Page 38 of The Nature of a Lady
Libby could learn a thing or two from him.
A minute later, the three of them stepped from road to path, following the echoes of morning greetings to the water. On the beach were ten men, ranging in age from late teens to early forties, gathered into two clusters. They were all moving busily around the two boats, long and sleek, resting on the sand.
At the first glance, she’d picked out the one form that was familiar—Oliver Tremayne, dressed in the cotton trousers and shirt of an athlete, a knit cap upon his head. He was giving a direction to another of the men, it seemed, pointing here and then motioning there. Whatever chap he’d been talking to nodded and spun to do something or another.
One of the men on the other team, a tall and burly one, shouted something that the wind garbled and stole before it reached Libby’s ears. But she didn’t need to hear it to know it must have been a taunt, given the way the four men around his boat laughed and the other five all stiffened, one spinning around with tense muscles.
Mabena nodded toward the chap that Mr. Tremayne restrained with a hand on his shoulder. “That’s Enyon,” she whispered. “Oliver’s best friend.”
Sometime over the course of the last twenty-four hours, Mabena had slipped from calling himMr. TremaynetoOliver. Libby hadn’t pointed it out though she’d wondered at it. At least, she’d wondered until now, when she realized that Mabena referred toeveryonenear her own age by first name. Which made fine sense on an island the size of Tresco.
The only curiosity was why she’d greeted him so formally last Wednesday.
Libby nodded toward the burly one who seemed to be the leader of the second group. “And who’s the boulder?”
“Casek Wearne.” Her voice dripped disdain. “The headmaster. But Oliver’s archnemesis long before that.”
Libby felt her brows climb toward her hair. “I’ve never known anyone who had an archnemesis before.”
“Yes, you have.” Mabena flashed her a smile. “Those two ladies in London always out to steal each other’s suitors. Lady Rose, wasn’t it? And Lady Elvira?”
That seemed a different sort of rivalry. It was all catty words and simpering smiles and insults veiled as compliments.“Oh, my lady, what a lovely gown! It suits you so much better than the one you wore last night.”Not shouts and posturing that looked like it could turn into a fistfight at any moment.
Males were such interesting creatures. No matter the species, they bore remarkably similar behaviors. Puffing out their chests, squawking, locking horns to determine who was stronger or faster or better, claiming territory—or females.
Somehow she hadn’t imagined that Oliver Tremayne—it was a bit difficult to keep themisterin place in her thoughts when the Moons continually forgot it—would be one of two dominant alpha males vying for supremacy. He hadn’t seemed the type when he was strolling with her through the Gardens, blushing over his grandmother’s words, or peering into her very soul. Obviously she had a bit more studying to do before she could fully understand him.
It was a study she wouldn’t mind, she had to admit—silently toherself. During her time in London she’d never found the sport of man watching to be particularly engaging, but perhaps that had something to do with pomaded hair and tuxedos—unnatural plumage, to be sure.
This ... this was entirely different. The ten men on the beach seemed somehow closer to nature and therefore their own true states. She could see muscles straining under soft clothes, grace in their movements that had nothing to do with choreographed dances. And, as she observed in another moment, the very bonds between them. These were men who interacted without pretense. Their friendship was true and their rivalries comfortable.
And Oliver Tremayne was one of them. A beloved one, whose directions were obeyed almost before he finished speaking.
Mabena stopped them right in the heart of a knot of onlookers, all of whom were watching, shouting, and making noises about the need for tea as they clapped chilled hands together. She wasn’t the only one, it seemed, who’d expected the June morning to be a bit warmer than it was. The group made room for them without any comment other than cheerful, casual greetings. No one gave her curious looks. No one seemed surprised, as she’d been, by Mabena’s loose hairstyle or flowing attire.
The rowers, at a signal she hadn’t seen or heard, climbed into their boats—gigs, Mabena had called them. The onlookers all started cheering and whooping and calling out to the two teams, so Libby clapped along with them.
Oliver Tremayne glanced their way. His gaze snagged on hers for a moment. Didn’t it? Or was he looking at Mabena, or at his grandfather? His mouth hinted at a smile for a fraction of a second. And then he refocused on his men, calling something to them that had them all taking up their oars.
A man nearer to them—Mr. Menna, it looked like—lifted a hand. Shouted something. Dropped his hand. And the oars dug in, pushing the gigs off, away.
The cheering continued until the boats were out of sight, roundinga promontory of land, and then it died down to jocular speculation on who would overtake whom and which lads looked in the better form today.
Libby leaned toward Mabena. “How far do they go?”
“A mile, then back.”
And what were they to do in the meantime? She nearly asked it, had her mouth open to do so, when an answer of sorts seemed to present itself in the form of a rattle of pottery and a voice calling out, “Anyone going to help me, then?”
Libby spun, heels digging into the sand, to see an older woman stopped at the head of the path, where pavement turned to sand, her hand on an overloaded tray. Steam rose alluringly from a massive urn, and stacks of dozens of sturdy mugs told Libby what had been rattling.
Mr. Gibson and another man of a similar age hurried to her, each taking an end of the cart and carrying it down the path with what must be well-practiced ease.
“That’s Mrs. Gillis,” Mabena told her. “She’s been bringing tea down on Wednesday mornings as long as I can remember. We all chip in a bit to help cover the costs—she’s a widow on a pension, her only son a fisherman.”
As the cart passed them, Libby spotted the jar on the lower shelf that had a few florins and pence in it already. She was quite glad she’d stuck a few pounds in her own pockets this morning, anticipating a stop in a bakery on her way to the Abbey Gardens after the race. There were no other paper bills in the jar, but as that was all she currently had with her, she’d just have to slip it in when no one was paying attention.
She followed Mabena toward the cart and, when Mrs. Gillis turned to her with a blink, as if trying to place her, offered a smile. “May I help?” The words tumbled off her lips before she could examine them too closely.
