Forget Casek Wearne. Again.
His gaze tracked, as always, to the hill above town, where Tremayne property came into view as it tumbled down into the sea. Well, not that it was technically theirs—the Duke of Cornwall owned all the Scillies. But some long-ago duke had granted the Tremaynes a permanent lease of this little slice of heaven, and for generations it was where they’d all chosen to stay, rather than on the small estate on the mainland that they did own. That other land produced enough in rents and income to provide what Tresco couldn’t. But this was where the Tremayne heart had always belonged.
And that hill was where Morgan had always stood to watch the morning races—or sat, if it was a bad day. He’d always been there, always cheering for whichever team Oliver was on. And when Oliver reached the crest, he’d always say the same thing. “I daresay my little brother is the best athlete in all of Cornwall.”
More brotherly pride than any truth, but Oliver had given up arguing with him long ago. He’d just laugh. Clap an arm around Morgan if he’d been standing or take hold of the handles of his wheelchair if not. They’d go together back to the house, where Mamm-wynn and Beth would be just stirring, where Mrs. Dawe would have breakfast ready on the sideboard.
But Morgan wasn’t on the hill. Would never again be on the hill. And Beth wasn’t inside mumbling about whatever odd dream she’d just had. And Mamm-wynn . . . He frowned when movement on the hillock did catch his eye—the flutter of a shawl in the ocean’s perpetual breeze.
What was Mamm-wynn doing out in the morning damp? Muttering something that was half frustration and half prayer, he kicked his pace from walk to run, feet eating up the well-worn path through the waving seagrass.
She looked like a wren perched there, slight and small and so dainty he was afraid she might just spread her arms wide and let the wind carry her off. His chest squeezed tight, so tight he could scarcely breathe.
What would he do when she left him too?
Not yet, Lord. Please. But she was ninety-five last February. It would happen. Someday it would happen. And how Beth could leave now, knowing how fragile their grandmother had grown—
No, he mustn’t think that way either. His sister had a right to live her life. And if that meant a summer away, rubbing elbows with the incomers visiting St. Mary’s . . . well, he didn’t see the allure. But he prayed every day it would be enough to satisfy her. That she’d come home in September and forget all her fool ideas about needing something more, something bigger, something else.
She was always after the else, Beth was. Despite it always disappointing her.
“Mamm-wynn.” It emerged breathlessly as he crested the hill and neared her.
His grandmother smiled and held out a hand toward him, all delicate bones and paper-soft skin. Her eyes were clear. It eased him some. Until she asked, “Where’s Beth? She isn’t where she ought to be.”
The tightness turned to heaviness, weighing him down until he was sure he’d sink straight through the sandy soil and all the way to bedrock. “She’s just over to St. Mary’s, Mamm-wynn. Remember? She wanted to spread her wings a bit this summer.”
“My little rosefinch, always wanting to fly.” She smiled, though it fluttered down into a frown. “Are you certain she’s there, Ollie?”
“Of course I am.” Though even as he said it, worry slithered through him. She was supposed to write twice a week—it was his one request. He’d sworn he wouldn’t even step foot on the big island from May until September unless it was necessary for business, that he’d give her this semblance of independence so long as she wrote to him every Tuesday and Friday. A quick note to say all was well.
It had been a perfectly reasonable request, hadn’t it? Better, as he’d pointed out, than simply asking all the neighbors who boated between the islands for an update on her.
So why had it been two weeks since her last note?
He cast a gaze in the general direction of St. Mary’s, but glowering at the island wouldn’t make his sister remember her word. So, he wrapped an arm about their grandmother instead and guided her back toward the house. “Let’s get you back inside. I can hear your cup of tea calling to you.”
She chuckled and let herself be led. “All right, dearovim.” Leaning close, she whispered, “You were always my favorite.”
His lips pulled into a smile. She’d always said it to all of them—and loud enough for them all to hear. And somehow, they each believed her too. They were all her favorites, Morgan and Beth and him. Her favorites of all the people in the Scillies, in England, in the world. That was what made their little house here all they ever needed. What had helped Morgan never to rail at how his infirmities kept him home. What made Oliver eager to hurry back during each holiday from university and take up the mantle of the church here, rather than looking for a living elsewhere, when his uncle stepped down four years ago. What made Beth . . .
He sighed at the circuit of his own thoughts. He didn’t know what made Beth do anything these days. Baffling creature. She too had insisted on going to the mainland for her schooling. But why hadn’t her experience taught her all she needed to know about the society to which their father’s family technically belonged? They’d never accept the Tremaynes. They’d always snub them the moment they realized their mother’s side wasn’t quite so sterling. They’d always look down on them for being too much a part of the islands, not present enough in London, their holdings too modest to be of any account. In her year away, she’d only ever made one friend worth mentioning. So why her constant yearning for a Season? Why, why the insistence to get away again this summer?
Mamm-wynn reached over and patted his stomach, hugging him from the side as they walked. “You’re fretting, Ollie. What does the Good Book say about that?”
He breathed a laugh. “Somehow, it’s always easier to quote those passages for another than live it for myself. Especially when it comes to Beth.”
The moment he said her name, he regretted it. Mamm-wynn’s eyes clouded over, and her gaze wandered to the sea. “Where is Beth? She isn’t where she ought to be.”
This time he sighed. “No. She isn’t.” And if she had her way, she’d probably charm some visiting nobleman who was holidaying on St. Mary’s and let him take her away forever, leaving them. Drawn like a moth to some flame he couldn’t even see.
“There you are!” Mrs. Dawe rushed into the garden, worry drawing lines out from her mouth as she came to his grandmother’s other side and gently took her other arm. “You had me right worried, Mrs. Tremayne, vanishing on me as you did.”
Mamm-wynn straightened her spine, raising herself to her full height—all five feet of it. “A lady has a right to take a morning stroll when she wishes.” She cast a mischievous little grin Oliver’s way, which shored up a few of the sagging places in his spirit. “And to watch her boy best those Wearnes in the race.”
Blessed laughter tickled his throat, spilled into the sea air, joined the calls of the gulls cruising overhead. He leaned down to place a kiss on her too-soft cheek. “I had better get ready for the day.” His gaze sought Mrs. Dawe’s.
She nodded, a promise in her eyes. “Go on, then. The missus and I will get settled with some tea and porridge, won’t we, dearover?”