Funny how little that promise did to make the sting of today go away. Mr. Cardy didn’t turn to her yet—not given the holiday-goers he was tipping his hat to. And waiting for a tip from. Two young ladies, one an actual lady and the other her maid, given the uniform. They had been largely quiet on the half-hour trip, which had suited Senara fine. She’d not paid them any particular attention, beyond noting that the redheaded lady wore a dress in the height of fashion and kept her wide brim shading her ivory complexion at all times—which must be a constant chore, if she meant to avoid the freckles that paired so easily with the hair. The lady reached now into her handbag and pulled out a few coins that she dropped with an absent smile into Mr. Cardy’s palm. And then she was on her way to wherever she meant to go—likely the Abbey Gardens—her maid trailing along behind like a puppy.
Senara and Mr. Cardy both breathed a bit easier with them gone and turned back to his little boat. And her trunk, still sitting like a barnacle inside it, and heavy as an anchor. At the quay in St. Mary’s, there had been a stevedore on hand to load it. Here, on the other hand . . .
Mr. Cardy pursed his lips. “I’ll fetch Alfie to carry this up for you, aye?”
She certainly wasn’t going to ask Mr. Cardy to try to heft it. “Or I’ll send Tas down.”
But Mr. Cardy was shaking his head. “Your ol’ tas wouldn’t have an easier time of it than I would. Nah, we’ll leave it to younger backs. Alfie can manage it, and he’ll be home with the day’s catch in an hour or so. Soon enough?”
“Soon enough. Thank you, Mr. C.” She reached out to grip his hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s good to see you. Give my regards to your wife and tell her I’ll be round soon to see what new books she has in her shop.”
“Oh! She has one that Beth ordered, now as you mention it. Just came in last night. Would you let her know?”
“Of course.” Senara smiled at the very mention of Beth—though usually she preferred her tales more fanciful than books were wont to deliver, ones told with a voice instead of neat type across a page. Though perhaps Beth had outgrown that favoritism. She would, after all, be . . . what, nineteen now? No, twenty.
Senara pressed a hand to her cheek and turned toward the road, carpetbag in hand. How had so much time sped by? Ten years since the islands had been home. Ten years since she answered the Cliffords’ advert for a governess, armed with references from two Mrs. Tremaynes. Ten years since she set out to chase her dreams. It was with Beth and Ollie and Morgan she’d learned how much she loved tending children’s minds and spirits and bodies.
But she’d thought it would do her good to get away from Tresco for a while. Meet families other than the few that made their home in the Scillies.
Squaring her shoulders, she set out for home—though at a pace slow enough to give the lady with the ginger hair a good head start. Thankfully, she had set out at a good clip and seemed to know where she was going. She was soon out of sight.
Senara let out a breath and switched her bag to her other hand. She’d last walked this path at Christmas—the Cliffords had spent the holiday with other family and so could spare her for five days. Not so long ago, but summer certainly painted the islands in different colors than did winter. No low, heavy skies threatening rain at every hour. No fields lying dormant, all the flowers sleeping, holding their breath until the Scillies’ early spring came to stir them. No cold, biting wind ready to gnaw at one’s very bones.
Christmas. She’d spent it dreaming of Rory, imagining what he was doing. He’d gone to visit family too, his letters had said. But not at home as usual. They’d all gathered with his cousin at his employer’s.
By next Christmas, they’d be wed. Perhaps even have a child on the way. Where would they spend it? Here? With his mum? Or perhaps they’d return to the castle Rory’s cousin was employed at—she’d get to see for herself all the ridiculous artifacts in it that had filled his stories.
“Senara Dawe? Is that you, girl?”
She turned her head at the familiar voice, smiling at old Mrs. Gillis. Decade gone or no, she was just the same as she’d always been. “It is, Mrs. G. Home for a visit with Mam and Tas.” Not a visit like any she’d made before, but if it ended with a wedding, that would override any other misgivings they had about her protracted stay.
“Oh, won’t they be thrilled! You’re a good girl, Senara. Always have been.” Mrs. Gillis fell into step beside her, and Senara slowed her pace still more to match.
A good girl. Her insides prickled as Lord Clifford’s parting words to her scalded her mind anew. But she was no worse than any of the high-and-mighty guests who came for house parties, was she? She hadn’t tumbled into Rory’s arms just for the diversion, as lords were wont to do. She loved him. And she’d soon be his wife, so it would all be excused. Besides, at thirty-one, she wasn’t a girl anymore.
She kept her smile in place for Mrs. G. “Well, thank you. How’s everyone been?”
Mrs. Gillis sighed. “Everyone was right shaken by poor Johnnie Rosedew’s accident. Your mam wrote to you of it, I trust?”
Senara nodded, the mere mention bringing a sting of tears. The Johnnie she remembered was just a mite of six, mischievous as any island lad, and sweet as honey. She’d only seen him a handful of times in the years since—not enough to dislodge that picture. “I can’t believe he’s gone. He slipped in the cave, she said? Hit his head?”
“That’s right. A crying shame, that. To be cut down in his youth as he was, and for no good reason.” With a shake of her head, Mrs. Gillis let out one more long breath and then visibly perked up. “Oh, but you mayn’t have heard the good news yet, though you’ll learn it soon as you get home, no doubt. Young Ollie’s got himself engaged!”
Ollie, engaged? She’d barely wrapped her mind around the fact that he was the vicar now in place of his uncle—though even as a lad, he’d shown the markings of one. Her eyes went wide. “To whom?”
“Oh, a sweet young lady who came for a holiday on St. Mary’s—Mabena Moon’s employer, before she officially resigned last week. She and Casek Wearne have taken up now, too, believe it or not. Lady Elizabeth Sinclair, sister of the Earl of Telford. You’ll meet her dreckly, I imagine. She’ll be in the Abbey Gardens right now but will take lunch with Oliver and Mrs. Tremayne.”
A lady? That was surprising—the Tremaynes tended to avoid the titled class as a rule, given the disdain with which society had always greeted their family. And . . . “Wait—Mabena too? With a Wearne?” How was that possible? Last she’d known, Mabena had flown from the islands after the other Wearne twin broke her heart, and she’d sworn never to return.
The woman’s eyes sparkled at her. “And have you found no young man yet to start your own family with? You can’t tend others’ children forever, as I keep trying to tell you.”
Senara squeezed her bag’s handle and worked to control her smile. It wouldn’t do to tell Mrs. G about Rory and his whispered promises before telling her own parents. “There may be someone I fancy, but I’ve no announcement just yet.”
Mrs. G beamed at her. “Well, don’t dally too long, dearover. I’d like to see it, and I’ve only so many years left, you know. Though in the meantime, we’ve weddings enough to enjoy the planning of. At the race this morning, we were all trying to talk our lady into having hers and Ollie’s in the Abbey Gardens. She took right to the idea, too, though that brother of hers may insist on something on the mainland.”