When we get home, dinner is waiting, and both Isla and McCreadie are already seated, eating the appetizer soup. We’ve barely sat before Isla says, “Did you find Bobby?”
“I told her about the case,” McCreadie says.
“We found him, and he is fine,” I say.
She seems to consider her next words and reject a few before blurting, “I would have liked to have been involved.”
I glance at Gray, who clears his throat.
“We understand we made a misstep,” Gray says.
“No, you did not,” Isla says. “We did. Hugh has explained the situation. We were busy, and you did not wish to interrupt.”
“We would have told you,” I say, “if it had gone on longer. It was a very short case.”
“I know, and I . . .” She glances at McCreadie. “We understand. This is new. Our”—her pale cheeks flush—“relationship. I will admit, if you had mentioned it last night, I would have been torn. In the end, I would have gone on Hugh’s picnic. But I would have kept thinking of the case.”
McCreadie touches her hand. “And I would not have wanted you to choose the picnic because you felt obligated after I planned it. I certainly would not have wished either of us to be distracted by a case. The solution would have been to postpone the picnic.” He glances at us. “We are all still navigating these new waters. We understand why you chose not to tell us, but in future, please do.” He pauses. “Unless I have bought tickets to something we cannot rebook. In that case, please tell us nothing, and we will not complain at being left out.”
“Understood,” I say.
“Now”—Isla sits back in her seat—“tell us how you found Bobby.”
After dinner, Isla invites me to a drink in the courtyard. I hesitate. As much as I’d love that, I’m worried she’s only offering because she thinks I feel neglected. But she insists, and so we retire there as the men head to the library with their post-dinner libations.
“I have an idea about Dorrit,” she says. “A potential solution.”
I smile. “Do you?”
She studies my face. “You have the same one, I suspect.”
I tell her what I have in mind, which is exactly what she does, and we make plans for that. Then she says, “There is more. What Davina told you about Catriona. It troubles you. I could see that at dinner.”
I sip my whisky and then say, “It does.”
“Do you want to talk about it? You do not need to tell me her secrets. Perhaps there is another way to discuss it?”
I consider as I finger the glass. “No, I’d like to tell you. It might not be what Catriona would want, but I know it hasn’t been easy on you, realizing the sort of young woman you let into your house.”
“It is a chance I take every time,” she says. “I have made mistakes. I refuse to let those mistakes keep me from ever offering another position to someone others would consider unsuitable.”
“I know. But I’ll tell you anyway. Shall we do that on the walk?”
“Yes, we will tell the men what we are up to, listen to them insist on joining us, and then refuse their help, and leave them sputtering and grumbling.”
I smile. “In other words, the usual.”
“Exactly.”
The men do grumble, but not too much, proving they recognize that Isla and I need time together . . . and maybe that they do, too. Also, it’s still daylight, and we are taking Simon, who will resume his old role of shadowing us.
As we walk, I tell Isla about Catriona’s story, as given to me by Davina.
“Oh,” she says when I finish. “Oh. That poor child.”
