“Well done, indeed. You’ll find a rich selection here in our Gardens, to be sure. Mr. Menna,” he said then, a palm extended. “The gardener.”
She probably ought to use her full name with title, but it seemed too pretentious for the setting. “Libby Sinclair. How do you do?” She put her fingers into his palm, liking him even more when he bowed over them even without knowing she was a titled lady.
“Wonderfully, miss. Thank you. Have you any questions yet? I do realize you’ve barely begun your exploration, but I’m happy to answer any inquiries.”
No fewer than a dozen rioted for a place on her tongue, which made her laugh. “I could keep you occupied all day, sir. Here’s the most important though—do you need an apprentice?”
He laughed, though there was nothing mocking about it. Just actual delight. “I’ve a bit of one already in the vicar. But I do enjoy talking about my gardens with avid pupils. You are certainly welcome here any time, Miss Sinclair, and I’d be most happy to share any knowledge with you that I have and you desire.”
The vicar—he must mean Mr. Tremayne. He was the only vicar on Tresco, so far as Libby knew. And it made sense that he and Mr. Menna would be not only acquainted but friendly. That certainly explained how he’d known so much about botany when he led her through her own gardens with such expert ease.
Though she wanted to glance around to see if perhaps he were here now, she instead kept her focus on Mr. Menna. Conversing with him was ever so much easier than chatting with the holiday-goers on St. Mary’s. “That’s very kind of you, sir, and I’ll no doubt take you up on your offer. Though you ought to attend the other visitors first. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
He chuckled and leaned a little closer, dark eyes sparkling. “To be perfectly honest,” he said in a whisper, “I’d prefer to spend a day with someone genuinely interested than with someone who only came because they were told they must. But we’ll let that be our secret. I try to think of it as a challenge to interest those casual visitors and help them see the splendor all about them.”
“What a lovely perspective.” It certainly was healthier than growing frustrated when people didn’t seem to care about the same things you did. Which was how she ended every single conversation with Edith. “I pray you open someone’s eyes today, Mr. Menna.”
“And I pray you enjoy every minute you spend here, Miss Sinclair. Don’t hesitate to find me if you have a pressing question. Otherwise I’ll certainly find you in a bit.”
She smiled him on his way and turned to a fresh sheet of paper. Her first individual subject would be the Alsophila australis—a fern, so said its leaf, but far larger than the sort she saw at home. The stalk was as thick as the trunk of a sapling, and it was at least three feet tall.
It was like being in another world altogether. One she could happily get lost in. Where, she had to wonder, had Oliver Tremayne last been in these gardens? If Mr. Menna called him an apprentice of sorts, then he must spend a lot of time here. Had he ever knelt right here, where she sat now? Had he helped to plant any of these specimens in the ground or arranged the stones that guarded them?
And why did the thought of that make her fingers tingle around her pencil? She took a deep breath and focused on her work. First this fern, and then the ones neighboring it. As the morning went on, she had to scoot to a new position several times as the sun arched over her, warming her shoulders.
“There you are, dearest.”
She may have ignored the unfamiliar voice if its owner hadn’t stopped directly at her side, casting a shadow over her page. Libby looked up, the crick in her neck telling her as surely as the angle of the sun that she’d been here for hours already. Her prepared smile went genuine when she beheld the little sprite of a woman grinning down at her, as ancient as the stones all over the islands, from the look of her.
She didn’t know why the woman spoke as if she’d been searching for her, but it was hard not to enjoy being found by such a face. “Good morning, ma’am.” Had Mr. Menna sent the lady to find her? Perhaps it was his mother, and she’d offered to check on the odd girl who was sitting on the pathway, drawing. That must be it.
The lady held out a hand. “Come, dearover. I’ve been wanting to walk with you.”
“Oh.” Odd, but . . . “All right.” She scampered to her feet, tucking the pencil into her notebook and the notebook into its usual place under her arm. She then put her hand into the old lady’s, marveling at how soft her skin was, like the most precious paper. “Where shall we walk, ma’am?”
The lady’s laugh was how Libby imagined a fairy’s, if she ever bothered to think about how a fairy might laugh. Which she hadn’t until now. “How many times must I tell you? You needn’t call me ma’am. Just call me Mamm-wynn, dearest, like the others do. Heaven knows I’ve earned the badge, at my age.”
She knew from Mabena that it was simply the Cornish word for grandmother. And she had no real reason not to call the woman by such a title, if it was what she preferred. Perhaps she considered herself the grandmother to everyone on the islands. But that “how many times” gave her pause for a moment. Had she confused Libby with someone else? If so, mightn’t that someone else be upset if they found their grandmother hand in hand with a complete stranger?
Well, she’d try to catch Mr. Menna’s attention as they walked. If the woman had wandered away from a group of tourists or her family home, he would surely know it and help her return the delightful figure to her rightful place. She gave the delicate hand an equally delicate squeeze. “Of course, Mamm-wynn.”
“That’s a good girl.” Mamm-wynn patted her arm, her smile still as bright as the sun. And her eyes looked perfectly clear, not clouded with confusion. But then, what did Libby know of such things? Papa’s parents had died when she was too young to remember them, and Mama’s she never saw more than once a year, living on the other side of the country as they did.
“So, tell me, dear—what do you think of our islands, now that you’ve been here awhile?”
Did a week count as awhile? She tipped her face up to take in the blue sky, watched a gull circle, and then smiled as she took in the expanse of the garden again. “I think . . . I think I could spend the rest of my life here and never miss the mainland for a moment.”
Only when she spoke the words did she realize how true they were. Perhaps it was a strange sentiment, given how much of the week had been spent indoors hiding from the rain. But every time she’d stepped outside, be it to the beach or into charming little Hugh Town, or onto the boat that had ferried them from St. Mary’s to Tresco this morning, that same sense of contentment had overtaken her.
This place was more than the mere facts she’d learned about it before coming. It wasn’t just an archipelago situated twenty-five miles off the coast of Cornwall. It wasn’t just the host to exotic species imported from around the empire. It wasn’t just six square miles of flower farms and sheep pastures and beaches.
It was something more. Something that made her wonder if she’d find here what eluded her in London, and even at Telford Hall.
Mamm-wynn hummed her approval of the answer. “That is just the way I felt when I first came here.”