Page 7 of The Nature of a Lady
She stroked a thumb along the pattern of the shawl she clutched like an anchor. Maybe she was—or had been. But that was in a different life. She wasn’t that Mabena anymore. She was just Moon now. Trusted maid of Lady Elizabeth Sinclair, sister of the Earl of Telford.
A jagged nail caught in the yarn, and she let out a sigh. All right, so obviously some of the old Mabena lived on, otherwise she neverwould have given in to that anxious beating of her heart last week and convinced Libby to come here for the summer. But she’d been worried, when the letters stopped after that last startling one.
And she’d been right to be worried, clearly. Where the devil had Beth gone? She should have beenhere, in this very place. This beautiful shawl that Mrs. Tremayne had knitted for her ought to have draped her shoulders, not been left in a drawer. And while Mabena had once been the sort to follow a whim wherever it took her, hardly caring if her family knew where she’d gone, Beth had never done the same. Oh, she’d adventured aplenty, it was true—but never without letting her family know. Yet here Mabena was, in the house Beth Tremayne had let for the summer but then vanished from.
Her pulse quickened again. Something was amiss. She could only pray, if her prayers weren’t as out of practice as her rowing, that it was something as simple as an unplanned trip to the mainland. But Beth hadn’t mentioned anything that could lure her there in her last letters. Which left Mabena with her fears of something ...else, though she didn’t know what it might be.
And since the blighted islanders couldn’t be trusted to care for the hearts of their daughters—Mabena was proof of that—what choice did that leave her but to come home and look after Beth herself?
“Mabena?”
She looked up to find Libby in the threshold of her room, a smile on her face and a few books in her hands, including her sketchbook and pencils. “I’m going to follow that path down to the shore. Perhaps wander a bit.”
She didn’t invite Mabena along. And Mabena couldn’t blame her. There was nothing like exploring a new place unhindered—and there was no safer place to let a young woman wander than along these shores. She couldn’t get lost, there was no traffic to speak of, and the islanders had long ago learned to keep a watchful eye on visitors. So, ignoring the stern image of Lady Telford’s face that flooded her mind, she nodded. “I’ll have luncheon ready for you at noon.”
Libby’s grin was pure bliss. “Don’t feel obligated—Icanmake myown sandwich, you know. If you want to go over to Tresco today to see your family, you’re welcome to do so. You know I’ll be perfectly content here.”
She’d meant to take a few days first, get used to the idea of being in the Scillies again before taking that final step home. Maybe even give the gossip time to reach Mam and Tas.“Mabena’s back! Though she doesn’tlook much the wild soul we knew. Serving some touristas maid, of all things.”
Not that her parents didn’t know what she’d been doing. They’d sent Ollie after her the once, to try to talk her home, to show her that she needn’t subject herself to such a life. As if Mabena gave a fig about what he might say, just because he had an official title to make his ever-offered counsel more legitimate. He was still just Ollie.
Did he realize Beth had vanished? She couldn’t think so, or he’d have been here. He’d have collected her belongings and taken them back to Tresco. Every local in the Scillies would have been out scouring the beaches and caves for her.
She folded the shawl. Maybe shewouldboat over to Tresco today. Just to hear what any gossip was concerning Beth. She’d say nothing—not until she knew more. If Beth just wanted some independence and to escape from the prying eyes of the people who had known her all her life, Mabena wouldn’t be the one to ruin it for her.
But if there was cause to worry, she’d know it before the day was out.
She nodded to Libby. “I may, at that. Thank you, my lady.”
Libby hugged her pile of books to her chest. “Totally selfless of me.”
She laughed—she couldn’t help it. Libby was definitely not like any other nobleman’s daughter she’d ever run across. Which was possibly the only reason she’d survived two years as a maid. “Oh yes, I’m certain of that. Get on with you, then. And take your key, as I’ll lock up behind myself when I go.”
“Already have it.” Patting her pocket in proof, Libby pivoted away. “Have fun!”
“You too.” Mabena shook her head in amusement as Libby darted away, her hair in a thick braid of honey blond better suited for a girl of sixteen than a young lady of twenty, and her clothes simple enough that she’d blend in more with the locals than the tourists.
And she was, without question, about to have a brighter day than Mabena would.
Telling herself the reason she lingered was to watch the lady safely reach the beach below, and not because of any lack of courage when it came to facing her past, Mabena sat a few more minutes at the window, worrying the shawl. Beth’s favorite shawl, ever since her grandmother had finished it before she left the isles for finishing school. She wouldn’t just leave it behind if she went somewhere.
Anxiety feasted on her insides again, forcing her to her feet. Enough dillydallying. She wasn’t back for her own sake—she was back for Beth’s. Setting Mrs. Tremayne’s handiwork on the chair she vacated, she snatched up her straw hat and pinned it in place, wishing its brim were a bit wider so she could dip her head and hide beneath it whenever someone too familiar came into view.
Andthatwas an inevitability, even here on St. Mary’s. She didn’t know everyone here as well as she did those on Tresco, but she knew them still. With only two thousand or so residents on all the isles combined, the only strangers she’d ever see here were the tourists.
The moment she stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind her and locking it, Mabena dragged glorious salt air into her lungs. She may not have missed the nosy neighbors while on the mainland, but she had, without a doubt, missed the isles themselves. The perpetual symphony of water lapping shore. The cry of countless birds. The scents of sea and plants and ... yes, the Polmers’ bakery, which was tantalizingly close to this seaside cottage. Perhaps she’d just slip in and...
No. She knew the Polmers too well. Andhehad always gone there every time his feet touched the soil of St. Mary’s. She’d avoid such places, at least for now.
She’d avoid Hugh Town altogether. Instead of the road into thevillage, she chose the sandy track that wound its way through the high grasses, hugging the shoreline. It would deliver her to the quay, where any locals with boats would be, ready to charge tourists a modest fee for a little tour or ferrying to another island, or come over for their own purposes. It wouldn’t be difficult, either way, to find someone to take her the rest of the way home.
Maybe Enyon would be here—it was Wednesday, after all. He could well have come over with a fresh supply of painted knickknacks and framed photographs for the tourist shop. Yes, Enyon was likely, and she wouldn’t object to riding home with him. Or with Matty, if it came down to it. Matty went between the islands nearly every day in the summer. Or there’d be a lad or two—too old for school and home already from their morning of fishing—come to get the latest supplies from the ferry. That could be her best option, as the adolescents who clamored for those tasks might not look closely enough to realize they knew her.
She reached the quay, her gaze drifting over her options. Any of the ones she’d named would do, so long as they could take her over now and not make her wait hours on end. She’d just find someone ready to shove off, like whoever was in the little blue sloop far to the right. She picked her way over the smooth rocks and sand, trying to identify the bloke merely by the backside he was presenting her as he leaned over, into his boat, to stow something.
Her lips turned up. A game she and Beth had played a time or two when they were but giggling girls themselves. Though from this distance, all she could tell was that whoever-he-was was a man full-grown, not a slip of a lad yet to come into his breadth. He wore rather standard island garb, though neat enough to make her think he wasn’t a fisherman. Trousers in brown, a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up past the elbow—revealing well-muscled forearms, at that—a knitted waistcoat in tan, and a flat cap on his head that wouldn’t be stolen by the first stout breeze. Could be any number of men.
But it wasn’t, she saw as he straightened and turned, once she was too near to find a hiding place. It was, blast her luck, a Wearne.
