Page 62 of The Scottish Island Inn

‘Catriona. How are you?’ he asked, politely, ignoring Sorrel.

‘As well as can be expected, dear. My daughters are, as ever, testing my patience.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Tam smiled, though Sorrel could tell it was mostly for show. ‘Actually, Sorrel, I did have something I wanted to show you, if you have a minute?’

Sorrel’s stomach clenched. What did he want?

‘Of course, dear. I have things to attend to, anyway.’ Catriona beamed at Tam.

‘Mum. We really need to talk…’ Sorrel reached out for her, but her mother was already at the kitchen door. She sighed and turned to Tam. ‘So, you’re talking to me, then?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said, brusquely.

‘Well, you haven’t been talking to me for a while now. Since the B&B.’

‘What is there to say? It was a mistake. Clearly.’

Sorrel almost recoiled at Tam’s words; she felt the energy behind them. It was uncharacteristically cruel, and she felt the impact in her chest. Her heart ached.

‘Wow. Thanks.’ She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. That night at the B&B had meant so much to her. She had been so vulnerable with Tam. Her heart was so tender, and now he was trampling all over it.

‘You’re welcome. Things seem to be going well with Simon,’ he added.

She looked at him, appalled that he could think such a thing.

‘Do they?’ she asked, quietly, the ache in her heart deepening.

‘You seemed very friendly when I saw you outside the castle.’ Tam’s tone was accusatory.

‘I wasn’t. That wasn’t what happened,’ Sorrel said, softly. She wanted to cry, but she held it back. ‘I… Simon wanted to get back together. I…’ I refused. I sent him packing was what she was going to say.

‘Well, I won’t stand in your way,’ Tam interrupted, his face blank and expressionless.

She wanted to tell Tam that she had run after him, crushed; she wanted to tell him that what he saw was actually her pushing Simon away.

But it was so clear that Tam had made up his own mind.

Fine. You’ve made up your own mind about what you saw without giving me the benefit of the doubt. You can think what you want. A self-protective instinct, like armour-plating, rose up in her.

‘Okay. Great. Fine.’ Sorrel let out a long breath. She was suddenly very tired. All I’ve done since I got home is worry, she realised. I just don’t have anything left in me to fight this out with Tam now.

‘You had something for me?’ She held out her hand, changing the subject; she was expecting receipts or something similar.

Tam looked at her, askance. For a moment he looked as though he was going to say something more, but then he nodded and handed her an envelope made of thick, cream-coloured paper.

‘Your uncle said he had a look in the records room after you were searching for papers relating to Emma Gordon, and found this, addressed to one of his ancestors. He brought it by for you, but you weren’t here. I said I’d take it – I don’t think he wanted to go into the caravan. Your dad was around.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’ She took it, and opened it. ‘Addressed to one of his ancestors?’

‘So he said. Matthew Balhennie. It’s on the envelope.’ Tam looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but where he was in that moment, but he stood there with her nonetheless.

Matthew Balhennie. MB.

Sorrel opened the envelope and read the letter aloud.

Dear Matthew,

I write this from Holloway Prison, where it seems that I will be for a long time.