Mamm-wynn’s eyelids had fluttered open a few times last night. And her fingers, so frail in his, had squeezed his hand now and then. Oliver listed those praises as he knelt in the damp earth of his garden, pulling out weeds and praying for the strength he’d need to get through today. The gladioli were doing well—another praise. And he’d managed to make it twelve hours without saying anything rude to Lord Telford, which was surely a testament to the Lord’s Spirit in him, because he’d thought about twenty different rejoinders last night as Libby’s brother insulted everything he saw with those clever little jabs the nobility were so good at.
“Oh, I see electricity hasn’t been run to the islands yet. I suppose it’s a relief for someone in your position not to worry with all the upgrades.”
“A lovely meal, considering the limited selection available on the islands.”
“Your home is very pleasant, Mr. Tremayne. Cozy. I suppose with such a view, it’s worth tripping over one’s family every time one turns around.”
Oliver tossed another weed onto the stack of them and blinked tired eyes. He was glad he’d convinced Mr. Menna to take his seat in the races this morning—he’d have been a liability. Even so, it felt wrong to be in his garden this time of day on a Wednesday instead of skimming across the water with his best chums. But he’d slept fitfully in the chair by Mamm-wynn’s side most of the night, and by the time he rose, the race was likely all but over. So he’d come out here to wake himself up as pleasantly as possible.
He glanced up to check the sun in lieu of digging out his pocket watch and getting it dirty. Probably around eight o’clock. He’d finish here and then clean up, and with a bit of luck, he’d miss his guests in the breakfast room. After he finished eating, he’d check on Mamm-wynn again, and by then he should know if Mabena had made the trip or if he should go and fetch them from St. Mary’s. The storm, at least, had blown itself out overnight.
And only the first gusts and droplets had caught them last night—not that Telford had thanked him for it, though Sheridan had made a good-natured exclamation about their providential timing.
The fuchsias weren’t thriving as they should be. Oliver leaned close, examining the stalks, the leaves. Well-eaten by caterpillars, which was no great surprise. He’d fetch some soapy water to spritz on them to deter the insects.
“Well, how nice. Do you always have your morning tea in the dirt? I think I’d rather like that.”
Oliver turned at the voice, glad it was Lord Sheridan who’d just stepped outside and not Lord Telford. His comments last night hadn’t been half as acerbic. And given his way of turning every conversation to the next dig he had planned, Oliver suspected he meant this greeting sincerely too.
He glanced at his teacup to see if anything remained in it. It was as empty as it had been the last time he checked. “Not every morning, but several times a week, yes. Mr. Dawe officially manages the garden, but he’s not as young as he once was, and it’s difficult for him to kneel for so long. And I enjoy it.” Not that he had to defend himself—plenty of gentlemen enjoyed nurturing their own gardens.
Sheridan didn’t seem bent on judging him anyway. He’d meandered over toward the slab of granite in the corner. “Interesting. I was reading about your Abbey Gardens yesterday while we waited for Lady Elizabeth to return. It mentioned a stone that dates from the Druid days, presumably. Are there many such things about?”
“Here and there. Most of the slabs are just thatch anchors.” Not that his roof had thatch. Some Tremayne of generations past had invested in slate. And not that he’d apologize for it if it did.
Well he knew that his house here was small—that even Truro Hall was small by Sheridan’s or Telford’s standards. Just as he knew that chaps of their ilk usually used the word cottage to describe a small mansion, not the holiday cottages on the islands, which they were more likely to call hovels. But he loved this house. Its every stone, its every tapestry, its every stick of furniture meant home. And as Telford had insulted it all last night, Oliver had bitten back all those clever retorts he’d wanted to make and comforted himself with that knowledge.
This was home. He wasn’t ashamed of it. And if his guests couldn’t appreciate that, then it was their own lack, not his.
“I’ve long wanted to come to the Scillies, you know,” Sheridan said. “Beautiful. Even more beautiful than the pictures I’ve seen. And, of course, the history. I’ve always been intrigued by it. By the islands’ role in England’s history, that is.”
Oliver smiled, pulled out one last weed, and gathered the pile of them together. “They are rich in history, for certain. Pirates, exiled princes—you name it, we’ve hosted it.” He stood and walked the weeds to the compost pile in the corner.
“Have you any books on local lore? And would you mind if I borrowed them, if so? Not that I’d take them when we go, of course. While we’re here, I mean.” Hands in his trouser pockets, Sheridan turned to him again, his smile cloudless.
Oliver returned it easily, glad he’d brought home all of the volumes Beth had apparently borrowed. “You’re welcome to whatever I can find. And if it’s local lore you’re after, I ought to introduce you to my grandfather. He could tell you tales you’d never find in a book.” He chuckled. “Some may even have a kernel of truth in them. Though I wouldn’t wager anything on that.”
Sheridan’s face lit. “Jolly good of you. That would be just the way to pass a few days.” His lips twitched, though he didn’t come right out and smile as he said, “I suspect we’ll be here longer than Telly thinks. I’ve always—if we’re being honest—found his sister to be rather hardheaded.”
“Have you?” Oliver frowned, though he directed it at his dirty hands rather than his companion. He clapped off what soil he could and then fetched his utilitarian teacup—Mrs. Dawe never let him take the fine china outside, of course. He wanted to ask how well Sheridan knew Libby. And why he’d say she was stubborn when Oliver had found her to be anything but. At least about things that mattered. Why, she was the sweetest, most gentle-natured lady he’d ever met.
Sheridan breathed a laugh. “We argued for an hour at Christmas over where I was excavating. She insisted I was destroying the habitat of something-or-another. As if the relics in the earth know what’s nested above them.”
“Ah.” Oliver smiled too. That he could well imagine her getting up enough of a bother over to argue about. “Yes, that does sound like the lady, now that you mention it.”
“She’s a good sort though!” The words all but exploded from Sheridan’s lips, and his cheeks went a bit pink too. “Not saying she isn’t. Of course. A bit of stubbornness can be a good thing and all. She’ll make a fine wife. I’m only saying—I mean, Telly, that’s all. He’s underestimated her this time, I think.”
Did the man always qualify every sentence like that? A rather odd mannerism for someone of his stature. Usually marquesses owned their opinions and shared them without such worry that their every sentence would be taken the wrong way.
Maybe it was the effect of the too-confident Telford?