Page 29 of Taming the Heiress
Cheers and applause rose from those watching inside the fishing boats. Norrie, hollering with the rest, lifted a hand in salute, then grabbed at the oars. Thora, Mother Elga, and Iain, riding with him all clapped and laughed, along with the others.
Meg sat silent in the bobbing bow, unable to enjoy the spectacle as they did. She had spent time and funds trying to prevent this very thing from happening. Sgeir Caran would never be the same. The blasting would forever alter the rock and mar its ancient soul.
Most of all, she was concerned about the wildlife and bird colonies on Sgeir Caran. Watching birds fleethe rock like an upward spiral of dark smoke, she frowned.
Another sky-high eruption was greeted by yelling and clapping from those in the boats scattered over the water. Some of the islanders had watched the construction explosions on the rock for much of the morning. Neglecting lobster pots, nets, and chores, they were thrilled by the gigantic plumes of smoke and fire flaring into the bright sky. A little while earlier, Dougal Stewart had sent men out in a rowboat to ask the spectators to keep their boats well back for reasons of safety. The people had complied, declaring the view still marvelous.
Meg had witnessed pyrotechnics in Edinburgh, London, and Paris, and she understood that the islanders found these explosions to be novel and entertaining. Witnessing this with them, she felt only sadness. For her, the glorious beauty of nature far outstripped fireworks and explosions produced by man. Nothing could compare to the grandeur of the aurora borealis or the awesome sight of storms and lightning.
After a lull came another flare and an enormous plume of smoke, and wild cheers rose from the audience. Watching, Meg wished the rock could stay unchanged forever, a sanctum sanctorum for birds and seals, a monument to ancient traditions and legends. Sgeir Caran was a place of mystery and power, and it had a personal, treasured significance for her privately.
Nothing in life remained the same, and too often wonderful dreams fled with the dawn. She had learned that lesson well.
* * *
Soft, gentle rain fell on his hat and the shoulders of his gray coat as Dougal mounted the slate steps of the entrance to Clachan Mor. He lifted his hand and knocked. As much as he hated wearing a hat, he had donned his bowler out of politeness. He adjusted its brim as he waited. Damn—he had forgotten his gloves, he realized. He shoved one hand in his pocket.
After a few moments the door opened to frame a tall, thin woman wearing a black dress, a white apron, and a lacy cap. She stared down her narrow nose at him with dramatic effect, for she not only stood a step above him, she seemed as tall as he was—and he bested six feet without his boots.
She was a gaunt, harsh harridan, despite the soft silvery beauty of the hair beneath her little cap. Her eyes were steel as she looked him up and down so that he felt like an untidy little boy. All the governesses and dominies he had ever known glared at him through this woman's cold stare.
"Good day. Is Lady Strathlin at home?" he asked.
He expected the formidable creature to shut the door in his face. "Who is calling?" Her intonation was stiff.
"Mr. Dougal Stewart, resident engineer on the Caran lighthouse, come to see Lady Strathlin."
She stared, unforgiving. No doubt she knew all about his dispute with the baroness. Glimpsing movement in the shadowed hall behind her, he looked past her into the entrance hall, where he could see the gleam of polished wood, brass and crystal, the rich tones of Turkish 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 fit together to form the base of the tower. Several stones had been lowered into place and packed with mortar. The pit dug into the plateau was huge—eighty feet around at least and almost two feet deep, Alan explained.
