Libby’s stomach flopped. Not exactly in the way it had when Mabena rebuked her and Lottie. But still, it wasn’t comfortable. Clearly this lovely lady thought her someone else. Which was not only ironic, given the talk of the importance of names, but also distressing. She needed to find out where Mamm-wynn belonged and return her. Because as delightful as their conversation had been, she hadn’t ever meant to have it with her.
That probably shouldn’t make disappointment sink so heavily into her bones. But it had been nice, if only for a quarter of an hour, to call her Grandmother and feel as though she belonged there by her side.
Her smile wobbled now when she put it on. “May I help you home, Mamm-wynn?”
As if the mere mention of it sapped her strength, the lady leaned more heavily upon her and nodded. “I think that would be wise. Mrs. Dawe will be cross with me for sneaking out again.” But she laughed. “I keep telling her that someone has to keep her on her toes.”
Hopefully whoever Mrs. Dawe was, she wouldn’t be cross with Libby for keeping her out instead of returning her the moment their paths crossed. But she hadn’t known the lady had been sneaking anywhere.
And even if she had, she wasn’t entirely certain she would have done anything differently. Even if the conversation had been intended for someone else, it had lit something in her.
“We had better take the shortcut.” Mamm-wynn indicated another path.
“All right.” Libby slid an arm around her companion’s slight waist as they walked, the better to support her, since it seemed her energy was flagging with each step. They slipped out a small door in the garden wall that clearly wasn’t used by many people, and Libby followed the subtle presses of the lady to know where to go from there.
They didn’t walk far before they’d entered the gate of a quaint stone house that she prayed was where the woman actually lived. It was bigger than its neighbors, set apart, with a beautiful vista stretching down to the sea. Nothing nearly so grand as Tresco Abbey, where the Lord Proprietor lived. But beautiful. She’d have liked to take a moment there at the gate simply to pause and admire it—the way it looked as though the stones had sprung from the ground itself and clambered atop one another, moss acting as mortar; the way the sun glinted off the windowpanes and made them wink a greeting; the explosion of color in the flowers growing along absolutely every line and boundary and wall.
If this was where Mamm-wynn’s Edgar had brought her when they wed, it was no wonder she had let the islands know her name. Who wouldn’t want to live here? Perhaps it was only a fraction of the size of Telford Hall, but it would be perfect for a family to grow in.
The door opened as they approached it, and a worried-looking woman of middling age bustled out. “There you are! And what will Master Oliver say when he learns you’ve sneaked out again, Mrs. Tremayne?”
Mrs. Tremayne? Master Oliver? Libby nearly stumbled on the perfectly smooth flagstones under her feet. Had this lovely woman—his grandmother, no doubt—mistaken her for Beth, as the strangers had?
But no. Beth wasn’t engaged or married either. She’d have no story of the Betrothal Stone to tell. Perhaps she’d mistaken her for a neighbor. A niece. Who was to say?
The worried woman—Mrs. Dawe, presumably—had reached their side and turned grateful eyes on Libby. “Thank you so much for seeing her home, miss.”
She didn’t have to force the smile. If this was what Mrs. Dawe looked like when cross, then she could only imagine her happy. “It was my pleasure, I assure you.”
Mrs. Tremayne linked her arm through Libby’s again. “We’ll have some tea now, I think. Are you hungry yet, dearover?”
“Oh, of course! Come in, please.” Mrs. Dawe—a housekeeper, perhaps?—waved a hand toward the still-open door. “A bit of refreshment is the least we can offer in thanks.”
“Oh.” She wanted to accept. Which might be the first time in her life she could say such a thing of an invitation from a stranger. “I’d love to, but Mabena Moon will be looking for me in the Gardens.”
Mrs. Dawe chuckled. “Not for a while, she won’t. Her mam roped her into helping her set up a new display in her shop, and they were nowhere near done when I walked by ten minutes ago. You’ve time to come in, and I’ll send Mr. Dawe round to let her know where you are. Lady Elizabeth, then, is it?”
She liked the way Mrs. Dawe said it—as if it were simply a matter of fact, stated for clarity, not something to fuss over like Mrs. Pepper had done. She didn’t at all mind nodding her agreement. “That’s right.”
“Lovely. You and Mrs. Tremayne can rest in the drawing room while I put the pot on and get lunch together. Master Oliver ought to be home soon too.”
She wasn’t sure what Mrs. Tremayne’s wink was supposed to mean, but it made Libby’s cheeks feel warm again. But then, she’d forgotten to pay attention to whether her hat was shielding her face from the sun, so it was possible she’d just been sunburned.
No one seemed to mind that Libby didn’t say anything. She let the lady of the house lead her into the pretty little drawing room and didn’t even mourn the time she wasn’t spending in the Gardens.
The plants would still be there in an hour. For now, she would simply enjoy the time with the Botanist’s grandmother.
10
Oliver paused, his hand on the doorknob as he looked over his shoulder at his uncle. “You’ll let me know if you hear anything else?”
Uncle Mark gave him the same look he’d always given him when he asked what he deemed a ridiculous question. “Keeping it to myself wouldn’t do much good, now would it?”
“No. But we’ve never encountered this particular problem in my memory. Perhaps you’ll decide to combat it singlehandedly tomorrow.”
His uncle chuckled at that and hooked his pipe into his mouth. He looked like he’d much prefer sinking into his favorite armchair and getting lost in that book by George MacDonald sitting on the end table than going about the village, speaking up against superstition. “By tomorrow it’ll likely have blown over. It’s just your grandfather Gibson, you know it is. He’s been having a grand time, telling tales at the pub.”
And Oliver would do well to drop in for a visit with him later and beg him to stop it already. He enjoyed Tas-gwyn’s tales as much as the next person, but on the heels of Johnnie’s death, everyone was jumping at every shadow. Or wail of the wind in the caves. Or flutter of white on the shores of Samson. New tales of a White Lady haunting the cliffs had sprung up, and it was frightening enough that no one had dared venture to the island to collect that wisp of white, until Wearne had gone.
To his uncle he gave a nod. “Mrs. Dawe said she’d be making some fairings today. I imagine she’ll send some around for you and Aunt Prue.”
Uncle Mark grinned around his pipe. “Good woman, that Margie Dawe. We wouldn’t object.”
They said their farewells, and Oliver let himself out of the vicarage, into the bright June sunshine. That, aided by the joyful shouts of children nearby, eclipsed the worry at least momentarily and brought a smile to his face. He followed the sounds of laughter and small voices to the National School on the opposite side of St. Nicholas’s, where the children must have been enjoying their lunch hour—and no doubt wishing the third term would end.