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details.
    “The hard way.”
    “I can’t imagine there’s an easy way to win a medallike that.”
    “No, indeed. Anyway, he didn’t win it charging forward with a blazing gun and all-consuming rage, blinded by the heat of battle to the risks he was taking, but with an altogether more uncommon kind of courage. It turns out Finlay McRae was one of the first men—well, he can’t have been much more than a boy—to set foot on the beaches during D-Day. While the bombs and bullets were flying all around and other men dived for cover he stayed on his feet to pipe the commandoes ashore to the tune of
Highland Laddie.”
    Kate had taken to Finlay from the start, and now felt admiration for him as well as affection.
    Miss Weir started washing up the plates and knives. Before she’d finished there was a barely audible knock at the door, followed by a timid, “Miss Weir—”
    Kate couldn’t hear the rest of what Finlay said for the sound of her own laughter.
    “Come in, Finlay. We’ve been expecting you,” the housekeeper announced smugly.
    The door opened and in came Finlay, taken aback to see Kate sitting quite the thing at the kitchen table.
    “It’s okay,” Miss Weir told Finlay. “It seems that Lady Kate is quite at home taking a mug of tea with the likes or us.”
    As Finlay sat down, Miss Weir said, “You’ll be wanting a sandwich, I take it.”
    “Just if there’s one already made,” Finlay said, lookingat the leftover half of Kate’s sandwich sitting in the middle of the table.
    Miss Weir shook her head. “Men,” she said to Kate. “They’re so predictable.”
    “I’d prefer to say ‘reliable’,” Finlay said.
    “I can rely on you wanting a mug of tea and a scone as well, I suppose.”
    “That you can, but I’ll see to it myself.”
    “That means he wants to pick his own scone,” Miss Weir told Kate.
    Finlay polished off his sandwich in short order and got up to help himself to a scone. “I see that someone’s already taken the ‘smallest’ one,” he said, peeved.
    Once more, Kate had to work hard not to burst out laughing.
    Finlay took a bite of his scone and said, “It’s very nice, Miss Weir. Yes, very nice indeed. But maybe just the littlest bit dry, if I might be so bold as to say so.”
    Without a word Miss Weir brought him the jam jar.
    “It only needs a spoonful,” he said.
    “Aye, well, just remember what happened with your wallies the last time you took more than that.”
    Kate knew it was probably better not to ask, but couldn’t keep her curiosity at bay: “Wallies?”
    “Aye, falsers—you know, false teeth.”
    “Miss Weir!” Finlay said indignantly. “I’m sure Lady Kate doesn’t want to know about such things.”
    Miss Weir carried on regardless. “Greedy guts hereoverdid it with the strawberry jam one afternoon and got his wallies stuck fast in a scone. Not a pretty sight, I can assure you. In fact, I’m still having nightmares about it yet. It was a month before I could bring myself to even think about baking another tray of scones or making a pot of jam.”
    “Miss Weir, please! A man’s entitled to a bit of dignity in his senior years,” Finlay protested, so embarrassed that his face had turned almost the same color as the jam on his scone.
    “Not if he gets his wallies stuck in a scone, he’s not,” Mrs. Weir said.
    Finlay shook his head sadly and said, “Old age is a terrible, terrible thing.”
    Kate laughed. “I’m sorry, Finlay, but your accent cracks me up,” she told him. “You only said terrible twice but I heard way more than two words’ worth of ‘r’s.”
    “You’re not going to be tricking me into saying words with lots of ‘r’s in them just so you can laugh at me, are you?”
    “It’s a distinct possibility once I’ve had enough sleep to be able to think straight.”
    “You must be exhausted, right enough. Would you like to get some rest now, and I’ll show you around after?” he asked.
    Kate shook her head.