5

Oliver couldn’t breathe, try as he might to suck island air into lungs well accustomed to gulping it in after a jog or a row or a quick climb from sea level. But air wouldn’t come, and it had nothing to do with the run from the quay. And everything to do with the fact that the young woman standing in Beth’s doorway wasn’t Beth.

His fingers curled into his palm as he tried to make sense of it. But there was no sense to find. He’d gone about his morning as planned. Visited the Floyds. Puttered in the Abbey Gardens with Mr. Menna. Tried and failed to track down Enyon. Finally made his way home for tea with Mamm-wynn, ready to put everything aside and enjoy a rest.

But his grandmother wouldn’t eat or drink. She just kept worrying the edge of her shawl. And when she looked at him and said, “Beth’s not where she’s supposed to be, Ollie. She’s gone,” the strangest feeling had come over him.

He’d crumbled his biscuit instead of eating it and just stared at her. Mad. That’s what he heard in his ears, in Casek Wearne’s voice. His grandmother was mad.

But he couldn’t quite believe it. Not with those unwritten letters haunting him when they should have been sitting on his desk. Not with his own uneasiness nipping at him. He’d set his teacup down and forced a smile for Mamm-wynn. “I’ll just check on her, shall I?”

Her eyes hadn’t brightened though. If anything, the clouds in them had flashed lightning. “You won’t find her, lad. But go anyway. See what you can learn.”

He’d jumped into his sloop, the rigging melding with his hands. Straight here to St. Mary’s, to the cottage along the garrison wall that he knew should have housed his sister. His fist upon the door. A hundred excuses ready to crowd their way to his tongue when Beth scowled at him and demanded to know why he’d interrupted her summer after he promised her independence.

But it wasn’t Beth. It wasn’t Beth. It was another young lady of a similar age, with similar golden hair in a similar braid, wearing a similar white blouse and a similar grey skirt. Similar—but not Beth.

“Is your sister by chance called Elizabeth?” The question echoed in his brain long after she finished asking it, too many thoughts knocking about with it for him to make sense of the words.

He knew her, this girl who wasn’t Beth. Sort of. Had met her before, anyway, though in that first second of shock his muddled mind couldn’t think where. All he knew was she wasn’t one of his sister’s friends—if he’d met her in Beth’s company, he would have made a comment on how they looked at once alike but different. But that wasn’t the image elbowing its way to the surface of his mind. No, it was . . . a garden.

He shook it off and focused on the here and now. “She’s Elizabeth, yes—though we call her Beth. Are you . . . visiting her?” But that made no sense. If she was a friend of Beth’s after all, she wouldn’t have to ask him what her name was.

The girl stepped back from the door and waved him inside. “I think perhaps you’d better come in.”

He hesitated a moment. As a vicar, he visited people all the time when otherwise a proper gentleman shouldn’t; he served as a chaperone more than he needed one. But she probably didn’t know that, so shouldn’t she be unwilling to let a veritable stranger inside?

There was no duplicity in her eyes though, simply concern. For whatever reason, she must not be considering questions of reputation. And so long as he only stayed a few moments, no locals would question his presence here. He was a vicar, and one concerned for his sister to boot.

With a nod, he crossed the threshold and looked around, his gaze searching for any hints of Beth. “Forgive me for intruding. And thank you for granting me time to sort through this.” He could feel his brows knitting into what Beth and Morgan had always jokingly referred to as his scholar’s frown—the one he tended to wear when puzzling through a text, trying to solve a tricky problem in arithmetic, or striving to understand the mysteries of God. But try as he might to smooth it out now, it was no good. “My sister . . .”

“Isn’t here, I’m afraid. Mrs. Pepper made mention of her leaving without a word, so she relet the place. To me. And my maid.”

“What?” Though he’d been trying to catch a glimpse of anything that was Beth’s scattered about, he spun now on his heel to stare at his makeshift hostess. “What do you mean, leaving without a word?”

Where did he know her from? It was right there, just behind his worry. If she was traveling with a maid and renting a holiday cottage, she must be a gentleman’s daughter of some sort. But who? Was she the younger sister of one of his friends from school? Or perhaps of the society he very occasionally rubbed elbows with in Cornwall, when duty demanded it?

She closed the door with an artless shrug. Not the sort he often saw gentlewomen give, designed to draw attention, saturated with guile, studied. No, this was simply a shrug. Refreshingly honest. “I really don’t know. But she left her things here. Moon gathered them up—I’m not certain what she did with them, but they’re probably in her room.”

Moon—Mabena. Recognition slammed him hard. The girl from the gardens of Telford Hall, whom he’d met when Mabena’s parents had begged him to go and see if she was all right in her new position—and more accurately, see if he could talk her into coming home.

He hadn’t known, when he stumbled across the girl sprawled in the dirt, that she was the daughter of the house. But he’d pieced it together in the time since, given the subtle information in Mabena’s letters home.

Now he sucked in a breath and executed a quick bow. “Forgive me, Lady Elizabeth. My shock has eclipsed my manners. I didn’t realize you and Moon”—it took every ounce of self-possession to remember to call her that rather than Mabena—“were holidaying here this summer.”

Was that disappointment that sagged her shoulders? Why? She even let out a little breath that rang of frustration as she tucked back a tendril of hair that had slipped free of her braid. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know my name, but I don’t recall ever learning yours.”

No, their hour-long walk through the gardens at Telford Hall hadn’t been cluttered with such unnecessary things. For all he’d known at the time, she could have been a governess, a maid enjoying her half day, or even a daughter of one of the many visiting families. He hadn’t known, when he’d let himself be prodded to Somerset, that he’d be stumbling upon a funeral, and certainly not that he’d find the bereaved daughter covered in garden dirt. Though had he known at the start, he would have simply assured the Moons that Mabena would get on well enough with her.

He inclined his head. “Forgive me again. Mr. Oliver Tremayne, of Tresco.”

“Tresco?” Her spine snapped straighter, and she darted a look toward the window. And presumably the islands beyond it. “But . . . then you’re not one of Bram’s friends. He knows no one here.”

Bram? It was logic more than knowledge that told him she must mean her brother. He shook his head. “No, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Lord Telford, aside from the few minutes he granted me when I arrived at your home at so unfortunate a time.” He, too, motioned, but toward her door. “I’d merely come to make certain Mabena Moon was well. Her parents asked me to make sure she was all right.”

Her brows drew together, making the piercing amber of her eyes all the more striking. She regarded him with the same expression she’d been giving the chrysalis in her garden—that if she could only study it long enough, she’d unravel all its secrets. “Why would her parents ask that of you?”

There were more reasons than he knew Mabena would want him to share, so he offered the simplest one. “I’m the vicar on Tresco. And one of the few Scillonians with ties to the mainland. I’m frequently called upon to help in such ways.”

He probably should have introduced himself as Mr. Tremayne of Truro Hall, as he’d done with her brother two years ago. But it wasn’t who he was, not really. He belonged to Tresco, not to their estate on the mainland. And her frank eyes demanded the real truth, not the nominal one.

She nodded and then glanced around her as if looking for something. “I . . . I expect she’ll be back any minute. Moon, I mean. She went over to Tresco to visit her family—but perhaps you know that? Is that what alarmed you, made you realize we were here where your sister should be?”

It was his turn to shake his head. “I haven’t seen her. I came because . . . well, because my sister was supposed to be writing to me twice weekly, and she hasn’t been. I was growing worried. For good reason, apparently. You say Beth’s things are still here, but Mrs. Pepper said she left without warning?”

“That’s right.”

Where could she possibly have run off to? He’d ask Mabena when she returned. She and Beth had always been the best of friends. If anyone knew . . .

Wait. What was Mabena doing back here, renting a cottage on St. Mary’s, anyway? Striving for a casual countenance, he summoned up a smile for Lady Elizabeth. “I didn’t realize Mabena Moon would be coming home. I’d have thought her parents would have mentioned it.”

“Oh, it was a last-minute decision.” She shifted away a bit, her gaze skittering to the wall and then down to the floor. “I . . . wanted a holiday, and Moon had told me how lovely the Scillies were. We considered ourselves rather fortunate we found a cottage with a vacancy.” Now those brows and the piercing eyes frowned anew. “It seems a bit less fortunate now, considering. Why don’t you sit, Mr. Tremayne? I’d like to show you something. Perhaps you can help me make sense of it.”

She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed, just hurried off in the direction of what must be the bedrooms. Oliver looked over the kitchen and living area, trying to imagine Beth here, making her own meals and filling the space with her constant movement. He couldn’t quite picture it though.

She’d always been independent, to be sure. She’d once boasted she could spend a week on one of the uninhabited islands without any help, and their father had granted her permission to prove it. She had, indeed, been quite well and happy, fishing for her meals and exploring. But that had been ages ago. In recent years, Beth had been more inclined toward drawing rooms and garden parties than survivalist skills. It was what had brought her here, after all—the promise of society on holiday. He moved into the living area and sat.

Lady Elizabeth reappeared a moment later, her arms full of books and parcels that were just a jumble until she spread them out on the low table beside a cannonball—a rather odd decoration, but he supposed Mrs. Pepper could have thought it would be charming. Though even then, he wasn’t certain what he was looking at. The only familiar item in the collection was a worn copy of Treasure Island. He reached for it, teeth clenched. Make that his worn copy of Treasure Island. He recognized the inkblot on the back and the nick on the bottom right corner, where his pen knife had slipped one day. “She left this here?”

And why did she ever take it to begin with? She’d borrowed it as a child, yes, but she’d long since returned it. It had been on the shelf in his bedroom for the past decade. Or so he’d thought. He flipped it open to where his name, written in pencil on the end leaf, was barely legible through the smudging of time.

“Flip a bit further, if you will.” Lady Elizabeth sat beside him on the sofa, a whiff of salt and sea and a hint of citrus reaching his nose. She leaned closer, clearly anticipating his obedience.

He turned a few more pages and let loose an involuntary shout of horror. “She’s written in it! I’m going to box her ears! What sort of monster marks up another person’s book?”

“It isn’t hers?”

“No—but it’s her hand that’s ruined it, that’s for certain.” He turned a few more pages, knowing well that his exasperation came out in every breath. “Why would she even take this from my room?”

He didn’t expect an answer. If there was one, it may in fact lie in the words Beth had so rudely scribbled into the margins, but he was too annoyed to read it. He was too annoyed, just now, to even wonder where his sister was. She’d better hope she was far, far away from him, though, because if she was anywhere nearby . . .

“I’m not certain as to the why, of course,” Lady Elizabeth said. She reached for the book, turned it to page seventeen, and tapped one of the horrific notes. “But that one there. I’d just read it when I was down at the beach this morning, and then this fellow came along and said the first line to me. I was so startled, I just repeated the second. And then he gave me that.”

Oliver’s gaze followed her hands—not the white, pampered fingers one expected of a lady, but with short nails, ink stains, calluses, and enough traces of dirt under her nails that he was reminded of how much he’d liked her on their walk—to the table. No, to the cannonball.

He frowned. It had to be an eighteen-pounder, given the size. Too big for most of the ships that would have historically made port here, but the wear on it suggested it had been underwater. “Who did you say gave it to you?”

“I didn’t. And I don’t rightly know. Just some chap who asked if I was Elizabeth, recited the first line of that poem there, and then handed it to me after I said the second line.”

“How very odd.” He reached over and rubbed a hand over the pocked surface, then pulled it closer to the side of the table. “We see a lot of old ordnance around here. But not often examples that show water damage. I wonder if it could be from a wreck.”

“A shipwreck?” She leaned closer to examine it, though surely she’d already done so. She seemed utterly oblivious, however, to how close that put her to him. Something of which most society ladies would be keenly aware at all times.

Oliver’s lips twitched a bit in the corners, despite the situation. It was no wonder he hadn’t guessed upon their first meeting that she was the new earl’s sister. He went somber again. “I cannot think why Beth would have been receiving something like this—but that’s your conclusion, I presume? This fellow mistook you for her?”

Another honest, artless shrug. “I don’t know what else to think. They certainly aren’t intended for me, but these men were looking for an Elizabeth.”

“Men—plural?”

She lifted up an envelope and handed it to him. It was a standard size, nothing special about the paper. The only thing of note was the name scrawled across the front. Elizabeth. But that in itself was odd, wasn’t it? “None of her friends call her Elizabeth, only Beth. And any strangers ought to be calling her Miss Tremayne. So why her given name?” He flipped it over. “You didn’t open it?”

“Of course not. It clearly wasn’t intended for me.” She darted a glance toward the brown paper underneath the cannonball. “That one wasn’t marked, and I really had no idea . . . and then it was so heavy.”

His chuckle scratched his throat as if it were made of pebbles. “I don’t blame you, my lady. I would have opened it too.”

Her smile took him back two years to that afternoon garden. It was filled with a dose of sunshine, the wonder of creation, the joy of questions still needing answers—but squeezed around the edges with the creeping vines of sorrow. Once he’d eventually realized with whom he’d had a conversation, he’d assumed the sorrow had been over her father’s recent death. And perhaps it had been.

But if so, she hadn’t yet managed to banish it, because those vines were still there. And while he loved a nice ivy-covered wall as much as the next person, far too often vines were parasitic. Damaging. And sorrow was the same—it could sneak into the cracks of a person’s spirit and make them widen. Steal the nutrients needed. Compromise the foundation. Choke the very life out of a person.

And if there was anything worse than seeing a beautiful, healthy specimen killed by something that should have been removed by a careful gardener, he didn’t know what it would be.

Seemingly of its own volition, his hand lifted, as it would have done had she been any other islander instead of an earl’s sister. It landed on her shoulder, slid the length of her upper arm, and cupped her elbow. Something he’d done countless times with countless parishioners, all of whom had long ago learned not to be startled by the touch.

She clearly didn’t know it. Her eyes widened, her gaze sprang to his. But even then, when colored with surprise, the sorrow was there, twined around her.

“Why are you sad?” The words emerged as a murmur as his fingers found their places around her elbow. One could tell much about a person by their elbow. Whether it was plump or bony, tight or loose, how much tension they carried there. Hers spoke of youth and strength without pretention. Pointed, the muscles leading to and from firm. Covered with simple cotton.

She sucked in a long breath. Sometimes—rarely—people would look away when he asked such questions. Evade the answers they didn’t want to face. Sometimes—rarely—they would laugh away the basic human yearning to share, to be understood. He didn’t think Lady Elizabeth Sinclair would be the type to do either of those things.

And he was right. Her chin sank down a few degrees, but she didn’t break his gaze. “Because . . . I was planted in a garden in which I don’t belong. And I don’t know how to flourish there anymore.”

He shook his head, his fingers tightening around her joint. “You are exactly where you need to be. The only place able to nourish your spirit.”

Her gaze wandered away then, but she wasn’t so much looking from him as looking to something else. Something not in this room at all. Seeing, perhaps, the family that clearly indulged her. The home in which she’d passed so many happy years, discovering new joys even after all this time. Even her presence here, so far from her family, spoke of their love for her—otherwise they never would have let her come and explore.

She let out the breath she’d drawn in, just as slowly. “Maybe. But I can’t stay there forever. Expectations, you know.”

He did. Oh, how he did. They were their own set of vines, left all too often to squeeze and constrict and kill. But they too could be controlled. Trained into safe places. Used to climb instead of pull one down. “I have found that when a transplant is necessary, finding a new place for the plant ought indeed to be undertaken with great care. Sometimes the shock is too great for it, and it won’t survive. But other times . . . other times it will flourish in its new environs far more than it ever did in its old.”

She blinked, her gaze falling to the floor. “How do you ever find such a place though? And how can you be sure you’re not consigning the plant to destruction?”

“There are never such certainties in life.” One never knew when a boat would overturn in a storm and steal one’s parents. When disease would eat away at one’s brother. When madness would steal one’s grandmother’s mind.

When the promise of else would lure one’s sister away.

He gave her elbow a gentle squeeze. “This is why we don’t transplant anything until it’s necessary. But sometimes it is. And so, we learn what we can and make the best decision possible, do the work to the best of our ability, tend it with care. And we pray, trusting that the Master Gardener will bless our efforts.”

She looked at him again, her brows lifted, and, finally, a shaft of welcome amusement bloomed in her eyes and on her lips. “You pray for your plants?”

“Each and every one of them.” Both human and botanical.

She clearly understood the duality, given the sparkle in her eye. “Where exactly is your church, Mr. Tremayne?”

“I like to say all the islands are my cathedral, all the people my parishioners.” He gave her a grin. “I always sense God the best outside in His creation. But if one is being specific, I’m the vicar at St. Nicholas’s in Old Grimsby, on Tresco.” His uncle still lived in the parish house next to it. There’d been no need for him to move, not since Oliver was happy enough to stay at home. And now . . . now home, and its perpetual lease, were his anyway.

Her smile was as sweet as nectar, though the vines hadn’t gone away. “Perhaps one Sunday this summer Moon and I will find ourselves on Tresco in time for services.”

“You are always welcome.” He let his gaze fall back to the envelope he still held. “She’ll box my ears if I go opening her post.”

“Turnabout, then. If it was your book she wrote in.”

He liked the way good humor brought a lift to her alto voice. It made another smile tickle his lips, though thinking of Beth and strange letters by unknown carriers and odd writing in his book made him too aware of the heaviness.

Mamm-wynn had been right. Beth wasn’t where she ought to be. And yet here was something delivered to her. Well, let her box his ears for opening it, since it would mean appearing again to achieve the feat. He used a finger as a letter opener and ripped the top of the envelope. Peered inside, breath caught. Drew out . . .

A letter. “It’s about the cannonball.”

Lady Elizabeth had made no show of not watching him read. Her nose was scrunched, brows drawn together. “Does it say anything helpful?”

“I don’t know if it’s helpful or not. It says, ‘What we can verify for you is that it is indeed an eighteen-pound shot and that few ships that used Scilly as a base in the era in question were so equipped. But there is no way to verify the exact year or the exact ship, so it’s of no interest. Please focus upon the items in the Canary’s manifest.’” Oliver blinked at the page. “Manifest? Have you come across anything resembling a ship’s manifest?” And what was the Canary? He couldn’t recall any stories of a ship by that name, though that hardly meant anything.

Lady Elizabeth caught her lip between her teeth and shook her head. “Not that I’ve seen. Unless there’s one written on something in invisible ink.” She topped her jest with a crooked, uncertain smile.

“Mm.” He grinned back. “Probably unwise to put every paper in the house to a flame to test it. I don’t fancy burning up everything—that’s what happened last time I tried such a trick.” And his mother hadn’t been exactly pleased with him when he’d dropped the candle in shock and burned a hole in her favorite tablecloth either.

“You’ve used invisible ink?”

At the note of pleasant wonder in her voice, Oliver’s grin grew. “With Beth and our brother, Morgan. We were pretending we were pirate princes—and princess—evading our archnemesis in port.”

Her frown twitched a bit at the word princess, but she banished it with a wistful smile. “What fun you must have had.”

Why the wistfulness? “You’ve a sister, haven’t you? And a brother, of course.”

And like pollen on the breeze, her wonder blew right off her face. “Edith never liked the same games I did. Nor, for that matter, did Bram. They played together, but I was always left behind, it seemed.”

Mother never let him and Morgan get away with neglecting Beth—try as they might. “And so you went outside and made a friend of nature instead.”

The way she blinked up at him, clearing the memories from her eyes, said his observation startled her—at least for a moment. Then she relaxed again, even smiling. “I suppose I did. Well.” As if finally realizing how close to him she sat, she scooted away and motioned to a few other items on the table. “I haven’t yet had time to go through all these, but I found them in my room with the other things. I thought at first they were just part of the furnishings, but are they your sister’s?”

Glancing over the collection of papers and books, he could only say the truth. “I have no idea.” Before he could suggest they thumb through it all together, the door gusted open.

And the wind herself blew in.