Page 5 of The Nature of a Lady
Oliver stowed his oars. “You ought to take a turn again soon, Mr. Menna.”
The gardener chuckled. “I think I had better leave that to you young stallions.”
Enyon barked a laugh. “You can outrow all of us, and well you know it, old man.”
Though he demurred, there was no denying the gleam of satisfaction in Mr. Menna’s eyes. Though twice Oliver and Enyon’s age atfifty-two, he was as stalwart as the granite slabs of the island’s cairns. He turned his smile on Oliver. “I’ve pruning to get to so can’t linger long. You’ll drop in later?”
“Of course. I would appreciate some time in the garden while I compose my sermon.” Sometimes it was still odd to realize everyone had accepted him in place of his uncle behind the pulpit of St. Nicholas’s—that he was their official vicar instead of just a lad who always listened to their woes.
Enyon slammed into his shoulder with a victory whoop, nearly knocking him back into the surf.
And Casek Wearne sneered at him. “Luck. Nothing but luck. If that one wave hadn’t—”
“Stow it, Caz.” Matthew Hart nudged Casek out of the way—one of the only fellows on the islands big enough to successfully pull that off. But then, the two burly men were cousins. “They beat us fair and square. Today.” He winked over in the general direction of Oliver and his team. “But we’ll take them next week.”
“Especially if Enyon shows up so ragged again.” Enyon’s mother frowned at him, even as her younger son—on Team Wearne—handed her his discarded cap to hold while he wrestled his shirt over his sweaty arms. “Were you up all night carousing, Enny? It isn’t like you.”
It wasn’t, at that. Oliver frowned at his friend too, awaiting his answer. Usually nothing could interfere with Enyon’s sleep. He wasn’t one to stay out too late at the pub, and the allure of a good book never fazed him a bit, though that was something that had kept Oliver up too late a time or two ... hundred.
Enyon ran his fingers through his black hair, smoothing the damp locks away from his forehead, and yawned. “Of course not. It was—” He stopped, cutting a glance at Oliver.
Why athim? His frown dug in deeper, even as his hands accepted by rote the mug of piping hot tea someone passed him. Old Mrs. Gillis always had it ready for the racers when they got back. “What?”
“It’s nothing. Probably. Just...” Enyon shrugged and cast his glance out at sea. “I couldn’t sleep. Kept hearing ... things. Notsure what, but it was coming from the direction of Piper’s Hole. Reminded me of those old ghost stories.” Though he laughed, it was rusty. And the gaze he sent back to Oliver said he knew very well how that sounded. “You probably think I’m mad.”
Casek snorted a laugh. “Well, if anyone knows mad, it’s him.”
Oliver’s muscles tightened across his shoulders, as did his fingers around his mug. It had been seven long years since he’d last plowed his fist into Casek Wearne’s nose. He recited“The vicar oughtn’t to get in tussles”so often it had become a silent mantra marching through his mind whenever he was near him. But if Casek kept insulting Mamm-wynn, wisdom may yet lose the battle. “Watch yourself, Wearne.”
“Or what?” Casek shouldered his way close—too close—and ignored the mug of steaming tea held out to him like an invitation for peace. “Will you have your mad old grandmother put a curse on my head?”
Oliver jerked toward him, not entirely sure he was in control of his arms and legs, so involuntary did the lunge feel. But a big hand, rich soil forever staining its cuticles, landed on his chest. And another matching one on Casek’s, pushing them apart. Mr. Menna’s stern face came into focus. “That’ll be enough, lads. Let’s not give the tourists anything to laugh about, aye? The vicar and the headmaster, of all things.”
Oliver sucked in a long breath, fingers so tight around his mug that it probably would have snapped had it been one of Mamm-wynn’s delicate teacups instead of the stout ceramic Mrs. Gillis brought to the shore for them. He met Casek’s taunting gaze. “She’s off-limits, Wearne. You ought to know that. If you had a shred of decency—”
“You’ve never given the Wearnes any credit for that, though, have you?”
Mrs. Gillis stepped into the space Mr. Menna had made between them, pressing the hot mug to Casek’s chest. “Let bygones be bygones, both of you. And you, have a bit of respect. Mrs. Tremayne’s mind may not be what once it was, but it’s no fault of anyone’s. It comes with age.”
The comfort, if that’s what it was meant to be, settled over Oliver about as comfortably as sackcloth. He edged back, glad the gig had been pulled totally clear, out of his way. He wanted to say his grandmother’s mind was just fine, thank you very much. He wanted to say that anyone who thought otherwise just didn’t understand how to listen to her anymore. He wanted to say that if he failed to give the Wearnes any credit, it was because they’d gone out of their way to prove they didn’t deserve it. Casek with his constant taunting. And worse still, his twin brother’s treachery two years ago.
It was their fault Oliver’s family was fractured.Theirs. But none of them had ever been man enough to admit it.
Too much to say here and now, with not only half of Old Grimsby but also a collection of holiday-goers watching. He shook his head, handed his mug back to Mrs. Gillis, and strode off. Enyon shouted after him, but he ignored him. He’d go home, bathe, eat. Pray. And likely then need to pray some more to rid his spirit of this creeping fog of frustration. Pay a visit to the Floyds, who were both ailing. Help Mr. Menna in the Gardens while his sermon percolated through his brain.
Forget Casek Wearne. Again.
His gaze tracked, as always, to the hill above town, where Tremayne property came into view as it tumbled down into the sea. Well, not that it was technically theirs—the Duke of Cornwall owned all the Scillies. But some long-ago duke had granted the Tremaynes a permanent lease of this little slice of heaven, and for generations it was where they’d all chosen to stay, rather than on the small estate on the mainland that theydidown. That other land produced enough in rents and income to provide what Tresco couldn’t. But this was where the Tremayne heart had always belonged.
And that hill was where Morgan had always stood to watch the morning races—or sat, if it was a bad day. He’d always been there, always cheering for whichever team Oliver was on. And when Oliver reached the crest, he’d always say the same thing.“Idaresay my little brother is the best athlete in all of Cornwall.”
More brotherly pride than any truth, but Oliver had given uparguing with him long ago. He’d just laugh. Clap an arm around Morgan if he’d been standing or take hold of the handles of his wheelchair if not. They’d go together back to the house, where Mamm-wynn and Beth would be just stirring, where Mrs. Dawe would have breakfast ready on the sideboard.
But Morgan wasn’t on the hill. Would never again be on the hill. And Beth wasn’t inside mumbling about whatever odd dream she’d just had. And Mamm-wynn ... He frowned when movement on the hillock did catch his eye—the flutter of a shawl in the ocean’s perpetual breeze.
What was Mamm-wynn doing out in the morning damp? Muttering something that was half frustration and half prayer, he kicked his pace from walk to run, feet eating up the well-worn path through the waving seagrass.
She looked like a wren perched there, slight and small and so dainty he was afraid she might just spread her arms wide and let the wind carry her off. His chest squeezed tight, so tight he could scarcely breathe.
