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Authors: Susan King
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experienced crew that he could fully trust, and he knew that together they could build a fine lighthouse on Sgeir Caran, one that would serve many.
Sealing the envelope, he reached into a small wooden box where he stored his correspondence and removed a recent letter from Lady Strathlin—or more correctly, her Edinburgh solicitors.
Be assured that you shall not build on Caransay without Lady Strathlin's permission, Mr. Stewart. Despite your parliamentary order, we will stop this enterprise. Your structures will come down, if not by Nature, then by legal writ.
Dougal frowned as he considered the threat. The new barracks were ten stout houses along Innish Harbor, protected by the high headlands. They would not blow out to sea, like the houses his men had constructed on Guga, the small isle beside Caransay had done. Nature indeed. These new huts would stand in high winds.
The letter, like the others, was written in the tight script of some anonymous clerk or secretary. Regardless of their protests, Dougal intended to remain and see that lighthouse complete. Somehow he must convince the baroness and her lawyers of the worth of this project.
Turning the page over, he read the curious postscript there, which had puzzled him earlier. This had been written by the baroness herself—the first direct contact he'd had from her.
Mr. Stewart, the birds who frequent Sgeir Caran may desert the rock if a lighthouse is placed there. A magnificent pair of golden eagles makes their home there each year. At any time of year there are gannets, puffins, and shearwaters—even the little storm petrels that are rarely seen and that make their homes on the undersides of rocky protrusions. The gannets in particular are hunted cruelly in other places. They are bludgeoned to death in a ritual called "the hunting of the Guga." But on Sgeir Caran, they are safe and protected by ancient tradition. The golden eagles are, of course, most beautiful, most spectacular, and to be revered and protected.
For the sake of all these birds, I ask you recommend to the commission another location for the lighthouse. I understand the urgent need for a light to aid seafarers, and I applaud the courage of the men who would build it.
I beg you, sir, to erect your tower elsewhere.
Yours most sincerely, Lady Strathlin at Strathlin Castle
Birds! Intrigued by this new action in their little war of words, Dougal sighed. Each letter had been a move or a countermove, as if they played chess. He never quite knew what might come next, and he had begun to enjoy the correspondence, wondering what the baroness and her lawyers would do next.
But birds—here was an unexpected challenge. He had heard of the lady's acts of charity and generosity, and knew she preferred privacy. He knew little else about her.
Sometimes he imagined her as a formidable older woman. At other times, he wondered if she could be some magnificent, mysterious creature. Whoever she was, he was sure she took some pleasure in their little game of wills. At times she surprised and secretly delighted him—witty, commanding, haughty, plaintive at times, all through her lawyers, but for the new message about the birds. He had a grudging respect and a growing curiosity about the baroness. He did not care for her lawyers at all.
Her handwriting intrigued him, too, now that he saw it. This was not the wobbly hand of an elderly lady, but flowing, feminine, confident, educated. It was the hand of a well-educated and seemingly younger woman.
He laughed outright. Of course. The baroness must have had someone, a companion perhaps, write the postscript. His Aunt Lillian rarely wrote her own notes these days, dictating letters to his sisters, who lived with her.
The poignant touch of the little handwritten note from the sainted baroness was meant to cajole him. He would not relent. Nor was he overly concerned about the birds—they would adapt to any changes on their rock.
Ready to compose his reply, he smoothed a
Sealing the envelope, he reached into a small wooden box where he stored his correspondence and removed a recent letter from Lady Strathlin—or more correctly, her Edinburgh solicitors.
Be assured that you shall not build on Caransay without Lady Strathlin's permission, Mr. Stewart. Despite your parliamentary order, we will stop this enterprise. Your structures will come down, if not by Nature, then by legal writ.
Dougal frowned as he considered the threat. The new barracks were ten stout houses along Innish Harbor, protected by the high headlands. They would not blow out to sea, like the houses his men had constructed on Guga, the small isle beside Caransay had done. Nature indeed. These new huts would stand in high winds.
The letter, like the others, was written in the tight script of some anonymous clerk or secretary. Regardless of their protests, Dougal intended to remain and see that lighthouse complete. Somehow he must convince the baroness and her lawyers of the worth of this project.
Turning the page over, he read the curious postscript there, which had puzzled him earlier. This had been written by the baroness herself—the first direct contact he'd had from her.
Mr. Stewart, the birds who frequent Sgeir Caran may desert the rock if a lighthouse is placed there. A magnificent pair of golden eagles makes their home there each year. At any time of year there are gannets, puffins, and shearwaters—even the little storm petrels that are rarely seen and that make their homes on the undersides of rocky protrusions. The gannets in particular are hunted cruelly in other places. They are bludgeoned to death in a ritual called "the hunting of the Guga." But on Sgeir Caran, they are safe and protected by ancient tradition. The golden eagles are, of course, most beautiful, most spectacular, and to be revered and protected.
For the sake of all these birds, I ask you recommend to the commission another location for the lighthouse. I understand the urgent need for a light to aid seafarers, and I applaud the courage of the men who would build it.
I beg you, sir, to erect your tower elsewhere.
Yours most sincerely, Lady Strathlin at Strathlin Castle
Birds! Intrigued by this new action in their little war of words, Dougal sighed. Each letter had been a move or a countermove, as if they played chess. He never quite knew what might come next, and he had begun to enjoy the correspondence, wondering what the baroness and her lawyers would do next.
But birds—here was an unexpected challenge. He had heard of the lady's acts of charity and generosity, and knew she preferred privacy. He knew little else about her.
Sometimes he imagined her as a formidable older woman. At other times, he wondered if she could be some magnificent, mysterious creature. Whoever she was, he was sure she took some pleasure in their little game of wills. At times she surprised and secretly delighted him—witty, commanding, haughty, plaintive at times, all through her lawyers, but for the new message about the birds. He had a grudging respect and a growing curiosity about the baroness. He did not care for her lawyers at all.
Her handwriting intrigued him, too, now that he saw it. This was not the wobbly hand of an elderly lady, but flowing, feminine, confident, educated. It was the hand of a well-educated and seemingly younger woman.
He laughed outright. Of course. The baroness must have had someone, a companion perhaps, write the postscript. His Aunt Lillian rarely wrote her own notes these days, dictating letters to his sisters, who lived with her.
The poignant touch of the little handwritten note from the sainted baroness was meant to cajole him. He would not relent. Nor was he overly concerned about the birds—they would adapt to any changes on their rock.
Ready to compose his reply, he smoothed a
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