Page 34 of The Nature of a Lady
Casek stalked along the line of them but did nothing more than give them a scathing look.
Oliver realized a moment too late that the headmaster had set his path towardhim. He ought to have walked away the moment the lads tumbled out of the bush, but his hesitation now meant that Casek Wearne was a foot away, sneering at him over the wall. “Stop harassing my students, Tremayne.”
How could the man make him bristle so fully with five little words? His fingers curled into his palm. “Harassing them? Really?”
“This is school property.” Though Wearne drilled a finger into Oliver’s shoulder, which put said fingeroutsideschool property. “You’re not welcome here.”
Oliver backed up a step to keep himself from poking back. “Isn’t it tiring, being such a blighter all the time?”
Casek looked as thoughhewould vault the wall at any moment. But awareness of his audience prevailed. He too stepped back. Though he lifted his finger again, pointing it instead of poking. “Be ready to lose tomorrow, Tremayne.”
And this was the example he was setting for his students? Oliver lifted his chin. “Good luck to you too.”
“I don’t need luck. Not as long as your teammates are so scared of a few ghost stories that they don’t sleep anymore.” He pivoted then and shouted something at the children—a warning of only ten minutes left of recess.
Oliver scarcely heard those words, so fully had his mind caught on the ones he’d spat before. Would Casek Wearne stoop so low as to play tricks on Enyon?
Undoubtedly.
But would he really leverage the tragedy of one of his former students’ deaths to do it?
Oliver spun away from the wall, not sure even he could believe that. Casek Wearne was a blighter, without question, but he genuinely cared about his students. This stupid rivalry wasn’t stronger than that, was it?
He sincerely hoped not. But he didn’t know anymore where the Wearnes drew their lines.
When next he refocused, he saw his own house before him, though he’d intended to pay one more visit before going home. Apparently his feet had obeyed his stomach instead of his mind, and since he smelled something delicious wafting from the kitchen door, he followed its trail inside.
Mrs. Dawe met him with a tray and a smile. “There you are. In the drawing room with you, sir. Your grandmother and the lady are entertaining each other, though I’m not certain who’s most amused by whom.”
“The lady?” But even as he fell in behind her, he knew. Ithadbeen Mabena he’d caught a glimpse of before he went into the vicarage—he hadn’t been sure. And she must have brought Lady Elizabeth with her.
But how had she ended up in his drawing room?
Mrs. Dawe chuckled. “While I was baking this morning, Mrs. Tremayne decided to take a turn through the Abbey Gardens and happened upon her. Lady Elizabeth was good enough to bring her home.”
“Ah.” He should probably be concerned that Mamm-wynn had slipped out again without telling anyone where she was going. But the banding around his chest didn’t feel like worry for his grandmother. It felt suspiciously more like anxiety over what Lady Elizabeth Sinclair might think of her.
Casek Wearne’s fault, no doubt. Last week’s“your mad old grandmother”still irritated Oliver whenever the memory surfaced, and given that he’d just seen his snarling face...
Even before he reached the drawing room, he could hear them.Two voices, laughing together, one as familiar as the wind through the Cornish palms, the other as novel as the long-headed poppy that bloomed in the garden for the first time that spring. A bit of the tension eased.
And it eased more when he stepped into the room and saw them perched on the sofa together, heads nearly touching as they leaned over something in their laps. A book of some sort. Hopefully a notebook, given that Mamm-wynn was writing something on it with a pencil. Lady Elizabeth watched her intently, her lips curved into an echo of her laughter.
His breath whispered out. He’d seen her feigning polite interest last week with Mrs. Pepper. This was something different. This seemed to be genuine pleasure with Mamm-wynn’s company.
As well it should be. There was no woman in all of England quite like Adelle Tremayne. But how long until everyone forgot that, when she greeted them by the wrong name or spoke of events from forty years ago as if they happened yesterday?
“Here we are, ladies.” Mrs. Dawe set the tray down on the low table before the sofa, beaming at them both. “And I’ve brought the young master in to share it with you.”
“Oh good.” Mamm-wynn motioned him closer and patted the space left on the sofa beside her. “I’ve been describing the flowers in our family garden for Libby, dearovim, but I don’t remember their Latin names, only the common ones. You’ll have to help us.”
Libby, was it? And why not—Mamm-wynn was probably more the lady’s peer than anyone else in the Scillies, having been born to a viscount’s second son herself. Oliver took the proffered seat with a smile. “Of course. And how are you today, my lady?”
She met his gaze, revealing eyes dancing with light. “Absolutely wonderful. I do believe I like Tresco even better than St. Mary’s, though I hadn’t thought it possible.” She grinned at Mamm-wynn. “Or perhaps it’s the company.”
She liked her. It should come as neither a surprise nor a relief, but . . . but he hadn’t realized until then how much hewantedher to likehis grandmother. To like all of Tresco. “Both are without equal, to be sure.”
“Oh, you.” Mamm-wynn chuckled and tapped the page, on which were a few small but skillful drawings of the flowers from around their front door. “Latin.”
