She could rather see Papa’s point though, especially here on St. Mary’s, where so much was as it had been for centuries. There was a charm to the unchanging. To watching and learning the rhythms of nature and seeking to be part of them, rather than to rule them. To gliding over the waters with the help of the wind or oars rather than churning them up with an electric motor.
“I should like to learn to sail while I’m here. I’m a decent hand at rowing already, thanks to our lake.”
Her sudden declaration was met with a moment of silence before Mabena’s clattering of pans commenced again. “And you went from toasters to sailboats how, exactly?”
Libby grinned. “The old ways versus the new. There’s no reason I can’t learn, right?”
Mabena shook her head. “No reason, but don’t get any fool ideas about sailing around by yourself in search of puffins or seals. It takes more than a summer to learn all the waterways.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take you with me on those adventures.” She flashed her another grin. “How do we find a boat? Can we rent one?”
Mabena sighed. “We can, though I daresay we needn’t. My father builds them. I’ve had a small sloop of my own for years, and he’s already promised to get her ready for me. The Mermaid.”
“Oh!” Libby’s eyes went wide. “He builds boats? Fascinating. Could I see his shop sometime?”
Mabena chuckled. “He would be honored to show you about, I’m certain.”
“And we need to see the Abbey Gardens soon. So obviously we should just plan an outing to Tresco.”
“Obviously.” Mabena thankfully looked amused rather than annoyed at the thought of introducing Libby to more of her world. Good. “Perhaps we could even plan to stay overnight. I know my parents would be thrilled.”
“Perfect!”
They chatted about whether the fine weather was likely to hold and what days would be best for that trip while they cooked. An easy, companionable conversation, followed by an easy, companionable silence while they ate.
She’d always liked breakfasts best for this very reason. Even when her company was Bram and Mama instead of Mabena, it was such an easy meal. The one where her brother often had a newspaper open before him to mask his usual morning silence, where they could each come and go at their leisure, where there were no expectations. Certainly no evening gowns or perfectly coiffed hair like at dinner.
When she was finished, she took her own plate to the sink, washed it, and stacked it neatly back in the cupboard with the others. After fetching her notebook, pencil, and hat, she said, “All right, then. Down to the shore I go. Feel free to find me whenever you’re bored of town, Mabena.”
Mabena, still at the table with her tea and the last half of her toast, smiled. “I’ll just look for the girl on her belly in the sand, studying the root systems of the grasses.”
Chuckling, Libby snatched up one of the remaining pieces of bacon for the walk. And then another. “A fine idea.” With a wave farewell, she let herself out and aimed directly for the path down to the beach. She had a feeling she and that path were going to become the best of friends before the summer was over.
“Meow.”
Her feet paused near the garrison wall even as her gaze skittered around, looking for whatever child had made the cat call. And she was a bit surprised to find not a sweet little lad or lass poorly imitating a feline, but an actual feline poorly imitating itself. It was a tiny thing, striped and white socked, its fur matted and scraggly. And when it emitted another “Meow,” Libby couldn’t suppress a giggle. It really did sound more like a person trying to mimic a cat than an actual kitten. “Hello there.”
It came a few steps closer, peering up at her with wide golden eyes. It meowed again, and again as she took another step toward the path. She glanced down at the bacon in her hands. “Ah. I suspect I know what you want. Well, you certainly seem to need it more than I do. Here you are, little darling.”
She broke off a few small chunks of the bacon and tossed it to the kitten, grinning when it scarfed it down as if it were starving. Which, given the ribs she could make out through the fur, it may well be. Poor little mite. She crumbled the rest of the strips and tossed them down a few pieces at a time.
A tabby for certain, she decided as she looked for and found the distinctive M on its forehead. And a lovely one—or it would be, if it weren’t so scraggly. Fur of what she suspected was a nice brown with those dark grey stripes, and white markings under its chin, down its chest, and on two of its four feet. It reminded her a bit of one of the stable cats they’d had when she was younger. Though it had been too wild to ever let her come near and pet it, it had been her favorite one to watch.
“You seem friendly enough.” She crouched down, and the kitten came immediately over to her, trying to climb up onto her knee. It was either too small or too weak to manage it, but she gave it an obliging scratch behind the ears and smiled at the loud rumble of a purr. “Yes, I think you’re simply a stray, not feral. But I’m afraid that’s all the bacon I’ve brought out with me. See?” She showed it her palm.
It licked her, its sandpaper tongue making her laugh again. “All right, little darling. I’m going down to the beach. But if you’re still here when I come back, I’ll see what else I can find for you to eat. Hopefully when Mabena’s not at home. She prefers dogs,” she said in a stage whisper, just in case her voice was carrying toward the open windows of their cottage. She stood again, after placing the kitten’s paws back on the ground.
“Meow.”
Still smiling, she started down the path, not exactly surprised when the meowing followed her. But the kitten would no doubt tire of the walk and turn back to the shelter of the grasses it must have been hiding in, so she pressed on. And though she caught glimpses of the little tabby several times as she catalogued the flora and fauna over the next couple hours, it did indeed seem more inclined to the grass than the beach.
Around midmorning, her solitude evaporated into the wind-blown laughter and shouts from other holiday-goers bent on seizing the sunny day after twenty-four hours of rain. Though she sighed a bit, she also told herself that this was exactly as she had planned. She could do this. She didn’t really want to . . . but it wasn’t about her. It was about Oliver Tremayne and his missing sister.
Closing her notebook and tucking her pen into her pocket, she started toward the nearest cluster of people. A woman who looked a decade or two older than Libby, sitting in a chair that a man she guessed to be a servant had carried down for her. An older man—the woman’s husband, most likely—was setting up a badminton net, the wind carrying to her his boasts that he’d “show the young pup how it was done.”
The “young pup” was a lad of about twelve, by her estimation, who was grinning and playing a game of keeping the birdie in the air with his racket. A girl, perhaps eight or nine, was on her knees in the sand, happily digging, while another woman—a nanny, most likely—tried to put a discarded hat on the girl’s head.
A normal family, by all appearances. Nothing to make her stomach clench. Libby made certain her feet kept to their easy, strolling pace and took her near to the mother. What was she really to do though? Just stop at her feet and say hello? Demand to know who she was? If she knew Beth Tremayne? Or the Sinclair family?