No, that couldn’t be right. Libby couldn’t imagine Oliver Tremayne ashamed of his brother, no matter what he might look like. The eyes that had drilled down to her soul hadn’t been capable of looking on his own flesh and blood with anything but the deepest love. She was sure of it. “Charlotte.”
The use of her full name, Libby had found during their shared year of finishing school, was able to pull Lottie back better than a longer chide ever could.
“Well, what better explanation do you have for why the eldest son and heir would never have anything to do with his own business? The younger went to university and joined the church as expected, but he never spoke of his older brother. Why, I ask you?”
“Perhaps,” said a harsh voice from before them that made Libby look up with a jolt, “because he wouldn’t sully the thoughts of his saint of a brother with such vitriol as your sort would offer.”
For a moment, she scarcely recognized Mabena, snarling as she was, with her hat held in her hands instead of fastened in place, and curls wisping all around her face. But it was definitely she who stood before them. Clearly having come to look for Libby. And clearly having heard at least the last bit of their conversation, over which she was even more annoyed than Libby had known she could be.
Charlotte, of course, didn’t look chastised. She just lifted her chin. “And who are you?”
“Someone who knew Morgan Tremayne from the day I was born, that’s who. Someone who can tell you, as could any soul on the islands, that never was a kinder, more generous-hearted man ever born, unless it be his younger brother.” Mabena lifted a finger and poked it in Lottie’s general direction. “Shame on you for speaking so of the dead. You want to know why he never left the island? Because he couldn’t, that’s why. His health was too fragile. As if he were the only gentleman ever afflicted so! And you, to sully his good name on account of an ailment he couldn’t help! I say again, shame on you. On both of you.”
Though the words only made Lottie bristle, they cut Libby to the quick. She hadn’t said anything bad about Morgan Tremayne. She’d in fact been defending the whole family in her thoughts and one-word rebuke. But there was no deterring Charlotte Wight from conversation. How could she be blamed for merely being present while she gossiped?
All the same, she knew well if it had been the Botanist standing before them now rather than a neighbor of his, he’d be looking at her in just that way. And the thought of it made her chest go so tight she could hardly draw breath enough to say, “Moon, please. Charlotte meant no harm.”
For the first time in fifteen minutes, Lottie released her arm. “You know this . . . person, Libby?”
“She’s my maid.” The words felt wrong. Why, when they were true? When Mabena wouldn’t want to be introduced as a friend? But all the same, she felt the chafing of it. To Mabena she added, “Charlotte said a friend of hers—Lady Emily Scofield—recommended she find Beth while she was here this summer. Lady Emily and Beth are friends, it seems.” She hoped Mabena would hear in it that this was the real reason she’d been listening. That was her whole purpose today, after all. To find anyone who might have met Beth. And while Lottie hadn’t, it still seemed significant that she, too, had been searching for her.
Because if there was one thing Lottie was proving even now, it was that she was an expert at finding out all the gossip to be had about a person. That could be useful—though tricky to determine which parts were true.
Mabena didn’t soften any. “Given what she clearly thinks of the family, I’m surprised she’d deign to obey her friend’s advice.”
Lottie crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, sometimes we must keep company with people we’d rather not, when there’s no other option. Right, Libby?”
Though it may in fact have been true—and accurately explained their friendship—she clearly meant Mabena now, and the fact that Libby was “forced” to keep company with her. But never in a million years would she agree.
Her stomach ached. “Please don’t.”
Just like that, Lottie shifted back to her usual smiles, arms falling to her sides. She even laughed as she turned to face Libby. “You never were one who could handle conflict, were you? Or disapproval. Even from your maid, it seems. How did you survive in London, Libby?”
She wrapped her arms around her stomach, notebook still clutched in one hand. “Badly.”
“Hence, I suppose, while you’re summering here instead. Well.” She took a step backward. “I’ve no need to get in a row with a domestic. You can deal with her impertinence as you will—or probably not, knowing you. I will get an invitation to you for the dinner party. You did bring a few appropriate gowns? Lord Willsworth favors greens, I think.”
As if Libby had ever in her life dressed to please a man. Well, other than her father. And brother. But they hardly counted. She had to please them at least a bit in order to be let out of the house—and getting out of the house had always been part of the agreement for what she was allowed to do when back in it. Balls and soirees in exchange for microscopes and slides.
Devious men.
To Charlotte, she simply nodded. She would worry with viscounts and dinner parties another day. For now, she’d try not to burst into flame under Mabena’s continued glare.
Her friend scarcely waited until Lottie was out of earshot before spitting out, “You know that person?”
Maybe the ache in her stomach wasn’t dread and fear. Maybe she just needed lunch. She stepped past Mabena. “We were at finishing school together in Switzerland.”
Mabena snorted her opinion of that. “And you let her fill your ears with such rot as she was spewing about Morgan Tremayne?”
“There’s no stopping her from talking, and it wasn’t as though I knew what she was going to say. I was only . . . I said I’d learn what I could. I thought maybe she’d found something useful, since she was looking for Beth too.”
A snort was Mabena’s only answer. They trudged in silence back up the beach, nothing companionable about it now. By the time they reached their path, even the too-perfect “Meow” and the emergence of a cute little striped face couldn’t quite make Libby smile fully.
Mabena hissed. “Shoo. Go away, kitty.”
Instead, the little darling fell in beside Libby, lunging playfully at her feet and then tumbling away. It drew out a breath of a laugh, despite the clenching of her stomach.
Mabena sighed. “You fed it your bacon, didn’t you.”
It wasn’t a question, so why bother answering?
“Fabulous. You’ll never get rid of it now.”
“Really?” Perhaps she oughtn’t to have sounded so happy about it. It made Mabena roll her eyes and storm ahead. But the kitten let Libby pick it up and cuddle it under her chin. So it was worth it.
8
The wind whispered in his ear, luring his feet toward the shore. Oliver would have obeyed it even if he hadn’t been on the path already, his gaze set on Enyon’s familiar form down at the water. “Ahoy!” he called when close enough that there was a prayer his friend would hear him.
Enyon straightened, turned, and lifted a hand in greeting. At his feet rested the little one-man gig he always used for a bit of pleasure rowing, which meant he hadn’t been running all the way to another island, just about Tresco, or perhaps over to Bryher to visit his sister. Given the fine mist that had been falling all day, Oliver was a bit surprised he’d been out at all. Enyon had always preferred a sunny day for his errands, when one was to be had.