He sincerely hoped not. But he didn’t know anymore where the Wearnes drew their lines.
When next he refocused, he saw his own house before him, though he’d intended to pay one more visit before going home. Apparently his feet had obeyed his stomach instead of his mind, and since he smelled something delicious wafting from the kitchen door, he followed its trail inside.
Mrs. Dawe met him with a tray and a smile. “There you are. In the drawing room with you, sir. Your grandmother and the lady are entertaining each other, though I’m not certain who’s most amused by whom.”
“The lady?” But even as he fell in behind her, he knew. It had been Mabena he’d caught a glimpse of before he went into the vicarage—he hadn’t been sure. And she must have brought Lady Elizabeth with her.
But how had she ended up in his drawing room?
Mrs. Dawe chuckled. “While I was baking this morning, Mrs. Tremayne decided to take a turn through the Abbey Gardens and happened upon her. Lady Elizabeth was good enough to bring her home.”
“Ah.” He should probably be concerned that Mamm-wynn had slipped out again without telling anyone where she was going. But the banding around his chest didn’t feel like worry for his grandmother. It felt suspiciously more like anxiety over what Lady Elizabeth Sinclair might think of her.
Casek Wearne’s fault, no doubt. Last week’s “your mad old grandmother” still irritated Oliver whenever the memory surfaced, and given that he’d just seen his snarling face . . .
Even before he reached the drawing room, he could hear them. Two voices, laughing together, one as familiar as the wind through the Cornish palms, the other as novel as the long-headed poppy that bloomed in the garden for the first time that spring. A bit of the tension eased.
And it eased more when he stepped into the room and saw them perched on the sofa together, heads nearly touching as they leaned over something in their laps. A book of some sort. Hopefully a notebook, given that Mamm-wynn was writing something on it with a pencil. Lady Elizabeth watched her intently, her lips curved into an echo of her laughter.
His breath whispered out. He’d seen her feigning polite interest last week with Mrs. Pepper. This was something different. This seemed to be genuine pleasure with Mamm-wynn’s company.
As well it should be. There was no woman in all of England quite like Adelle Tremayne. But how long until everyone forgot that, when she greeted them by the wrong name or spoke of events from forty years ago as if they happened yesterday?
“Here we are, ladies.” Mrs. Dawe set the tray down on the low table before the sofa, beaming at them both. “And I’ve brought the young master in to share it with you.”
“Oh good.” Mamm-wynn motioned him closer and patted the space left on the sofa beside her. “I’ve been describing the flowers in our family garden for Libby, dearovim, but I don’t remember their Latin names, only the common ones. You’ll have to help us.”
Libby, was it? And why not—Mamm-wynn was probably more the lady’s peer than anyone else in the Scillies, having been born to a viscount’s second son herself. Oliver took the proffered seat with a smile. “Of course. And how are you today, my lady?”
She met his gaze, revealing eyes dancing with light. “Absolutely wonderful. I do believe I like Tresco even better than St. Mary’s, though I hadn’t thought it possible.” She grinned at Mamm-wynn. “Or perhaps it’s the company.”
She liked her. It should come as neither a surprise nor a relief, but . . . but he hadn’t realized until then how much he wanted her to like his grandmother. To like all of Tresco. “Both are without equal, to be sure.”
“Oh, you.” Mamm-wynn chuckled and tapped the page, on which were a few small but skillful drawings of the flowers from around their front door. “Latin.”
He provided the names while Mrs. Dawe prepared a plate of sandwiches and sweets for each of them. Rather impressed that Lady Elizabeth didn’t require any help in spelling the Latin, he made no objection when she flipped back to the pages dedicated to a few of the Australian specimens from the Abbey Gardens and asked for their binomial designations too.
They ate while they discussed the plants—since the Latin names led to which other varieties were related and how they managed to flourish so well in the Scillies—and he found himself rather liking the way Lady Elizabeth took actual, hungry bites of her sandwich, rather than the dainty nibbles he and Morgan used to tease Beth for attempting.
And why was he watching how she ate?
Mamm-wynn interrupted his thoughts with a hand on his wrist. With her other, she covered a yawn. “I think I’d better go and rest for a bit.”
Mrs. Dawe sprang forward from where she’d been waiting by the door for that very announcement.
Mamm-wynn let Oliver help her to her feet, though she paused once standing, as she always did, to pat his cheek. “I don’t imagine you two will complain about some time to yourselves.”
Oliver frowned. Shouldn’t she have instead been assuring him that Mrs. Dawe would return momentarily to chaperone?
Mrs. Dawe apparently thought so, given the baffled look she shot him. “Perhaps you ought to walk Lady Elizabeth back to the Abbey Gardens, sir, so Mabena can find her.”
“Of course.”
Mamm-wynn waved a hand at him as if she thought he should sit again. “Let them have their time, Margie. Don’t you remember what it’s like to be a newlywed?”
He’d never thought himself given to embarrassment, but Oliver’s face felt alive with flames. As did his neck. And his ears. And—he spun, eyes wide and an apology ready to trip off his lips.
Lady Elizabeth was blushing too, but she was still smiling at his grandmother. “Have a lovely afternoon, Mrs. Tremayne. I hope to see you again soon.”
His grandmother gave her a pointed look. He didn’t know what it was for, but it seemed Lady Elizabeth did. “I mean, Mamm-wynn.”
Mamm-wynn nodded. “Better. And I should think so. I won’t nap that long.”
Lady Elizabeth closed her notebook and stood as Mrs. Dawe ushered his grandmother out. He waited until they’d cleared the room, then faced her again. Spread his hands. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over her. She’s . . .”
He couldn’t say it. Could only spin his hands, searching for some other word.
Her fingers caught his, stilled them. “She’s the most delightful person I think I’ve ever met. There’s no need to apologize, sir.”
Wasn’t there? When his grandmother was acting as though they were married? He shook his head and let her lower his hands. “She is. But lately—I don’t know where she gets some of her ideas. I certainly didn’t . . . I mean, I hadn’t said anything . . .”
She let go of his hands, though her smile didn’t dim any. “I don’t know where she got the idea either, but it does explain a few things she said to me in the garden. I thought she’d confused me with someone else?”
Was it a question of whether he was involved with someone—or, more likely, a question of what in the world Mamm-wynn had meant? Either way, he had to shake his head. “I can’t think who. You bear a passing resemblance to my sister, but not so much that she’d mistake you. And even if she did, she wouldn’t have then made those comments.”