Sometime over the course of the last twenty-four hours, Mabena had slipped from calling him Mr. Tremayne to Oliver. Libby hadn’t pointed it out though she’d wondered at it. At least, she’d wondered until now, when she realized that Mabena referred to everyone near her own age by first name. Which made fine sense on an island the size of Tresco.
The only curiosity was why she’d greeted him so formally last Wednesday.
Libby nodded toward the burly one who seemed to be the leader of the second group. “And who’s the boulder?”
“Casek Wearne.” Her voice dripped disdain. “The headmaster. But Oliver’s archnemesis long before that.”
Libby felt her brows climb toward her hair. “I’ve never known anyone who had an archnemesis before.”
“Yes, you have.” Mabena flashed her a smile. “Those two ladies in London always out to steal each other’s suitors. Lady Rose, wasn’t it? And Lady Elvira?”
That seemed a different sort of rivalry. It was all catty words and simpering smiles and insults veiled as compliments. “Oh, my lady, what a lovely gown! It suits you so much better than the one you wore last night.” Not shouts and posturing that looked like it could turn into a fistfight at any moment.
Males were such interesting creatures. No matter the species, they bore remarkably similar behaviors. Puffing out their chests, squawking, locking horns to determine who was stronger or faster or better, claiming territory—or females.
Somehow she hadn’t imagined that Oliver Tremayne—it was a bit difficult to keep the mister in place in her thoughts when the Moons continually forgot it—would be one of two dominant alpha males vying for supremacy. He hadn’t seemed the type when he was strolling with her through the Gardens, blushing over his grandmother’s words, or peering into her very soul. Obviously she had a bit more studying to do before she could fully understand him.
It was a study she wouldn’t mind, she had to admit—silently to herself. During her time in London she’d never found the sport of man watching to be particularly engaging, but perhaps that had something to do with pomaded hair and tuxedos—unnatural plumage, to be sure.
This . . . this was entirely different. The ten men on the beach seemed somehow closer to nature and therefore their own true states. She could see muscles straining under soft clothes, grace in their movements that had nothing to do with choreographed dances. And, as she observed in another moment, the very bonds between them. These were men who interacted without pretense. Their friendship was true and their rivalries comfortable.
And Oliver Tremayne was one of them. A beloved one, whose directions were obeyed almost before he finished speaking.
Mabena stopped them right in the heart of a knot of onlookers, all of whom were watching, shouting, and making noises about the need for tea as they clapped chilled hands together. She wasn’t the only one, it seemed, who’d expected the June morning to be a bit warmer than it was. The group made room for them without any comment other than cheerful, casual greetings. No one gave her curious looks. No one seemed surprised, as she’d been, by Mabena’s loose hairstyle or flowing attire.
The rowers, at a signal she hadn’t seen or heard, climbed into their boats—gigs, Mabena had called them. The onlookers all started cheering and whooping and calling out to the two teams, so Libby clapped along with them.
Oliver Tremayne glanced their way. His gaze snagged on hers for a moment. Didn’t it? Or was he looking at Mabena, or at his grandfather? His mouth hinted at a smile for a fraction of a second. And then he refocused on his men, calling something to them that had them all taking up their oars.
A man nearer to them—Mr. Menna, it looked like—lifted a hand. Shouted something. Dropped his hand. And the oars dug in, pushing the gigs off, away.
The cheering continued until the boats were out of sight, rounding a promontory of land, and then it died down to jocular speculation on who would overtake whom and which lads looked in the better form today.
Libby leaned toward Mabena. “How far do they go?”
“A mile, then back.”
And what were they to do in the meantime? She nearly asked it, had her mouth open to do so, when an answer of sorts seemed to present itself in the form of a rattle of pottery and a voice calling out, “Anyone going to help me, then?”
Libby spun, heels digging into the sand, to see an older woman stopped at the head of the path, where pavement turned to sand, her hand on an overloaded tray. Steam rose alluringly from a massive urn, and stacks of dozens of sturdy mugs told Libby what had been rattling.
Mr. Gibson and another man of a similar age hurried to her, each taking an end of the cart and carrying it down the path with what must be well-practiced ease.
“That’s Mrs. Gillis,” Mabena told her. “She’s been bringing tea down on Wednesday mornings as long as I can remember. We all chip in a bit to help cover the costs—she’s a widow on a pension, her only son a fisherman.”
As the cart passed them, Libby spotted the jar on the lower shelf that had a few florins and pence in it already. She was quite glad she’d stuck a few pounds in her own pockets this morning, anticipating a stop in a bakery on her way to the Abbey Gardens after the race. There were no other paper bills in the jar, but as that was all she currently had with her, she’d just have to slip it in when no one was paying attention.
She followed Mabena toward the cart and, when Mrs. Gillis turned to her with a blink, as if trying to place her, offered a smile. “May I help?” The words tumbled off her lips before she could examine them too closely.
The widow didn’t seem to find anything amiss in it. She just swept a gaze over her as if taking her measure and nodded. “You must be Lady Elizabeth—and a lady ought to know how to pour a cup. You do the pouring, dearover, and Benna and I will pass them around.”
A few simple sentences, a task to do—strange how it made her feel warmer.
Fifteen minutes later, all the cups had been filled, distributed, and some refilled, and the chill air had replaced the warmth of acceptance again, though it couldn’t wipe the smile from her lips. She claimed a cup for herself and wrapped grateful fingers around it.
Something soft blanketed her shoulders, supplying a few degrees of relief. She looked first at the wool—purple, soft as a cloud, skillfully knitted—and then to the small, gnarled hands still positioning it over her arms for her. “Mamm-wynn! I didn’t expect to see you out here this morning.”
She looked from the old woman’s smiling face to the space over her head—had she sneaked away again?
But a frazzled-looking Mrs. Dawe was a few steps behind, looking none too at home on the beach, a shawl of her own wrapped tightly around her.
Mrs. Tremayne chuckled. “I knew you’d be chilly, dearest. You never do remember a wrap.”
True—but how did the lady know it? And how had she even known she’d be down here? Perhaps she’d spotted her from her house or garden as she and Mabena had walked by. “Well. Thank you.” Holding her steaming tea in one hand, she ran the other over the lacework. “It’s beautiful. Did you make it?”
“For you. It’s your best color, I’d say.” With a critical eye, she reached out once more to straighten it on Libby’s shoulders. “Not like our Beth—she does better in blues and greens. But then, those spark color in her eyes, which are the loveliest grey. Yours, now—I have a string of amber beads just that color.”