“A bit of a walk for you yet.” Beth gave her grandmother a concerned look. It was easy to see her love for the woman, and her fear.
“Oh, bah. I told you, dearover, I’m back to normal.”
“Mamm-wynn—”
“Don’t waste your breath arguing with her.” Mrs. Dawe pushed the door open for them and held it so they could pass. “We’ll just keep an eye on her. Won’t we, madame?”
Mrs. Tremayne sniffed. “You all are worse than jailers. Well, my pirate prince will help me sneak away now and then, won’t you, dearovim?”
Oh bother. To endear himself to her, or to Beth, who was shooting daggers at him with her eyes again? He put on his best pirate drawl. “The moment their backs are turned, we’ll be on our way to Port Royal.”
Mamm-wynn rewarded him with a laugh. And greater wonder, Beth very nearly smiled at him, even if she also shook her head.
Mrs. Dawe shut the door behind them. “I believe your man just returned, my lord, with the newspaper you like. We can have it delivered with the others, you know, while you’re here. Ainsley needn’t run to Old Grimsby every morning after it.”
He’d already suggested as much. But Ainsley had just given him that look. “He likes the walk in the morning.”
Beth shot him a dubious glance. The kind that said she found it easier to believe that Sheridan was simply an ogre of an employer who demanded his servants inconvenience themselves for his whims, even when it was completely avoidable.
She’d obviously never gotten that look from Ainsley.
Well. Much as he’d like to defend himself, he suspected it would be a waste of breath. Especially since she was already making for the stairs, up which he had no reason to follow with his arguments. His room, the sole guest chamber, was downstairs. Telford had been put in the room once belonging to Morgan Tremayne. And their valets had at first been crammed together in the basic servants’ quarters, until the Dawes had offered Ainsley a room with them next door.
He helped Mamm-wynn settle into her chair at the breakfast table and, when he didn’t see the newspaper already set out for him, strode toward his room.
Ainsley was within, a shoe in each hand and a look of utter bafflement on his face when Sheridan entered. “How did you manage this? I just cleaned them last night.”
“Oh.” He’d heard tales of menservants who didn’t, in fact, question their employer’s every outing and greet soiled shoes with questions better suited to a nursemaid. But then, Ainsley was a decade his senior . . . and had been hired by Sheridan’s sisters when he was fourteen to play governess as much as valet, he suspected. “I went for a walk with Telly last night. Couldn’t sleep.”
Ainsley just looked at him. And blinked.
“Well, it was a fine night. And I thought a bit of fresh air may . . .”
Ainsley didn’t even look back up at him. Just reached for the cloth bag he used to transport soiled items to his own quarters, where he kept his brushes. His every movement a rebuke. Sheridan huffed out a breath. It was absolutely not fair that his valet was so dratted put together all the time, while Sheridan was at constant loose ends. Ainsley’s hair, raven with a few strands of silver threading through it—dignified—was always perfectly pomaded. His face, just beginning to line—in a dignified way, of course—was always perfectly composed. His bearing—utter, confounded dignity—was always smooth and confident.
Sheridan spotted the newspaper on the chest of drawers and swiped it up. “Well, you needn’t lecture me. Isn’t as though you don’t enjoy your walks.”
“You ought to enjoy my walks too, since I spend the whole of them lifting you in prayer before the Lord. Heaven knows what scrapes you’d get into if I didn’t.”
Sheridan turned back to the open door. Still, he couldn’t help the grin. He did in fact appreciate the prayers—but if ever he said so, Ainsley might keel over in shock. “You’re an absolute Puritan, Ainsley.”
“Just don’t let the lady calling you a pirate give you any ideas. I don’t know if I can pray you out of trouble if you go stealing from passing ships.”
How did he even know that Mrs. Tremayne . . . ? Never mind. Sheridan chuckled. “Only one way to find out, as they say.”
He stepped into the hall before his valet could lob a shoe at him. Not that he’d ever done such a thing—terribly undignified as it would be—but the chap was full of surprises.
Newspaper in hand, he aimed for the breakfast room. He’d eat, he’d read, he’d hear who won the race. Perhaps by then Telford would have roused himself, though he’d still be a good hour away from exchanging so much as a good morning with anyone. And then they could plan their day.
Because they had a real pirate prince and his admiral to hunt up information on. And he would muddy every shoe he had with him in the quest if he must.
3
Though Senara Dawe offered a smile for old Mr. Cardy, it felt tighter than when Josephine had tried to squeeze into her little sister’s dress last year. She was grateful for the boat ride from St. Mary’s to Tresco—truly—but she still couldn’t quite believe she was home. That it had come to this. That somehow, in the course of a week, the life she’d built for herself so carefully had unraveled. That she had no position. No employment. No little Josephine and Rose and Paulette filling her days and making her smile.
But it had started long before a week ago, hadn’t it? It had started years ago, when she first met Rory Smithfield. Or a year ago, when she let him kiss her. It had started when she put her hopes for their future above her day-to-day life with the girls.
Her throat went tight. She loved the Clifford children—she did. But they weren’t hers. Was it so terrible to want a life of her own? A husband, her own babies?
Habit had her reaching up and touching the pendant secreted away under her dress. It had always been a reminder to chase her dreams, her hopes. A symbol of family, which meant more to her than anything, the last gift from her paternal grandmother before she passed into eternity. She could still hear her voice as she let the necklace pool in Senara’s hand. “Family,” she’d whispered. “Family is the key to every happiness, Senara girl. Never forget that.”
Family. All she’d ever wanted.
And she’d have it. Soon. They’d only had a minute together in the flurry and fury of her dismissal, but Rory had whispered that he’d find her. Told her to go home, and that he’d soon follow. She wasn’t certain how he meant to escape the responsibilities of his own employment, but she’d been thinking for weeks that he had something in the works. He’d been so mysterious about it all . . . but that was probably because he didn’t want anyone else to overhear and report back to Mr. Griffith about it.
She dropped her hand from the pendant and forced her mind back to the here and now. He’d come for her soon. They’d marry, right here on Tresco. Ollie could officiate—a thought that made her lips twitch up. A few weeks, perhaps another month, and she’d be Mrs. Rory Smithfield. The shame of being sacked after being discovered in his arms would wash away. It would all wash away, like so much sand in the face of an ocean. There would just be the future, bright and shining.