But just now, she didn’t much care if he had a broken nose and two black eyes. She frankly didn’t care if he had to swim back to Tresco—though he could simply toss some money at someone and have them ferry him anywhere he wanted. She didn’t care what he did.
She was going home, where at least she could escape his company in the privacy of her own room.
8
There was something comforting about sitting in the kitchen more familiar to her than any other room on Tresco, shelling peas. The snap of a pod. The plunk of plump spheres into a wooden bowl worn smooth by the decades. The scent of crisp green life stinging her nose. The slant of late-morning sun through the window, brightening the world.
Senara had done this very thing in this very spot more times in her youth than she could count. And any time she’d visited during the summer months when fresh peas were to be found. It was rhythmic. Soothing. Solace.
Peas made excellent company.
As did Mam, who hummed an old ballad as she mixed up the batter for a cake she’d serve with tea in a few hours. Last night, Senara had joined them at the pub, laughing and listening to Old Man Gibson tell stories as everyone enjoyed the ginger fairings he’d brought over from Polmers’ on St. Mary’s. It had been an evening to remind her of who she was, of where she came from. To forget for a few hours why she was home.
A soprano voice joined in with the hum, coming from the doorway. Senara looked up as Mrs. Tremayne entered the kitchen, her voice a bit more tremulous than it used to be, but no less sweet.
“With a good sword and a trusty shield
A faithful heart and true
King James’s men shall understand
What Cornish men can do
And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die?
Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why.”
The Tremayne matriarch was clearly as comfortable in this kitchen as Senara was, despite belonging more properly in the other areas of the house. Mamm-wynn snatched a few peas from the half-filled bowl with a wink, slipped them into her mouth, and rested her gnarled hand on Senara’s shoulder.
She’d been too many years without her own grandmother. But she’d always had Beth and Oliver’s to claim when she needed one.
Mamm-wynn gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. “I do love it when you come for a visit, Senara. How are the girls?”
Her throat went tight, and she had to clear it before she could answer. “Quite well when I left them.”
Not even teary-eyed at her departure, because they’d not been told she was leaving. It had all happened too fast. When she’d tucked them into their beds with their favorite story, all had been well. By the next morning, she was on a train bound south, not given the chance to tell them good-bye.
“You’ve always had such a way with little ones, dearover. We always knew Morgan and Ollie and Beth were in good hands when you were about.” She chuckled and looked toward the main part of the house. “Sometimes I think Beth could still use you. If you’re here long enough, perhaps you’ll do her some good. My rosefinch still tends to fly away first and consider consequences later.”
Would she still be Beth if she didn’t? Senara chuckled and reached up to cover the beloved arthritic fingers with her own. “Shall I play lady’s maid to her while I’m here? As an excuse to be around to rein her in?”
“Would you?” She padded over to the door and peered out through the open top half. “I haven’t even seen her this morning.”
“Master Oliver was mumbling at breakfast about her sailing through the fog to Gugh with Lord Sheridan.” Mam poured the batter in a buttered pan, careful to scrape all but a single swipe from the bowl.
She’d save that swipe for Senara—or whoever else lingered nearby with a ready finger to sample it.
“Ah. And Libby, Mabena, and Emily are back on St. Mary’s. I think I shall go and see if I can win a few words from Bram, then.” Mamm-wynn’s eyes twinkled as she turned back around. “Always a challenge before luncheon, I’ve found.”
Senara cracked another pea pod. Plunk, plunk, plunk. “Bram?”
“Lord Telford,” Mam supplied.
“Libby’s brother,” Mrs. Tremayne added.
Senara nodded. She’d spotted both young lords in the garden last evening but had walked the other way rather than draw near enough to have to explain her presence to them. She’d been introduced to gentlemen here and there over the years, but always as “Miss Dawe, our governess.” Words that served as a clear boundary, a clear explanation. Words that proved her respectable, honest, educated, and off-limits to anything but a cursory greeting if their paths crossed elsewhere.
She didn’t have that buffer anymore. That identity. Here, she wasn’t Miss Dawe, governess. She was just Senara. The housekeeper’s daughter. Sheller of peas and borrower of grandmothers.
It wouldn’t be enough to fill out the rest of her life. But until Rory came and made her Mrs. Smithfield, that was all she had.
And what if he didn’t come? Her fingers stilled on the next pod as the fear she’d tried so hard to hold at bay swept over her. What if he decided she wasn’t worth the loss of his position? What if it turned out she’d given up everything for nothing?
Warm, gentle fingers touched her cheek and brought her face back up from her bowl, in which direction it had dipped. Mrs. Tremayne looked deep into her eyes for a long, quiet moment. And then she whispered, “Sweet Senara. You are precious. Beloved by God. Cherished by us.”
Tears stung her eyes. How did she always know just the thing to say? “Thank you, Mamm-wynn.”
The lady leaned over and pressed paper-soft lips to her forehead, then walked away with another pat on her shoulder.
Mam let out a long breath after a longer moment. “I daresay Beth really could use your steadying hand.”
Senara sniffed, blinked away the emotion she wasn’t ready to be tangled up in, and forced a smile to her lips. Her hand didn’t feel particularly steadying just now—but she could use Beth’s unbridled vigor. “Well. I plan to spend plenty of time with her anyway.”
Low laughter from outside interrupted, and a moment later, Henry Ainsley and Nicholas Collins—Lord Telford’s valet—let themselves into the kitchen with smiles and easy greetings. She and her parents had taken supper with them last night, along with Thomasina Briggs, Lady Emily’s maid, before they’d ventured to the pub. It had been rather crowded at the kitchen table, which had meant much laughter and joking and camaraderie. The sort she’d heard from the kitchens at Cliffenwelle but had never been a part of. Her place, even for meals, had been the nursery. On those rare occasions that the children dined with their parents, she was expected to join them there—never to speak or be noticed, just to be on hand to keep the girls in line and rush them away at the first sign of temper or tiredness. Always in a limbo between staff and family.
It had gotten lonely.
She’d spent the meal last night covertly watching Henry Ainsley, trying to place him. Not that she’d succeeded. The more she tried to identify what made him familiar, the more she questioned whether he even was.
Her mother greeted the newcomers with a bright smile. “There you lads are. Success?”