Vanora knew from what she had seen from the ship that the garden was ablaze with flowers as it sloped down to the sea.
There was a portico over the front door and, when she climbed slowly up the steps, there was no need for her to knock or ring the bell.
The door was opened immediately by a footman.
There were two men in the hall both wearing kilts of the MacFile tartan.
Before either could speak, an older man appeared, who was obviously the butler.
“I thinks you be Miss Bruce,” he said with a broad Scots accent. “We’re expecting you and I am Donald.”
“I hope that I am not late, Donald,” Vanora replied. “But the drive is longer than I anticipated.”
“A great number of people have said that, miss,” he replied. “Will you no come this way?”
He went ahead up a broad wooden staircase whi
