said.
Feeling herself blush, Meg sipped her tea and set down the cup with a chinking sound.
"Once a woman is loved by the kelpie, he will haunt her heart forever," Elga said.
"Mr. Stewart is not my husband," Meg insisted.
"One night with him made you his bride," Thora said. "You had his child. Such marriages are still made in Scotland. It is an old custom but still followed. And rightly so—he should marry you if he gave you a child."
"Go to him," Elga said. "Riches and happiness await. I've seen it in the fire and in the water. Your marriage will—"
"Enough!" Meg burst out. She could not bear the thought of a marriage to the low cad who had tricked her that night. "Enough of this talk of kelpies. He is just a man, and not one we want in this family. Leave it be!" She would spare her grandmothers the truth of what he had done. "I'm going up to the Great House," she said, standing. "I have correspondence to review with Mrs. Berry. Send Iain up to the house after he has had his breakfast. He is to have lessons with Mrs. Berry in reading and mathematics today. And tell him that if the weather holds, we will take him to the beach to play."
"We will come, too," Thora said. "Mrs. Berry is a nice woman. And small Anna loves to play in the sand."
"Small Anna likes to eat sand," Mother Elga grumbled.
"Good, come to the beach later," Meg said. She grabbed her shawl and went to the door.
"We must have a great ceilidh to celebrate when she finally accepts the truth," Elga said, leaning toward Thora.
"He's so handsome," Thora said. "What woman could resist a man like Stewart?"
Sighing, Meg left. Out on the machair, she saw that Dougal Stewart had gone, and the sun was bright over the sea.
* * *
His shelter was snug and cozy, the walls plastered thick to cut the wind and muffle the sound of rain. Barely ten paces side to side, the single room was warmed on cool nights by a coal brazier, and cozy during the days when the sun beat on the thick thatch roof. The small windows let in sea breezes—and sometimes rain and blown sand if Dougal forgot to close the shutters tight.
The best luxury of his little hut was that he had it to himself. He had a canvas hammock, a small cupboard, a wooden chair, and a table large enough to hold maps, charts, and a lamentable amount of correspondence. It was enough. As for the letters, he disliked dealing with those, but he always saw to his duty. As resident engineer, he was also required to keep a daily progress log, crammed with figures and his observations. The Stevenson firm and the lighthouse commissioners expected to be kept informed of all events, problems, and successes in correspondence and, if they requested it, the progress log.
The wind howled, and the night was heavy with rain. Dougal was weary and sore from another long day out on Sgeir Caran. He and his men had been drilling through solid rock in the beating sunshine that was relieved only by sea spray from waves reaching high enough to splash the workers.
Out there, Dougal had paused now and then to watch seals cavorting on the rocks, and a few dolphins had made the men laugh with their antics in the waves. Returning to Caransay later, the men had eaten supper and gone off to their huts to rest, but Dougal was up late, working at the notes, the reports, the maps and drawings. He knew that Alan Clarke and Evan Mackenzie would be doing the same. There was a great deal of detail work to make sure that the project was closely supervised and the resulting structure safe and solid and built to last the ages.
Finishing his report for the commissioners, he then wrote a note to David Stevenson, the brilliant engineer who had recommended him for the job on Sgeir Caran after Dougal had assisted him in completing the nearly impossible task of building a lighthouse on Muckle Flugga, a challenging and inhospitable environment. On Sgeir Caran, Dougal was encountering some of the same issues of design and safety.
But he had a worthy and
Feeling herself blush, Meg sipped her tea and set down the cup with a chinking sound.
"Once a woman is loved by the kelpie, he will haunt her heart forever," Elga said.
"Mr. Stewart is not my husband," Meg insisted.
"One night with him made you his bride," Thora said. "You had his child. Such marriages are still made in Scotland. It is an old custom but still followed. And rightly so—he should marry you if he gave you a child."
"Go to him," Elga said. "Riches and happiness await. I've seen it in the fire and in the water. Your marriage will—"
"Enough!" Meg burst out. She could not bear the thought of a marriage to the low cad who had tricked her that night. "Enough of this talk of kelpies. He is just a man, and not one we want in this family. Leave it be!" She would spare her grandmothers the truth of what he had done. "I'm going up to the Great House," she said, standing. "I have correspondence to review with Mrs. Berry. Send Iain up to the house after he has had his breakfast. He is to have lessons with Mrs. Berry in reading and mathematics today. And tell him that if the weather holds, we will take him to the beach to play."
"We will come, too," Thora said. "Mrs. Berry is a nice woman. And small Anna loves to play in the sand."
"Small Anna likes to eat sand," Mother Elga grumbled.
"Good, come to the beach later," Meg said. She grabbed her shawl and went to the door.
"We must have a great ceilidh to celebrate when she finally accepts the truth," Elga said, leaning toward Thora.
"He's so handsome," Thora said. "What woman could resist a man like Stewart?"
Sighing, Meg left. Out on the machair, she saw that Dougal Stewart had gone, and the sun was bright over the sea.
* * *
His shelter was snug and cozy, the walls plastered thick to cut the wind and muffle the sound of rain. Barely ten paces side to side, the single room was warmed on cool nights by a coal brazier, and cozy during the days when the sun beat on the thick thatch roof. The small windows let in sea breezes—and sometimes rain and blown sand if Dougal forgot to close the shutters tight.
The best luxury of his little hut was that he had it to himself. He had a canvas hammock, a small cupboard, a wooden chair, and a table large enough to hold maps, charts, and a lamentable amount of correspondence. It was enough. As for the letters, he disliked dealing with those, but he always saw to his duty. As resident engineer, he was also required to keep a daily progress log, crammed with figures and his observations. The Stevenson firm and the lighthouse commissioners expected to be kept informed of all events, problems, and successes in correspondence and, if they requested it, the progress log.
The wind howled, and the night was heavy with rain. Dougal was weary and sore from another long day out on Sgeir Caran. He and his men had been drilling through solid rock in the beating sunshine that was relieved only by sea spray from waves reaching high enough to splash the workers.
Out there, Dougal had paused now and then to watch seals cavorting on the rocks, and a few dolphins had made the men laugh with their antics in the waves. Returning to Caransay later, the men had eaten supper and gone off to their huts to rest, but Dougal was up late, working at the notes, the reports, the maps and drawings. He knew that Alan Clarke and Evan Mackenzie would be doing the same. There was a great deal of detail work to make sure that the project was closely supervised and the resulting structure safe and solid and built to last the ages.
Finishing his report for the commissioners, he then wrote a note to David Stevenson, the brilliant engineer who had recommended him for the job on Sgeir Caran after Dougal had assisted him in completing the nearly impossible task of building a lighthouse on Muckle Flugga, a challenging and inhospitable environment. On Sgeir Caran, Dougal was encountering some of the same issues of design and safety.
But he had a worthy and
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