quickly, looking up at him, her mouth full.
He looked bemused again. Flora blushed, sensing an error on her part, but he had moved on in the next instant. ‘Well, I’m sure they are far superior to these. Perhaps I could try some of your cheese when we return to the village?’
She nodded, looking eagerly back into the basket again, wanting more.
He laughed. ‘I fear your eyes are bigger than your stomach, Miss MacQueen. You’ll want to leave some room for the pudding.’
‘Pudding?’
‘It’s a great treat under the circumstances – we have some sponge cake and jam tarts.’
‘Sponge cake and jam tarts?’ she repeated, the words unfamiliar and almost ticklish in her mouth.
‘You’ve never had sponge cake?’ He seemed surprised, pointing to the soft, springy dome.
‘And so those are the jam tarts?’ Her eyes scanned the glistening jewel colours: ruby red, golden yellow, emerald green. ‘They’re very pretty.’
He was staring at her, she realized, and she drew her excitement in like a fishing line; the more of her naivety she betrayed, the more imbalance of power she allowed between them. She decided to shift the subject away from her ignorance. ‘Where did you set sail from, Mr Rushton?’
‘Glasgow . . . And please, call me Edward.’
‘Is that where you’re from?’
He smiled. ‘No. My family lives in London, but we stopped in to see Callie’s new house first. He’s rebuilding a property on Blythswood Square, following a fire; Sophia was keen to . . . cast an eye over it.’ His eyes met hers and she caught the point immediately. The girl wanted to see where she would live. ‘. . . Another sandwich?’
Flora’s hand reached without hesitation and together they ate, overlooking the sea. The gusting wind wasn’t loosening its grip and the swell made for interesting viewing as the gannets dived like arrows, a minke whale further out blowing up sporadic spouts of water. She sipped lemonade, Edward refilling her glass without being asked and offering the sandwiches each time her plate was cleared.
So this was a picnic, she mused: being fed on the grass. Lunch with a view. She watched him lying back on his elbows, his legs crossed at the ankles. She suspected she had eaten far more than he and she was beginning to wonder if what he’d said about her eyes and her stomach might have been true. She felt the first tightenings of a bellyache.
Still, the jam tarts were winking at her. The ruby red one, especially, was crying out to be tasted . . .
‘Please,’ Edward said, seeing her avaricious glance and leaning over to reach it for her. He held it up to her mouth. ‘You really must try one. They’re delicious.’
Flora felt a small blush creep onto her cheeks as she nibbled it. It felt daringly intimate, being fed. ‘Aren’t you having one?’
‘Perhaps in a few moments . . . Have another bite.’
Her eyes closed again, as rich colours translated into exotic flavours. She had never known food could be so pleasurable. A full tummy – fuel – was all she had ever expected from a meal before. How could she turn back now that she knew it could be this, too?
A slapping sound behind them made them both startle, Edward twisting sharply as they turned to find the end of a rope spooling on the ground. Flora looked up to a familiar sight – a spry figure bouncing off the cliff, bare feet scampering across the rock face; she grinned, feeling a spritz of relief that slightly surprised her. There was a pace to Edward’s attentions that was necessary and yet disconcerting.
‘That’s it,’ Effie called up, stopping casually on the bluff and watching as another figure – significantly larger and less agile – followed after her. ‘Use your hands. Follow the crease to the left there . . . That’s it. There’s no hurry.’
‘Eff?’ Flora asked, not even having to raise her voice. This particular section of the rock face was perhaps a hundred feet high.
Effie glanced down, her feet planted on the rock wall as she balanced on the rope. ‘Hai!’ she beamed, giving them a wave and seemingly forgetting she was dangling on a cliff.
‘Is that a girl?’ Edward asked, astounded. From this vantage it was admittedly difficult for him to tell – Effie was dressed in boys’ tweed breeks and a woollen vest, her pale blonde hair twisted back.
‘Aye, it’s Effie Gillies,’ Flora murmured. ‘Don’t worry, she’s an excellent cragger. One of the best.’
‘But what’s she doing up there?’
Flora squinted to get a better look, but she knew exactly who she was seeing. ‘Well, by the looks of it, she’s giving your friend a climbing lesson.’ And earning herself the coins she would be missing out on from the day’s cancelled cragging exhibition; the swell wasn’t going to drop today, that was clear.
They watched in silence as James, concentrating hard, slowly but surely descended the bluff. Flora forgot to eat, such was her trepidation as the rope spun and he missed a couple of what looked like easy footholds (or at least, Effie made them look easy); Edward too looked as if he didn’t want to say anything that might distract his friend. But when James set foot on the grassy ledge several minutes later, he was beaming that surprising smile again.
‘Well, that was . . . that was fantastic,’ he panted, glancing bright-eyed across at Effie, planting his hands on his hips and looking up in wonder at the short but steep descent. He had taken off his jacket since he had left her earlier, his shirtsleeves now rolled up, and a small sweat patch was beginning to bloom between his shoulder blades. His trousers were rolled up too, and he was barefoot – Effie would have insisted on it, Flora knew. It gave the climber far greater grip and manoeuvrability. He had strong forearms and ankles, she noticed, sitting behind him, and looked altogether a different beast to the buttoned-up, stiff fossil-hunter she had walked with earlier.
‘You did well for a first-timer,’ Effie said, shaking his hand in congratulations. ‘We’ve not many easy drops here.’
‘I’ll admit, my stomach dropped when I saw you pop over the edge like that.’
‘Aye, sorry, I meant to go slower. I forgot myself.’
James chuckled. ‘Extraordinary. It really holds no fear for you?’
‘Why should it?’
‘. . . Fear of imminent death?’
‘Och, no,’ she demurred, as though there was simply no possibility of it.
‘We always say Effie might fly if she fell,’ Flora said from her spot on the ground, feeling a dart of irritation at their easy chatter. He’d been nowhere near as friendly or complimentary with her. ‘She has such tiny, light bones, she’s like the birds.’
James whirled around, looking in astonishment at the scene that had been behind him. ‘I say, what are you two doing here?’
Had he really not seen them? Flora supposed he had been so focused on what was in front of him, above and below, he’d not had a chance to clock them behind him. Or perhaps he was not just blind to her charms, but to her generally.
‘We’re having a picnic,’ she said grandly.
‘Yes, I can see that.’ His eyes fell to the part-nibbled jam tart on the plate in her lap.
‘I’ve had Miss MacQueen in ecstasies over the tarts, Callie,’ Edward said with a wink.
James gave no reply, but Effie fell to her knees and crouched over the basket. ‘What’s that?’ she asked curiously, pointing at the sponge cake.
‘Cake. Would you like to try some?’ Edward asked, with yet more amusement.
But Effie pulled back and gave a wary shake of her head. Unlike Flora, she couldn’t be so readily seduced by treasures from the Other Side.
‘Are you sure? It’s positively good for you to indulge once in a while. I’m sure the reverend wouldn’t disapprove of cake.’
Flora watched from the corner of her eye as James unwound the rope from his torso and stood, looking around, on the grass beside them. She noticed that unlike Edward, he moved easily barefoot, oblivious to the stray shale fragments underfoot, his skin taut, the ankle bones broad. Unlike his friend, his clothes seemed to hide his masculinity, whereas for Edward, they enhanced the illusion of it. She wasn’t sure which was preferable – to be less than you seemed, or to appear less than you were.
‘I didn’t know you’d gone to all this trouble,’ James said, casting a glance in Edward’s direction as he reached down into the basket and took a sandwich. He began eating it idly, as if it was no great treat, while he stood and took in the panoramic view.
‘It was no trouble. Well, not for Cook. Of course I can’t pretend I had anything to do with making it.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘How are the girls getting on?’
‘Knitting,’ James replied, his eyes fastened on the minke. ‘Terribly, I might add.’
‘They can’t be worse than me,’ Effie sighed. ‘And I’ve been doing it my whole life.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ James smiled, glancing politely in her direction.
‘It’s true, isn’t it, Floss?’
Flora nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Are you a proficient knitter, Miss MacQueen?’ James asked her, reaching down for another sandwich.
‘Better than Effie, but I’m neither terrible nor good.’
‘No? So what do you excel at, then?’
She looked up at him, at a sudden loss. Her greatest attribute was apparent to all but him.
‘Getting out of chores!’ Effie laughed, still distractedly eyeballing the food in the basket.
‘As she should!’ Edward rejoindered. ‘With a face like that, she wasn’t born to work!’
‘I’m sure there must be more to you though than just a pretty face?’ James asked with a frown.
Flora was surprised to hear him even concede her good looks, but before she could reply he looked away and she felt her cheeks burn. Usually she loved being known for dazzling people, but, for reasons she couldn’t explain, with him it seemed lacking.
‘That’s an exciting-looking rock over there,’ he said after a few moments, turning in a slow circle and indicating the cliffs to the west of where they sat.
‘That’s the Lovers’ Stone,’ Effie said with the merest of glances.
‘The Lovers’ Stone, eh?’ Edward queried, rolling the words around in his mouth. ‘You do love naming your rocks here, don’t you?’
‘Well, some of them are significant for us,’ Effie said, perhaps a little more indignantly than she had intended. She wasn’t accustomed to hiding her feelings. ‘They can be place markers, or tributes to the dead, and they play a role in our customs.’
‘Indeed,’ James agreed hastily, as if apologizing for his friend’s tactlessness; Flora had a sense he probably did that a lot. ‘And which role does the Lovers’ Stone play?’
Effie hesitated a moment, as if checking for mockery. ‘If a man wants to take a wife here, then he has to stand up there on that ledge.’
‘Really?’ James sounded both intrigued and horrified. They all squinted at the silhouetted rock. It protruded up from the sheer cliffs in a stand-alone stack, a grassy footpath running behind it. The top of the stack was like a steeply angled table-top, with a short protrusion at the upper edge that nudged forward beyond the rest, overhanging the sea. The drop was several hundred feet onto rocks below. ‘A fellow has to stand up there? That must be dicey with the winds, surely?’
‘Aye, particularly when he has to do it on one leg,’ Effie grinned.
‘What?’
‘He has to stand on his left leg, hold his right foot forward so it’s extended over the edge into space, and then bend down and clasp the foot with both hands. Then hold it there to a slow count of ten.’
‘You can’t be serious?’ Edward frowned.
‘Why should I lie?’ Effie shrugged.
‘And that’s done as an act of bravery?’ James asked.
‘Och, no,’ she said with a dismissive frown. ‘If it’s bravery they’re to prove then they’d go off Stac Briorach.’ As if the plummet here was of no concern.
‘What does this challenge prove, then?’
‘Competence.’
James’s eyes widened. ‘Competence?’
‘Aye. The challenge is an indication of his strength and agility, which is what you need if you’re to be a good cragger. And you need to be a good cragger if you’re going to provide for your family. A brave husband is no good here if he hasn’t strength and agility to back it up. He’ll be dead in a day without either of those two things.’
‘I see . . . But what if he falls?’
‘Then you know he wouldn’t have made a good husband,’ Effie shrugged. ‘That’s why he has to do it before he can marry, you see? A weak husband is a dead husband is no husband at all, so why bother? Better to know before the ceremony. We can ill afford the lambs for the feasts as it is.’
Edward threw his head back and laughed. ‘My God! It’s fiendishly brutal, Callie, but you have to admire the efficiency!’
‘Thank you.’ Effie nodded with a solemnity that only amused him further.
‘Actually, it’s not entirely dissimilar to a courting ritual performed by bald eagles,’ James said. ‘They lock talons in the air and spiral downwards from the sky. The male is responsible for swooping the female back up, but sometimes he doesn’t catch her in time.’
‘And so she dies?’ Effie asked.
‘I expect so – but at least she knows he’d have made a terrible mate,’ he shrugged.
Everyone laughed at the joke, Flora surprised by this sudden flash of humour, and James looked over at her as she folded with amusement. For a second, again, she felt that ‘locking’ between them, but then he looked back at the rocks the next moment, still fascinated. ‘When was the last time it was performed?’
‘Four years back?’ Effie said, looking at Flora. ‘Norman and Jayne?’
‘About that,’ Flora agreed.
He twisted back to them. ‘And when was the last time someone fell?’
As if she had known the question was coming, Flora kept her gaze on Effie, seeing the flash of pain dart across her fragile features. Her brother John had fallen two years previously – a chafed rope; her father had yet to forgive himself – but not from this spot.
‘Not in our lifetimes,’ she said quickly; truthfully. Effie wouldn’t unburden her pain to strangers. Or anyone.
‘The young fellows coming through must be terrified,’ Edward said as James finally turned back to them.
‘Actually, I think they’re more terrified of succeeding than of falling,’ Flora said, remembering her jam tart and picking at the pastry.
‘How so?’
‘Because then they’ll have to marry us.’
‘Is that so terrible?’
‘We’re none of us easy characters.’ Flora rarely ventured into self-deprecation, but this time James Callaghan smiled at her words, and she felt a small bubble of pride, as if she had won it from him somehow.
‘Nothing worth having is ever easy,’ Edward said, leaning back on his elbows as he looked at Flora.
The others’ smiles immediately faded and Effie caught her eye with a bored look; she reserved a special contempt for courtship and it was impossible to imagine her ever swooning in a man’s arms. Flora suspected that like Lorna, their island nurse, Effie would choose spinsterhood over married life any day, for she valued her independence far too much.
‘Out of interest, exactly how compulsory is this feat of competence for winning a St Kildan girl’s hand?’ Edward asked. ‘Can’t a husband’s suitability be assessed by a different metric?’
He caught Flora’s eye and she knew to what he was alluding. Fortune, perhaps?
‘Rushton,’ James said quickly, shooting him a dark look.
Edward arched an enquiring eyebrow, to which James responded with only a terse shake of his head. Edward sighed, letting the matter drop.
Flora stared at the jam tart in her hands, feeling humiliated. For a moment, she had let herself wonder whether there might be an arrangement to be made – they were attracted to one another, her beauty matched his fortune. It was an even trade. But with just a single word, James Callaghan had made it perfectly clear she wasn’t the sort of girl to even flirt with, and she certainly ought not to have her hopes raised on any account.
Silently, Flora tossed the remains of the jam tart into the grass, several chunks of pastry breaking off. Moments later a fulmar swooped in, retrieving the major portion of the broken tart with nimble precision. Her exotic treat had become a seabird’s pickings.
Flora looked away and out to sea, feeling the bitterness in her craw as she blinked back angry tears she would not allow to fall. The minke had disappeared now, sinking into the depths, but she fastened her gaze upon the seals still slipping through the waves, oblivious to the breeze in her hair and the eyes on her back.