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His voice was scoffing, but the look he gave James was almost friendly.
“Unicorns on the tapestries,” he added. “Tassels on the window dressings. And she might forgive you.”
James felt a rush of relief, followed by a pang of annoyance. Corry’s approval, like Isobel’s, had always carried too much weight with him.
“Well.” He nodded again, more sharply, and started on his way. Corry matched his stride.
“You could tell her,” Corry suggested. “About your grand plans.”
“I told her father, last night.” James frowned. “And I told you, which is tantamount to telling the whole island.”
Corry grinned and didn’t deny it. “Blacksmiths have a sacred duty to entertain their customers.”
“Blacksmiths have a sacred duty to straighten nails and repair plowshares.”
“That too.” Corry shrugged. “I’m better at twisting bent nails into wee love spoons for my sweethearts.”
James grunted.
“There’s one of them now.” Corry shouted in Scots until a young woman driving her small flock of sheep up the hill looked in their direction. He blew a kiss. The woman shouted something that made him laugh.
James pulled ahead, but a moment later, Corry was back at his side, fair shepherdess forgotten.
“My customers want to ken about the duke,” Corry said. “Last week, Mrs. Skene from the castle was shopping in the market, cleared out the langoustines, and went off with more meat and butter and eggs than she’s bought in many a long day. But she was close as a clam when anyone asked the question.”
“The question.” James clenched his jaw.
“Is the duke at Castle Lyon? If so, why didn’t he come to Dearnrigg? Plenty more for him to say here about the chemical history of the turnip and the salinity of sheep dung.”
Corry parroted the oft-repeated phrases from the duke’s agricultural lectures in a ludicrous English accent, with over-crisped consonants and long, creaky vowels. The imitation doubtless played well with the type of crowd that gathered round the anvil.
“Is he thinking he’ll raise the rents?” He continued with his usual lilt. “Does he want us out?”
“That’s several questions.” James rubbed the back of his neck. He understood the concern. His father had never traveled to the isles without ferrying first to Dearnrigg, to tour the farms, to offer his unsolicited agricultural advice, and commit to some scientific innovation involving soil fertility or drainage, which James was intended to implement.
Years without a visit. And then, a surreptitious one. The duke avoiding Dearnrigg altogether.
No, James didn’t wonder that the tenants feared the signs presaged some terrible change.
“I assure you.” James paused. What explanation could he give the town crier?
“It is entirely personal,” he said at last. “Wherever the duke is, and why. It’s nothing to do with Dearnrigg, much less the rents.”
“People will talk, though.” Corry persisted. “Until the duke talks to us.”
“I will talk with him.” James couldn’t help but twist his lips.
He would do more than talk.
“Today,” he gritted. “Within the hour.”
“So, he is at Castle Lyon.” Corry tilted his head. “I wish you luck . . . talking.” Everything in tone, posture, and expression invited elaboration.
James shrugged. “You’ll have no luck yourself, prying.”
“Fair enough.” Corry shrugged too. “Rabbie and Davie can’t row you over. They’re on the mainland. You’d better ask the Balfours.”
“Thank you,” said James. “I’ll row myself.”
