Hector peered up through the windscreen too. “I understand, but when I called Sir William, he did assure me we were quite welcome.”
Mauchline House was a massive building set high on a hill overlooking a wide valley. The house, built of red sandstone blocks, was a perfect cube with little decoration to soften its harsh lines: a desultory arch over the front door and a small pointed turret at each corner. A steep slate roof held it in place, rain streaks stained the walls, and it was not in the least bit welcoming.
“This is our last stately home, and the last night of our honeymoon, dear,” Hector said, raising his left hand and tapping his finger. “Rings.”
Caitrin slipped on the wedding rings and asked, “Have you been here before?”
“No. Only met James’s parents at school.”
“Egads, then there’s still time yet to flee back across the border,” Caitrin said.
The heavy front door swung open, Sir William Gordon strode out, and fleeing was impossible. Sir William resembled his home. He was a square, solid man who stood anchored to the earth on sturdy legs. He squinted at them and bellowed, “Hector, away in here, man, and bring that lass of yours.”
“Too late to flee now,” Hector said and opened his door.
“A warning. I’ll starve to death before I eat haggis,” Caitrin said as she got out of the car and they went to meet Sir William. He embraced both with bone-crushing hugs and shepherded them into the house with the zeal of a Border Collie. Inside it was dark, and Caitrin recognized the familiar smell: wood smoke and damp. All stately homes smelled the same, some with a tint of wet dog or last night’s brandy. The great hall was hammer-beamed, oak-paneled, and decorated with circular displays of claymores and muskets; the Gordon coat of arms hung over the ubiquitous fireplace.
They had heavy crystal glasses of whisky in their hands before they could react. Sir William added a dash of water to them. “It’s Laphroaig, thirty years old. Nectar of Islay in the Hebrides. Sip and taste; don’t gulp. Let the taste come to you. Now sit and tell me what brings you to Scotland.”
They sat, and Caitrin and Hector glanced at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. Finally Hector said, “We’re on our honeymoon.”
“No, you’re not.”
“What?”
“You’re not married.”
Hector coughed into his drink. “Why do you say that?”
Sir William pointed at him and then swung his finger across to settle on Caitrin. “Any man who had just married this beauty would be sitting next to her. You’re not.”
“What do you think of Churchill?” Caitrin asked, because she did not want Sir William to take command of the conversation.
“That was an unexpected and deflecting question,” Sir William said. “What do I think of Churchill? He made a complete arse of Gallipoli, but that wasn’t all his fault. The return to the gold standard fiasco was, though. But to give him credit, when he was dismissed for the Dardanelles disaster, he upped and joined the army and went into the frontline trenches in Flanders. I can’t imagine another Westminster minister doing that, even if he did turn up like an English Napoleon on a bloody great black charger, and with ten times the allowed personal belongings, including a tin bath and a boiler. Still, he’s too much of a shifty political weather vane for my own taste.”
“In London there are calls to negotiate with the Germans. Do you think Churchill is the man to build bridges with Hitler?”
Sir William leaned back and sipped his whisky. “You have yourself a lassie and a half here, Hector.”
“I think so,” Hector said and smiled at her reaction.
“You should have married her. What’s in the horse box?” Sir William asked.
“Tell me your thoughts about Churchill first,” Caitrin said, focusing her attention on Sir William and ignoring the rows of deer-head trophies staring myopically at her from the wall behind him.
“A lassie and three-quarters, right enough. Churchill’s not the man to build a bridge to a lunatic like Hitler, who intends to rule the world and needs to be eliminated. And the sooner the better. What’s in the horse box?”
“Hay. Bales of hay.”
Sir William slapped his knee. “Hector, they say that some of the strongest-spirited women come from Wales and the West Highlands. QED. Can I see these bales of hay?”
“No,” Caitrin said and met Sir William’s gaze.
“No? And what if I were to tiptoe down when you were sleeping and poke about?”
“I am a light sleeper and would be forced to shoot you the instant the horse-box doors were opened,” Caitrin said.
Sir William gazed at Caitrin with open admiration. “I believe you would. So let’s assess the situation. We have a healthy young man who is not in uniform. To me that suggests a more clandestine service. And next, we have a beautiful young Welshwoman who can easily out-think any man I know—”
“And outshoot,” Hector said.
“And added to all that, a horse box full of hay bales that no one is allowed to see. Tip-top secret, no?”
“Yes,” Caitrin said. “The hushest of all hushedy-hushes. Nice whisky.”
“Where is Lady Alice?” Hector asked, to redirect the conversation.
Sir William’s smile faded. “In a sanitarium in Peebles. Has been there for a while.”
“Because of her son James,” Caitrin said.
“My goodness. How did you know that?”
“Because Hector and James are close friends, and you would have mentioned him sooner, except for . . . ?”
“Dunkirk. Jamie always loved the army and joined the Territorials as soon as he was old enough,” Sir William said and sipped at his whisky. “He was a captain in the 153rd Brigade, part of the 51st Highland Division.”
“Who stayed behind to fight the Germans and let the others be rescued,” Caitrin said.
