7

Blessed sunshine greeted Libby on Friday morning when she rose, bringing a smile to her lips and making her jump from bed and fly to the window. She pushed up the sash, breathing in the scents of salt and green life and a world washed clean by the rain she’d been none too happy with yesterday. It had pounded the island all day, keeping her in when all she really wanted was to be out. After Mrs. Pepper left the other evening, Libby had insisted Mabena sit down with her so they could write up a plan, and most of that plan included tasks that required going about St. Mary’s asking after the missing Beth Tremayne. Not sitting at home twiddling their thumbs.

Though to be sure, they’d put their day to use. They’d gone over every inch of the cottage, finding a few more items that were more likely Beth’s than the Peppers’—books on the islands’ history, mostly, that Mabena had thought were from the Tremayne library. At Libby’s insistence, they’d catalogued them, along with the items they’d already sent to Tresco with Mr. Tremayne. She’d even transcribed all the notes in Treasure Island before he left, including the entire fairy tale—not that it had been finished.

Mabena had sighed at the list-making, but in Libby’s opinion it brought a bit of much-needed order to the situation. They now knew exactly what Beth had deemed not important enough to take with her on her task—or, in the case of Treasure Island, what she’d dropped without realizing it, which was Libby’s suspicion. Perhaps that didn’t tell them what she had taken, but it was more information than her brother had when he came here. She glanced again at her transcription of the fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a princess. She lived on an island of rocks and bones, with no one to keep her company aside from the fairies. All her life she’d danced with them to the tunes they played on their magical pipes, the tunes echoed by deep voices from the rock itself. One day, however, the music stopped.

The princess, concerned for her fay friends, set out to find them, only to discover that every fairy on the island had vanished. Far and wide she searched, high and low. In the treetops she found no friends . . . but there was a house in the boughs she’d never seen before, one made of wood creaking and ancient, bearing the name of the fairy king over its lintel. In the pools she found no friends . . . but there was glinting metal winking up at her from the depths, the very shade of the fairies’ eyes. Not to be tempted, the princess pushed onward. In the forest glens she found a wonder that dazzled her eyes. Trees with fragrant bark peeling in fairy-wing curls. Crocuses with petals like fairy gowns. Purple-spiked flowers like fairy crowns. But none of her friends were there.

She kept on, toward the far-looming mountain from whence it was said that all fairies came. But the closer she drew to the rugged rocks, the heavier her feet grew. And the louder came the voices that used to sing along with the fairies’ pipes. The very bones were singing, inviting her to sing with them. She knew, though, that to give in—to sing that song—would mean becoming naught but bone herself.

So heavy were her feet by the time she climbed up the first rock that she could scarcely go any farther, and the winds blew cold now against her. Shivering, the princess tucked herself into a cleft of the rock and cried for her lost friends.

Still, the voices sang. “Look toward the birds,” they chanted over and again. “Look to the birds, Lizza.” The princess tilted back her head and watched an eagle soar overhead. But no help came for her from his widespread wings.

Libby stepped away, trying to shake the words of the story from her mind. She took in one more breath of the lovely air and then spun back toward her room. She’d dress, make a cup of tea, perhaps grab a bite to eat, and then go back to the beach. The day of rain had allowed the slight burn on her nose to lessen, so another day of sun on it shouldn’t hurt too badly—and this time she’d be certain not only to wear her hat, but to keep it adjusted to actually protect her.

She also meant to obey Mama today and greet the other families staying in the cottages dotting the island. Though, granted, not for the reasons her mother wanted her to. Rather, she meant to ask them all if they’d seen or met Beth. Mabena, meanwhile, would begin canvassing the locals in Hugh Town and Old Town, maybe going so far as Little Porth and Trenoweth, if there was time. If not, then Trenoweth and Pelistry would both be her assignment for another day.

It was a fine plan. A helpful one. Mr. Tremayne might have said that they needn’t go out of their way, but he could only be in one place at a time. Surely it would be to his advantage to have them asking questions too.

She dressed quickly and put her hair into a utilitarian braid that the wind wouldn’t be able to ruin in a matter of minutes. Today she meant to test the temperature of the water too. She had a bathing costume packed away, and she wanted to put it to use.

But for now she opened her door as quietly as she could, hoping Mabena had taken her advice and meant to sleep late. She deserved a holiday too, and there was no reason at all for her to be up at the crack of dawn just to assist Libby.

When she stepped into the living area, though, she saw her friend already at the stove, and Mabena greeted her with a grin. “I tried, my lady. It was no use. The sun seemed to work its way through my curtains and find my eyes within minutes of rising.”

She didn’t look at all unhappy with that, so Libby smiled back. “Sly thing. Did you sleep well?”

“Mm. Well enough. You?”

“Perfectly.” She moved to Mabena’s side to measure out their tea. “I mean to go down to the beach as soon as I can so I’ll have a bit of time for collecting before the other tourists arrive.”

“Good. I hate to think that you’ve promised away all your time.” Rather than shooing her from the kitchen as Mrs. Pepper had done on Wednesday night, Mabena handed her a spoon. “I’ll start at the bakery this morning and pick us up a few treats as well. I daresay Beth frequented the place while she was here.”

Libby spooned out the tea leaves and stole a sidelong glance at her friend. “How well do you know her?”

Mabena lifted a single shoulder in a shrug, but somehow it didn’t look quite right. “Well enough, as I do everyone on Tresco, especially those of an age. We always got along. She is, in fact, how I learned to dress hair and whatnot. She provided my recommendation when I applied for the position with you.”

Libby set the spoon down again, frowning at Mabena. There had been a strange undercurrent between her and Mr. Tremayne the other night, to be sure. But not the sort that came of having been employed by his household—that undercurrent was one Libby had plenty of experience with. No, it had been something else. Something she’d told herself not to wonder about.

But she had the hardest time not wondering about things. “I didn’t realize.”

“No reason you should have. What would we like for breakfast this morning?”

And now she was changing the subject. Libby let her, but she filed away the question for later examination. There were questions Mabena clearly didn’t want her asking, and that was all right. She didn’t need to know everything about her friend’s past. But if she was so determined to keep that past a secret, why had she invited Libby to the Scillies for the summer to begin with?

Libby mentally reviewed the contents of the icebox and larder. “That bacon looked lovely. Perhaps with toast and eggs? I intend to do a bit of walking today, so something more than porridge sounds good.”

“Perfect. I’ll handle the eggs and bacon if you would tackle the toast. I’ve a fire lit in the stove already. No electric toaster here, I’m afraid.”

“Not a problem.” Their cook at Telford Hall had been rather excited to get the device last year from a small company in Scotland, but it wasn’t as though they’d even had electricity for most of Libby’s memory. Papa had resisted having it installed, quoting “needless expense” as the reason, but they all knew he just didn’t like making any changes to his ancestral home. Bram, however, had always been one for the latest and greatest. He’d had both the country estate and their London townhouse wired soon after Papa died.

She could rather see Papa’s point though, especially here on St. Mary’s, where so much was as it had been for centuries. There was a charm to the unchanging. To watching and learning the rhythms of nature and seeking to be part of them, rather than to rule them. To gliding over the waters with the help of the wind or oars rather than churning them up with an electric motor.

“I should like to learn to sail while I’m here. I’m a decent hand at rowing already, thanks to our lake.”

Her sudden declaration was met with a moment of silence before Mabena’s clattering of pans commenced again. “And you went from toasters to sailboats how, exactly?”

Libby grinned. “The old ways versus the new. There’s no reason I can’t learn, right?”

Mabena shook her head. “No reason, but don’t get any fool ideas about sailing around by yourself in search of puffins or seals. It takes more than a summer to learn all the waterways.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take you with me on those adventures.” She flashed her another grin. “How do we find a boat? Can we rent one?”

Mabena sighed. “We can, though I daresay we needn’t. My father builds them. I’ve had a small sloop of my own for years, and he’s already promised to get her ready for me. The Mermaid.”

“Oh!” Libby’s eyes went wide. “He builds boats? Fascinating. Could I see his shop sometime?”

Mabena chuckled. “He would be honored to show you about, I’m certain.”

“And we need to see the Abbey Gardens soon. So obviously we should just plan an outing to Tresco.”

“Obviously.” Mabena thankfully looked amused rather than annoyed at the thought of introducing Libby to more of her world. Good. “Perhaps we could even plan to stay overnight. I know my parents would be thrilled.”

“Perfect!”

They chatted about whether the fine weather was likely to hold and what days would be best for that trip while they cooked. An easy, companionable conversation, followed by an easy, companionable silence while they ate.

She’d always liked breakfasts best for this very reason. Even when her company was Bram and Mama instead of Mabena, it was such an easy meal. The one where her brother often had a newspaper open before him to mask his usual morning silence, where they could each come and go at their leisure, where there were no expectations. Certainly no evening gowns or perfectly coiffed hair like at dinner.

When she was finished, she took her own plate to the sink, washed it, and stacked it neatly back in the cupboard with the others. After fetching her notebook, pencil, and hat, she said, “All right, then. Down to the shore I go. Feel free to find me whenever you’re bored of town, Mabena.”

Mabena, still at the table with her tea and the last half of her toast, smiled. “I’ll just look for the girl on her belly in the sand, studying the root systems of the grasses.”

Chuckling, Libby snatched up one of the remaining pieces of bacon for the walk. And then another. “A fine idea.” With a wave farewell, she let herself out and aimed directly for the path down to the beach. She had a feeling she and that path were going to become the best of friends before the summer was over.

“Meow.”

Her feet paused near the garrison wall even as her gaze skittered around, looking for whatever child had made the cat call. And she was a bit surprised to find not a sweet little lad or lass poorly imitating a feline, but an actual feline poorly imitating itself. It was a tiny thing, striped and white socked, its fur matted and scraggly. And when it emitted another “Meow,” Libby couldn’t suppress a giggle. It really did sound more like a person trying to mimic a cat than an actual kitten. “Hello there.”

It came a few steps closer, peering up at her with wide golden eyes. It meowed again, and again as she took another step toward the path. She glanced down at the bacon in her hands. “Ah. I suspect I know what you want. Well, you certainly seem to need it more than I do. Here you are, little darling.”

She broke off a few small chunks of the bacon and tossed it to the kitten, grinning when it scarfed it down as if it were starving. Which, given the ribs she could make out through the fur, it may well be. Poor little mite. She crumbled the rest of the strips and tossed them down a few pieces at a time.

A tabby for certain, she decided as she looked for and found the distinctive M on its forehead. And a lovely one—or it would be, if it weren’t so scraggly. Fur of what she suspected was a nice brown with those dark grey stripes, and white markings under its chin, down its chest, and on two of its four feet. It reminded her a bit of one of the stable cats they’d had when she was younger. Though it had been too wild to ever let her come near and pet it, it had been her favorite one to watch.

“You seem friendly enough.” She crouched down, and the kitten came immediately over to her, trying to climb up onto her knee. It was either too small or too weak to manage it, but she gave it an obliging scratch behind the ears and smiled at the loud rumble of a purr. “Yes, I think you’re simply a stray, not feral. But I’m afraid that’s all the bacon I’ve brought out with me. See?” She showed it her palm.

It licked her, its sandpaper tongue making her laugh again. “All right, little darling. I’m going down to the beach. But if you’re still here when I come back, I’ll see what else I can find for you to eat. Hopefully when Mabena’s not at home. She prefers dogs,” she said in a stage whisper, just in case her voice was carrying toward the open windows of their cottage. She stood again, after placing the kitten’s paws back on the ground.

“Meow.”

Still smiling, she started down the path, not exactly surprised when the meowing followed her. But the kitten would no doubt tire of the walk and turn back to the shelter of the grasses it must have been hiding in, so she pressed on. And though she caught glimpses of the little tabby several times as she catalogued the flora and fauna over the next couple hours, it did indeed seem more inclined to the grass than the beach.

Around midmorning, her solitude evaporated into the wind-blown laughter and shouts from other holiday-goers bent on seizing the sunny day after twenty-four hours of rain. Though she sighed a bit, she also told herself that this was exactly as she had planned. She could do this. She didn’t really want to . . . but it wasn’t about her. It was about Oliver Tremayne and his missing sister.

Closing her notebook and tucking her pen into her pocket, she started toward the nearest cluster of people. A woman who looked a decade or two older than Libby, sitting in a chair that a man she guessed to be a servant had carried down for her. An older man—the woman’s husband, most likely—was setting up a badminton net, the wind carrying to her his boasts that he’d “show the young pup how it was done.”

The “young pup” was a lad of about twelve, by her estimation, who was grinning and playing a game of keeping the birdie in the air with his racket. A girl, perhaps eight or nine, was on her knees in the sand, happily digging, while another woman—a nanny, most likely—tried to put a discarded hat on the girl’s head.

A normal family, by all appearances. Nothing to make her stomach clench. Libby made certain her feet kept to their easy, strolling pace and took her near to the mother. What was she really to do though? Just stop at her feet and say hello? Demand to know who she was? If she knew Beth Tremayne? Or the Sinclair family?

It had sounded so simple on paper last night when she made the plan. But when put to the test, Libby never had the faintest clue how to interact with the people who were supposed to be her peers.

The woman, however, didn’t seem to have the same problem. She was calling out a cheerful “Good morning!” the moment Libby was close enough.

Smiling back was not difficult. “Good morning.” She paused a polite distance away, making a show now of surveying the scene. “A lovely day for a family outing, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’s perfect! I’m so glad I convinced my husband to get us out of Manchester for the summer.” The woman stood and came nearer. “Mrs. Giles Haversham. Victoria.”

“How do you do?” Libby opened her mouth, ready to give Mrs. Haversham the same name she’d given Mrs. Pepper. But no. If she wanted to be the best possible help to the Tremaynes, she had to earn people’s trust. And, dash it to pieces, she’d do that better with her title. “I’m Lady Elizabeth Sinclair.”

And indeed, the woman’s eyes flashed brighter. “How do you do? Newly arrived on St. Mary’s with your family?”

Libby nodded, not bothering to correct her on the “with your family” bit. “Have you been here long?”

“Just since Monday, but it’s a charming place.”

She wouldn’t have encountered Beth at all then. Double dash it. “It is indeed. My maid is from Tresco, so I’ve made her promise to play tour guide for me. Though I was also hoping to find a few other holiday-goers who had been here longer and could tell me which spots they’ve most enjoyed.”

There—that was a rather skillful fishing for information, wasn’t it? As subtle as any of the drawing room conversation Mama had tried so desperately to teach her.

“You may want to talk to the Myer family, then. They’re letting a house to the north and have been here since May.”

Perfect. She chatted a bit longer, until the little girl called her mother over to show her the haphazard sandcastle she’d built, and Libby seized the opportunity to wish them a good day and walk on.

She introduced herself to six more neighbors over the next two hours, and it got a bit easier each time to approach the lady of the family and say hello. They were all friendly enough, though none had been here more than two weeks. And the Myers, she discovered when she happened across their next-door neighbors, were already gone for the day, having hired a boat to take them to St. Martin’s for some bird watching.

Bird watching. Her heart thrilled at the mere mention. She’d have to make time for that at some point as well.

Walking back wouldn’t take nearly as long as walking this far had done, since she wouldn’t feel the obligation to do more than wave a cheery greeting at all the people she’d just met, so she decided to press on a bit farther, past the Myers’ cottage. She’d go so far as that stone one up ahead and then—

“Libby? Lady Elizabeth, is that you?”

She froze, telling herself she was surely imagining the familiarity of the voice. Though of course she wasn’t, because otherwise how would the voice have known her name? But really, what were the chances that Charlotte Wight was here, now?

Very good, apparently, as proved by the young lady who ran toward her, laughing, arms outstretched, as if Libby were the very dearest of long-lost friends. She drummed up a smile but didn’t manage to get her own arms raised before Lottie swept up to and over her like the tide, crushing her in an embrace.

“I can’t believe it!” the young lady squealed directly into her ear. “It’s been ages! You look just the same though.”

From anyone else from the finishing school where Libby had met her, it would have been a catty insult—young ladies weren’t supposed to emerge “just the same” as they were when they matriculated. But Lottie hadn’t a cruel bone in her body. Libby had to grant her that much.

Lottie didn’t, however, give her any more time to reply than she ever had. Laughing, she linked their arms together. “I was just telling my mother how I hoped I’d find a friend, because otherwise this was bound to be the most boring summer in history. Well. Not the most boring.” She leaned close, her blue eyes twinkling. “There’s some rather pleasant company to be found of the gentlemanly sort. Lord Willsworth and his cousin, Mr. Bryant, are here. You know them.”

Did she? There was a possibility, she supposed, that they’d met in London during the Season. “Er . . .”

“Willsworth is a viscount. He’d be a perfect match for you, now that I think about it. He’s a patron of the sciences—you’re still interested in that nonsense, I suppose?” Wheeling them about, Lottie led her toward a cluster of chairs and a giant umbrella, under which Mrs. Wight was stationed, her nose in a book. “I prefer his cousin anyway. Mr. Bryant is positively dreamy—and worth more per annum than his cousin, though he doesn’t come with a title. Your family, I think, would prefer the viscount. Which is absolutely perfect. Unless.” She halted again and turned eyes now wide on Libby. “Is your brother here with you?”

Given that Lottie actually paused for a response this time, Libby cleared her throat. And felt as though her words emerged at a crawl, compared to the breakneck pace of Lottie’s. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Lottie’s lip poked forward into an exaggerated pout for a second, then she laughed again and tucked back a strand of mahogany hair that the wind had teased free. “Of course not. He’s no doubt in London for the Season proper. It’s just as well. As big a coup as it would be to land an earl, I should probably be more reasonable than that. Neither my dowry nor my name is likely enough to interest your brother.”

Libby just blinked at her. Truth be told, she had no idea what might interest Bram in a future wife. He’d been far more concerned these last two years with finding someone willing to put up with her for the rest of her life. She’d been an utter failure last Season. And the Little Season this spring hadn’t gone any better. She’d begged Mama and Bram to stay at home after they returned to the country for Easter. Her mother had been happy to visit Edith instead, and Bram would simply travel to and from London whenever he wanted to be there for Parliament.

As for what of that to say to Charlotte Wight, she had no notion.

But Lottie never minded that Libby hadn’t a clue how to keep up with her conversation. In fact, Libby had always suspected that was why the talkative girl had latched on to her during their shared year at the academy. Libby was one of the only ones who didn’t fight her for a part in the conversation.

She was also always so exhausted by her after an hour that she’d hidden from one of her only friends at school more often than she was comfortable admitting. But really, when only one side did all the talking, could they even properly be called friends? Lottie knew precious little of her, other than that she was fond of “that science nonsense.” And that she had an earl for an older brother. The thing all of society most cared about, it seemed.

“But now the summer is absolutely perfect,” Lottie was saying, unhindered as usual by Libby’s lack of participation. “Mother, look who I found wandering the beach! Lady Elizabeth Sinclair! You remember Libby, don’t you? From the Château Mont-Choisi?”

At the name of the elite finishing school that Mama had forced Libby to attend for a year, Mrs. Wight looked up from her book with bright eyes. “Oh, of course! How do you do, Lady Elizabeth?”

“Very well, thank you. How do you do?”

Before her mother could answer, Lottie had started up again. “Mother and I were just talking about the dinner party we’ve been planning for ages—it’s a week from tomorrow. You must come. Mustn’t she, Mother? She can be Lord Willsworth’s partner. Mother was terribly worried that we hadn’t anyone to pair with him, but this solves everything!”

Her head was starting to spin. A dinner party? No, no, no. This was not what she’d come to the Isles of Scilly for. The very opposite. “Oh, I—”

“Sinclair, did you say?” Mrs. Wight straightened in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “Lady Telford’s daughter, correct? Why, I had a wire from your mother just this morning, dear, saying we ought to find you, that you were holidaying here as well. She heard that we were here from a mutual friend, it seems.”

Libby sighed. Leave it to Mama to discover that even before Libby could, from hundreds of miles away.

Lottie was still grinning. “Where are you staying, Libby? I’ll walk back with you so we can plot and plan. Is that all right, Mother?”

Mrs. Wight was already looking back at her book. “Of course, dear. And you know well she may come to absolutely anything we host—I insist upon it, as a matter of fact.”

“Perfect. Come.” Their elbows still locked together, Lottie spun them around and started them back the way from which Libby had come. “This direction, I assume?”

“Yes.” She didn’t really want to tell Charlotte Wight where she was staying. She’d learned the mistake of that when she’d shown Lottie her room at the Château. Once Lottie knew where to find her, there was never any guarantee of peace within the walls. But what help was there for it? Mama would no doubt wire Mrs. Wight the information if Libby didn’t supply it herself. “One of the cottages along the garrison wall.”

“They’re sweet, aren’t they? I’ve walked this way and was admiring them. We rented those three there. I must say, I’m highly enjoying the whole island—or what we’ve seen of it. We’ve been here only a week. We’d been in London since the new year, but Mother was tiring of it, and Father said there was as much to be accomplished here as there.” She giggled, bumping their arms together. “He meant Mr. Bryant. We’d been introduced in late February, but he’d already been planning to summer here. Quite an avid sailor, you see, but he doesn’t much like the motorized versions his set has taken to racing.”

Libby was tempted to pray for an escape, though she wasn’t quite sure the Lord would respect such a prayer. Why, oh why, hadn’t Lottie already found another friend whose ear she could chatter numb?

“Do you know Lady Emily Scofield?”

Suspecting she’d missed whatever sentence or two connected the current question to the talk of sailing, Libby shook her head. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but she was fairly certain she hadn’t made her acquaintance.

“Oh, I suppose you didn’t meet her at the Château, since you only stayed a year. She came in the next year, and our paths have crossed a few times in London since then. Great patrons of the British Museum, the Scofields—and she’s very pretty, and of course well dowried, so I expect she’ll land whomever she fancies. But at any rate, she has another friend from a finishing school she attended before she came to Switzerland who’s actually from here. Well, not here, St. Mary’s. But here, the Scillies. She told me I ought to make her acquaintance, but I’ve had quite a time of it. Miss Beth Tremayne.”

Though Libby’s attention had wandered a bit through the initial talk, Beth’s name drew her back with a jolt.

Which Lottie clearly noted, given that she hushed for half a second and turned her frank blue eyes on her. “Do you know her?”

“I’ve . . . met her brother.” Twice, she nearly said.

“No! Which one?”

Libby’s brows knotted. Had Mr. Tremayne mentioned a brother Wednesday night? Yes, that was right. One named Morgan, who had played pirate prince and princess with him and Beth. “Mr. Oliver Tremayne. The clergyman.” The Botanist. The one who could pull her deepest heart to the surface with one well-aimed question and then look straight to her very soul.

Lottie nodded. “The younger. Well, now the only one. The older one passed away a few years ago, I’m told, but I didn’t know when you may have met him. Quite a curious family.”

She oughtn’t to encourage the gossip. She could hear Mabena in her head even now, scowling over the audacity of a stranger thinking she knew anything about an islander she’d never even met. And it took only a syllable to get Lottie really going. But curiosity burned like the sun on the sand, making an “Oh?” emerge before she could stop it.

Lottie leaned closer. “They’ve an estate in Cornwall, you know—not very large, but well enough situated that the Tremaynes have always been somewhat accepted in society, when they choose to enter it. But they haven’t often, not for generations. They’ve been here instead. From what Emily said that Beth told her, once upon a time they had a connection with the Lord Proprietor himself. Or was it the Duke of Cornwall? At any rate, their family was granted a permanent lease of a plot of land near the Tresco abbey, and ever since then, they’ve been here more than on their actual estate on the mainland.”

While Lottie paused for breath, Libby said, “What’s so odd about that?” She certainly couldn’t blame them for staying on these beautiful islands.

Her friend gave her a look of complete shock. “They’ve scarcely been to London in decades! The current Mr. Tremayne’s father, you see, didn’t marry a gentleman’s daughter—he married an islander. Which was frowned upon by fashionable society.”

Lottie walked as fast as she talked, and already Libby could see the familiar lines of the garrison wall. “I don’t see why that’s all that curious either. Such things happen.”

“Not outside the pages of one of Mother’s novels—not very often, anyway. But regardless, he married this local girl, and they had three children. Morgan was the eldest son, then the one you met, Oliver. And Beth was the youngest. Then, a few years ago, the parents were killed when a storm came up suddenly and caught them out at sea. Their boat went down.”

The wind snatched the breath right from Libby’s lungs. “No!” So that’s what Mrs. Pepper had meant when she mentioned how Beth wasn’t like their parents. And now she was missing, after last being seen climbing into her boat? Oh, Mr. Tremayne must be an absolute wreck of worry, though he’d done an admirable job holding himself together.

Lottie nodded. “The older brother is a bit of a mystery, Emily said. Beth would never talk much of him, and he never once stepped foot on their estate in Cornwall, despite being the heir. He always sent the younger in his place.” She gave an exaggerated shiver though the sun was warm and the story far from spooky. “I asked around a bit, and there’s talk of him having been deformed. Like Quasimodo, perhaps. His family was clearly ashamed of him.”

No, that couldn’t be right. Libby couldn’t imagine Oliver Tremayne ashamed of his brother, no matter what he might look like. The eyes that had drilled down to her soul hadn’t been capable of looking on his own flesh and blood with anything but the deepest love. She was sure of it. “Charlotte.”

The use of her full name, Libby had found during their shared year of finishing school, was able to pull Lottie back better than a longer chide ever could.

“Well, what better explanation do you have for why the eldest son and heir would never have anything to do with his own business? The younger went to university and joined the church as expected, but he never spoke of his older brother. Why, I ask you?”

“Perhaps,” said a harsh voice from before them that made Libby look up with a jolt, “because he wouldn’t sully the thoughts of his saint of a brother with such vitriol as your sort would offer.”

For a moment, she scarcely recognized Mabena, snarling as she was, with her hat held in her hands instead of fastened in place, and curls wisping all around her face. But it was definitely she who stood before them. Clearly having come to look for Libby. And clearly having heard at least the last bit of their conversation, over which she was even more annoyed than Libby had known she could be.

Charlotte, of course, didn’t look chastised. She just lifted her chin. “And who are you?”

“Someone who knew Morgan Tremayne from the day I was born, that’s who. Someone who can tell you, as could any soul on the islands, that never was a kinder, more generous-hearted man ever born, unless it be his younger brother.” Mabena lifted a finger and poked it in Lottie’s general direction. “Shame on you for speaking so of the dead. You want to know why he never left the island? Because he couldn’t, that’s why. His health was too fragile. As if he were the only gentleman ever afflicted so! And you, to sully his good name on account of an ailment he couldn’t help! I say again, shame on you. On both of you.”

Though the words only made Lottie bristle, they cut Libby to the quick. She hadn’t said anything bad about Morgan Tremayne. She’d in fact been defending the whole family in her thoughts and one-word rebuke. But there was no deterring Charlotte Wight from conversation. How could she be blamed for merely being present while she gossiped?

All the same, she knew well if it had been the Botanist standing before them now rather than a neighbor of his, he’d be looking at her in just that way. And the thought of it made her chest go so tight she could hardly draw breath enough to say, “Moon, please. Charlotte meant no harm.”

For the first time in fifteen minutes, Lottie released her arm. “You know this . . . person, Libby?”

“She’s my maid.” The words felt wrong. Why, when they were true? When Mabena wouldn’t want to be introduced as a friend? But all the same, she felt the chafing of it. To Mabena she added, “Charlotte said a friend of hers—Lady Emily Scofield—recommended she find Beth while she was here this summer. Lady Emily and Beth are friends, it seems.” She hoped Mabena would hear in it that this was the real reason she’d been listening. That was her whole purpose today, after all. To find anyone who might have met Beth. And while Lottie hadn’t, it still seemed significant that she, too, had been searching for her.

Because if there was one thing Lottie was proving even now, it was that she was an expert at finding out all the gossip to be had about a person. That could be useful—though tricky to determine which parts were true.

Mabena didn’t soften any. “Given what she clearly thinks of the family, I’m surprised she’d deign to obey her friend’s advice.”

Lottie crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, sometimes we must keep company with people we’d rather not, when there’s no other option. Right, Libby?”

Though it may in fact have been true—and accurately explained their friendship—she clearly meant Mabena now, and the fact that Libby was “forced” to keep company with her. But never in a million years would she agree.

Her stomach ached. “Please don’t.”

Just like that, Lottie shifted back to her usual smiles, arms falling to her sides. She even laughed as she turned to face Libby. “You never were one who could handle conflict, were you? Or disapproval. Even from your maid, it seems. How did you survive in London, Libby?”

She wrapped her arms around her stomach, notebook still clutched in one hand. “Badly.”

“Hence, I suppose, while you’re summering here instead. Well.” She took a step backward. “I’ve no need to get in a row with a domestic. You can deal with her impertinence as you will—or probably not, knowing you. I will get an invitation to you for the dinner party. You did bring a few appropriate gowns? Lord Willsworth favors greens, I think.”

As if Libby had ever in her life dressed to please a man. Well, other than her father. And brother. But they hardly counted. She had to please them at least a bit in order to be let out of the house—and getting out of the house had always been part of the agreement for what she was allowed to do when back in it. Balls and soirees in exchange for microscopes and slides.

Devious men.

To Charlotte, she simply nodded. She would worry with viscounts and dinner parties another day. For now, she’d try not to burst into flame under Mabena’s continued glare.

Her friend scarcely waited until Lottie was out of earshot before spitting out, “You know that person?”

Maybe the ache in her stomach wasn’t dread and fear. Maybe she just needed lunch. She stepped past Mabena. “We were at finishing school together in Switzerland.”

Mabena snorted her opinion of that. “And you let her fill your ears with such rot as she was spewing about Morgan Tremayne?”

“There’s no stopping her from talking, and it wasn’t as though I knew what she was going to say. I was only . . . I said I’d learn what I could. I thought maybe she’d found something useful, since she was looking for Beth too.”

A snort was Mabena’s only answer. They trudged in silence back up the beach, nothing companionable about it now. By the time they reached their path, even the too-perfect “Meow” and the emergence of a cute little striped face couldn’t quite make Libby smile fully.

Mabena hissed. “Shoo. Go away, kitty.”

Instead, the little darling fell in beside Libby, lunging playfully at her feet and then tumbling away. It drew out a breath of a laugh, despite the clenching of her stomach.

Mabena sighed. “You fed it your bacon, didn’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, so why bother answering?

“Fabulous. You’ll never get rid of it now.”

“Really?” Perhaps she oughtn’t to have sounded so happy about it. It made Mabena roll her eyes and storm ahead. But the kitten let Libby pick it up and cuddle it under her chin. So it was worth it.