Page 72 of The Nature of a Lady
Spotting another too-bright daisy farther along, closer to the cottages, he followed the trail, praying anew with every step.Lord, help me to find her. To find them. Show yourself to Libby.
That last one seemed strangely tied to the others, which made precious little sense. Except that he knew that, even having only known her a few weeks, she loved his grandmother too. And her faith—which was really more stale teaching and a newborn curiosity waiting to bloom into proper faith—might just shrivel and turn cold if it wasdealt this blow right now. But he wanted more for her. Wanted her to love the Creator with the same boundless fascination with which she loved His creation. Wanted her to trust Him as she had so quickly come to trust Oliver.
Another shock of color that didn’t belong with the greens and browns and greys of the cottages stole his attention—a deep scarlet, too big to be a flower, too solid to be a patch of them. But the very color of Mamm-wynn’s favorite shawl. He flew toward it, blinking until the shape was close enough to be more than a blur of color. To be shoulders and back and a precious white-crowned head resting on the earth as if it were a pillow. “Mamm-wynn!”
Unlike his grandfather though, she didn’t stir at hearing his voice or her name. She just lay there on her stomach, face turned away from him, one arm extended—a bouquet of orange, yellow, and pink daisies still clutched in her hand.
No!His soul screamed it, fear pounding at his ears with every burst of his pulse. “Mamm-wynn!Mamm-wynn.”
Still she didn’t move, didn’t answer. But he was there now, dropping to his knees on the flagstone path to one of the cottages, blown over with sand and stray leaves and petals. He reached out, his prayers too desperate for words now, and touched her face. Warm. Her throat—there, her pulse fluttered, faint but present.
“Mamm-wynn.” He said it more quietly now, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. But her eyelids didn’t flutter; her breath didn’t hitch. What was wrong with her? He guessed Tas-gwyn had been struck on the head much like Mabena, given the way he’d been holding it and wincing. But when he set his fingers on a light probing of her skull, he found no bumps or gashes, nothing to indicate a physical assault. Did he dare try to turn her over?
He hadn’t much choice. He couldn’t exactly leave her here. Careful to cradle her head with one hand, he eased her onto her side with the other, then onto her back. Though he held his breath against what he might see, no horrors met his gaze. No injuries visible here either. She simply looked like she was sleeping.
But she never slept so deeply that a voice wouldn’t rouse her.
He leaned over to take a closer look, reaching into his pocket for his watch so he could get an accurate gauge of her pulse. His fingers brushed against paper rather than metal, giving him pause. Had he not put his watch in his pocket when he flew out of his room upon hearing Mrs. Dawe?
Apparently not. He pulled out whatwasin there—the nub of a pencil and the letter he’d been writing when sleep had abandoned him.
He’d meant it for Beth, though he’d had no idea how he meant to get it to her. It was half angry exhortation to return home at once, half plea to let them help. Full of all the facts that backed up both. That Lady Elizabeth Sinclair had been mistaken for her, that she was paying the price for whatever Beth had involved herself in. That Mabena had been injured last night by an armed man. That they knew Johnnie’s death was linked to it, and that the man had threatened Mamm-wynn.
His gaze flitted up toward the sagging door of the cottage that looked like it might sink into the earth at any moment. His sister wouldn’t be in there. He knew she wouldn’t. But something had convinced Mamm-wynn to come here, whether it be something natural or ... not. He took the clutch of flowers from her fingers and stood. He hated to leave her there even for a second, but he had a feeling she’d forgive it if it meant possibly finding Beth.
It took a shoulder to shove the door fully open. It dragged against the floor—which inspired him to look behind it and see that there was an arc of cleaner space where someone else had done the same and pushed it wider.
Not necessarily Beth. It could have been anyone. Tourists caught out in the rain, seeking the imperfect shelter of leaky thatch, most likely.
Then his gaze found the rickety, rotting table in front of the window. On which sat a rock. No, not a rock.
A small, water-scarred cannonball.
His heart thudded, though he wasn’t sure if it was from hope or more dread. He spun around, taking in the entirety of the cottagein one turn. Was that clean spot there evidence that someone had hunkered down here? Was that water in the ancient sink from use or the holes in the thatch?
Had Beth been here?
Probably not. But ... but maybe so. And if so, this could be his only chance of getting a message to her.
Thinking it worth the gamble, he pulled the note from his pocket as he strode to the table. He added a line about Mamm-wynn, scrawled Beth’s name on the outside of the folded page, put it on the table, and anchored it with the lead. Finishing off the offering with Mamm-wynn’s bouquet, he backed away.
Father, draw her here. Let her find this, I beg you.
With that, he spun on his heel and hurried back outside, careful to wrestle the door mostly shut behind him.
His grandmother still hadn’t budged. As carefully as if she were made of finest porcelain, he gathered her into his arms and began the trek back to Tas-gwyn, Libby, and the boats.
Evening had found them again, somehow. Right now it was stretching through the house with long arms of sunshine that elbowed their way through the windows, but soon those golden rays would go purple and red and dusky. Then would come the grey, then the blue, then the black.
Oliver raked a hand through his hair and stared out at the familiar coastline, the familiar sea, the familiar vista. Such beautiful colors, when they were painted over the land.
Such hideous ones when they marred the flesh of one he loved. Mabena’s face displayed them all today, and Tas-gwyn’s head did too. Only his grandmother had no visible signs of whatever trauma had found her.
Only his grandmother still lay in her bed unconscious, the twelve hours since he found her passing in a blur of visits from neighbors and family and the doctor, who had quietly suggested that she’d sufferedsome sort of apoplexy. They couldn’t know for sure, but the evidence suggested that her own body had attacked her rather than some outside force, likely caused by her advanced age or the stress of Beth being missing.
Perhaps he could accept that, if not for the other two injuries in his family.
No. No, he could never accept it, not really. Even knowing that she was mortal and so her days were numbered, he couldn’t accept the soft words that said she might never open her eyes again. Might never call him her favorite. Might never laugh that fairy laugh.
