Page 39 of The Nature of a Lady
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 beLady 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.”
Libby didn’t quite know what to say. She’d always liked purples—but the lady couldn’t have made a shawl for her before they met, and she certainly didn’t whip it up since yesterday afternoon.
Perhaps Mabena read her mind. She appeared before them, eyeswide and admiring. “Mrs. Tremayne! Another of your masterpieces! I’d thought you’d given them all away already.”
Mamm-wynn chuckled. “I’ve a few stashed away yet, just waiting for their rightful recipients to come along.” She flexed a hand with a sigh. “I certainly can’t make them at the rate I used to do. I’ll be lucky to finish my current one before autumn comes.”
Ah. That made more sense. But she couldn’t mean for Libby to keep such a work of art, could she?
Mabena must have thought so, given the weighty smile she directed to Libby. “Now you’ll always have something to remember your first gig race by, my lady.”
Mrs. Tremayne tucked her arm around Libby’s and motioned toward Mr. Gibson. “Fitz is just getting warmed up, I see. Let’s go and listen, dearest.”
“All right.” But first she turned to find Mrs. Gillis with her gaze. “Do you need anything else, ma’am?”
Mrs. Gillis smiled and shooed her away. “Get on with you, my lady. And thank you for helping.”
“My pleasure, I assure you.” It had earned her plentiful smiles and afforded her the chance to slip her contribution into the jar.
Mabena and Mamm-wynn led her toward a cluster of rocks the locals were perched on like so many terns, all listening with half-smiles and rapt eyes to Mr. Gibson, who stood before them, waving his arms in a way that made her hope the mug he held was nearly empty.
“There was no question about it,” he boomed. “It was the pirate prince himself!”
“Pirate prince?” she whispered.
Mamm-wynn patted her arm. “Prince Rupert of the Rhine,” she murmured back. “One of the Scillies’s most famous temporary residents—during the Civil War and Cromwellian era. Though a nephew of the king, he served under Admiral Mucknell himself and was part of the pirate fleet.”
A pirate fleet? She didn’t recall learning about that in her lessons of the Civil War and the Parliamentarian era—that brief span whenEngland’s king had been exiled and the Roundheads were in control of the government. But then, history had never been her best subject.
Not that Mr. Gibson seemed to be relying too much on an understanding of Scillonian history—unless Prince Rupert the Pirate really still walked the shores as a skeleton in the light of a full moon. She shivered and tugged her shawl closer. Skeletons couldn’t do much walking without muscles and tendons and flesh to give them power, but that knowledge did little to detract from the story.
She was beginning to see Oliver Tremayne’s point about a simple truth not always being as compelling as an interesting fabrication.
“There they come!” The shout came from closer to the waterline, where a lad in knee breeches had been keeping watch.
Mr. Gibson broke off and spun about. “Who’s in the lead, Yorrick?”
“Wearne—no, wait! The Tremayne team’s overtaking them!”
Mr. Gibson led the charge back into the sand, shouting, “Come on, lads! I’ve a fruit pie riding on your win! Put your back into it!”
Libby wandered onto the beach with Mabena and Mamm-wynn, watching the two crafts skim their way back over the waves. They had to be remarkably evenly matched, because from one stroke to the next she couldn’t be quite sure who was in the lead, or who might be so in the next second. All the islanders were on their feet now, all voices cheering either for Wearne or Tremayne. Even Mabena was shouting the names of each rower on Team Tremayne.
