carpets and brocaded furniture. A door half-open along the hallway showed a room lined with books. Its pocket door slid quickly shut.
"Lady Strathlin is not at home at present, sir," the woman said. "Your card?"
Card. Damn again. He had forgotten to carry one with him. Cards were rarely required while quarrying stone or setting black powder charges. He was lucky to have a decent coat and hat. Patting his pockets, he found a small memorandum book and the stub of pencil and scribbled his name and address: Dougal Robertson Stewart, Kinnaird Castle, Strathclyde, currently of Innish Bay, Caransay. He tore out the sheet and handed it to the housekeeper.
She took the little page as if it were the tail of a rodent, and stepped back. "Lady Strathlin will be informed that you called. Good day, sir." The door closed with a solid click.
Dougal stood on the step in the drizzling rain. Lady Strathlin would consider a note scribbled in pencil to be the height of crudity and bad manners and dismiss his visit.
Sighing in frustration, he walked away.
* * *
As Norrie rowed closer to Sgeir Caran, Meg saw that a quay had been created by blasts, a broad ledge of stone that looked raw but useful. She looked up at the towering height of the rock and saw that crude steps had been cut beside the natural slope that had previously served as access to the top.
Alan Clarke, the foreman, stood waiting for them on the quay. He caught the rope that Meg tossed, looping it through an iron ring in the stone before turning to assist her out of the boat. His grip was strong and sure, and he was built like a golden bull, his eyes vivid blue beneath a shock of thick blond hair. She recalled how pleasant he was whenever she exchanged greetings with him on Caransay. Glancing up, she did not see Dougal Stewart among the men standing near the edge of the rock.
"Hello, Miss MacNeill, and welcome," Alan Clarke said lightly. "And Mr. MacNeill! Mr. Stewart said you might come out to see our progress." He led them toward the steps. "After the explosions, it's a bit of a mess on the roof, I'm afraid. Step carefully." Walking on the outer side of the rough steps, he ushered them carefully upward.
Attaining the high, flat plateau, Meg glanced around in dismay. The remote, isolated sea rock was a scene of chaos. A huge crater dominated the center area, and broken rock and dressed stones were stacked around its edges. Clusters of men worked with tools and clunky pieces of equipment. Workbenches, tarpaulins, ropes, kegs, wooden crates, and slabs of stone seemed scattered or leaning wherever she looked. Two smiths had set up a forge to one side, hammering iron rods over bright orange flames. Crane arms attached to a steam engine projected over the outermost edge of the sea rock, and ropes and platforms dangled down into the water.
A few men turned the cranks of two enormous spools, reeling heavy ropes and hoses down to the men working on the cliff below, while others operated what looked like gigantic bellows. Nearby, a few men peered over the side and called back orders.
The combined noise of shouts, hammering, and machinery was loud and incessant, while the steady shushing of waves and the delicate cries of the birds added a peaceful, familiar background tapestry to the harsher modern sounds.
Meg turned slowly, overwhelmed. The wind whipped at her skirts, and she drew her plaid shawl more snugly around her shoulders. Despite the warm, sunny weather, the breeze on top of the rock cut as chilly as it always had.
"We made a quay so that we could bring barges and tenders as close as possible," Alan Clarke said, explaining the features of the work site. "We're constantly loading and unloading equipment and materials, and now that we have the foundation pit for the lighthouse ready, we've been transporting the dressed stones that were quarried on Guga."
She nodded, watching masons work with sledges and chisels, their strokes refining the huge stones so that they would
"Lady Strathlin is not at home at present, sir," the woman said. "Your card?"
Card. Damn again. He had forgotten to carry one with him. Cards were rarely required while quarrying stone or setting black powder charges. He was lucky to have a decent coat and hat. Patting his pockets, he found a small memorandum book and the stub of pencil and scribbled his name and address: Dougal Robertson Stewart, Kinnaird Castle, Strathclyde, currently of Innish Bay, Caransay. He tore out the sheet and handed it to the housekeeper.
She took the little page as if it were the tail of a rodent, and stepped back. "Lady Strathlin will be informed that you called. Good day, sir." The door closed with a solid click.
Dougal stood on the step in the drizzling rain. Lady Strathlin would consider a note scribbled in pencil to be the height of crudity and bad manners and dismiss his visit.
Sighing in frustration, he walked away.
* * *
As Norrie rowed closer to Sgeir Caran, Meg saw that a quay had been created by blasts, a broad ledge of stone that looked raw but useful. She looked up at the towering height of the rock and saw that crude steps had been cut beside the natural slope that had previously served as access to the top.
Alan Clarke, the foreman, stood waiting for them on the quay. He caught the rope that Meg tossed, looping it through an iron ring in the stone before turning to assist her out of the boat. His grip was strong and sure, and he was built like a golden bull, his eyes vivid blue beneath a shock of thick blond hair. She recalled how pleasant he was whenever she exchanged greetings with him on Caransay. Glancing up, she did not see Dougal Stewart among the men standing near the edge of the rock.
"Hello, Miss MacNeill, and welcome," Alan Clarke said lightly. "And Mr. MacNeill! Mr. Stewart said you might come out to see our progress." He led them toward the steps. "After the explosions, it's a bit of a mess on the roof, I'm afraid. Step carefully." Walking on the outer side of the rough steps, he ushered them carefully upward.
Attaining the high, flat plateau, Meg glanced around in dismay. The remote, isolated sea rock was a scene of chaos. A huge crater dominated the center area, and broken rock and dressed stones were stacked around its edges. Clusters of men worked with tools and clunky pieces of equipment. Workbenches, tarpaulins, ropes, kegs, wooden crates, and slabs of stone seemed scattered or leaning wherever she looked. Two smiths had set up a forge to one side, hammering iron rods over bright orange flames. Crane arms attached to a steam engine projected over the outermost edge of the sea rock, and ropes and platforms dangled down into the water.
A few men turned the cranks of two enormous spools, reeling heavy ropes and hoses down to the men working on the cliff below, while others operated what looked like gigantic bellows. Nearby, a few men peered over the side and called back orders.
The combined noise of shouts, hammering, and machinery was loud and incessant, while the steady shushing of waves and the delicate cries of the birds added a peaceful, familiar background tapestry to the harsher modern sounds.
Meg turned slowly, overwhelmed. The wind whipped at her skirts, and she drew her plaid shawl more snugly around her shoulders. Despite the warm, sunny weather, the breeze on top of the rock cut as chilly as it always had.
"We made a quay so that we could bring barges and tenders as close as possible," Alan Clarke said, explaining the features of the work site. "We're constantly loading and unloading equipment and materials, and now that we have the foundation pit for the lighthouse ready, we've been transporting the dressed stones that were quarried on Guga."
She nodded, watching masons work with sledges and chisels, their strokes refining the huge stones so that they would
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