He motioned, as he spoke, to a photograph, framed and hanging on the wall, that they’d had taken a few years before. Their last summer with Morgan, though they hadn’t known it at the time.
Feared it. But hadn’t known it.
The four of them, all that remained of the family within these walls. The three siblings and their father’s mother.
She moved over to it and studied it as intently as she did the Gardens. “No, we certainly don’t look that similar. Your sister is very pretty.”
She was, though he wasn’t sure if agreeing with the statement would somehow imply that Lady Elizabeth wasn’t. Which certainly wasn’t true, was it? He still had a hard time putting words to the question, even when she was standing right before him. Pretty was such an arbitrary thing. All he knew was that he liked looking at her, talking with her. That seemed far more important.
She didn’t wait for him to comment before adding, “And this is your older brother?”
“Morgan. Yes.” Had Mabena told her anything about him? It was possible—she’d always adored him. Oliver slid over to her side to look at the familiar lines and planes of his brother’s face. How glad he was that they had this reminder to keep the image fresh. “He died two years ago. The doctors weren’t sure what it was that kept him ill for much of his life, but it finally won.”
Her gaze was on him now, rather than the photo. “I’m so very sorry.”
Perhaps eventually he’d be able to speak of him, to think of him without this tightness in his throat. “He was my best friend.”
“Then he must have been a most remarkable young man.”
He blinked away the memories and looked down at her. “How gracious you are to my family, my lady.”
Her smile was as sweet as a spring breeze. “There’s no grace involved. I like your family—or what I’ve met of you. It’s only logical that I’d like the rest of them too.”
He offered his arm. “To the Abbey Gardens?”
“Yes, thank you.”
They paused for their hats on the way out but were soon in the sunshine again, and Oliver looked about, half expecting Mabena to come barreling upon them even now. “Are you here just for the day?”
“Until tomorrow. Moon said we’d stay overnight with her parents. Though even a day and a half won’t be enough in the Gardens. I’m going to have to convince her to come back at least once a week.”
“Indeed, if you mean to study the whole of the place. And you’re interested in the fauna too, aren’t you? You should really arrange for a tour to St. Martin’s. That’s where the bird-watchers tend to flock.”
She chuckled at his pun. “I’ve been thinking the same. Is there an inn or something here? Moon said her parents would be offended if we didn’t stay with them, but I don’t want to impose upon them too often.”
She’d clearly not met the Moons yet. “There is little her mother enjoys more than having guests—and you’ll be the most important one she can claim, so I can’t imagine she’d ever see you as an imposition.”
She didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the thought of being an important guest though. It hummed through her fingers and into his arm. “I’m looking forward to making their acquaintance.”
Was she? Because she sounded a bit more like she was afraid of it.
She shook off whatever doubts plagued her over meeting the Moons and smiled up at him. “And how has your day been, Mr. Tremayne?”
With most new acquaintances, he would have equivocated and talked of neutral matters. But this new acquaintance already knew the gravest of his concerns. And his grandmother had embarrassed them. It seemed only fair that he give her the truth instead, so he drew in a long breath, let it carefully out. “Concerning, to be honest. You remember the mention of the young man who died in Piper’s Hole a few weeks ago?”
She nodded. “Johnnie Rosedew.”
He was a bit surprised that she remembered his full name, but she did like to categorize things, so perhaps it was natural for her. “That’s right. Well, since then, a few locals have reported strange noises in said cave and supposed sightings of a White Lady on the coastlines. Which has led to a bit of speculation that it’s his ghost rendezvousing with another.”
“They actually believe such tales?”
He shrugged and led her toward the shortcut into the Gardens, through the back wall. “Most of them don’t, not really. But sometimes the stories of the unexplained, the mysterious, the ancient are more compelling than the simpler explanations. And when you combine that with a community still reeling from grief and shock . . .”
Her nod looked thoughtful. And hesitant. “But as a man of science . . . ?”
“I know that generally there are logical explanations able to be discovered if one can collect all the data—though more often than I like, it’s impossible to find what I know must be there.”
He liked the way she looked up at him. With thought but curiosity. Respect but challenge. Perhaps he shouldn’t like it quite so much.
“You said ‘generally.’”
He looked forward again, to the world he knew so well. The one that, most of the time, he understood. But because he knew it, he also knew where it ended. Where the else that Beth was always seeking could really be found.
“I’m not just a man of science, my lady. I’m also a man of faith. The sort who says that God created an orderly universe, set rules in motion, and so we can understand them with study enough—but who also believes that a God who made such rules can also break them on rare, very special occasions. He can whisper the future to His prophets. He can send and heal plagues. He can raise the dead.”
Her fingers went tight on his arm again, and when he moved his gaze to her, he found her eyes troubled. She kept them glued to the path ahead. “I struggle with that dichotomy, I confess.” Barely did she confess it—the wind nearly snatched the words away before he could hear them. “I always hear everyone speaking of the mysteries, and they quote the verse where Jesus said no one knows what makes a seed grow. But we do now. Does that mean I’m faithless, because I see only those rules as necessary, rather than the hand of God guiding every seed from planting to harvest?”
“No.” He reached over with his free hand to brush the fingers resting against his forearm. “Far from it. Humanity has grown. Our understanding has deepened. We know things now that Jesus couldn’t have said to people nineteen hundred years ago, because they wouldn’t have known what He was talking about. Some mysteries are no longer mysteries. That isn’t a lack of faith, to say so. It’s instead acknowledging that He created us capable of discovering nuances in the rest of creation. There is nothing wrong with that. Science and faith do not need to be at odds.”
The pain that flashed through her eyes must be linked, somehow, to that sorrow they had spoken of a week ago. “Doesn’t it? I want to believe you’re right, Mr. Tremayne. But it seems that some rather loud voices on each side disagree with you.”
They did, sadly. “Perhaps. But here’s the thing.”
She looked up at him, gaze expectant.
He grinned. “I’m right and they’re wrong.”