Page 24 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)

Amelia found Kipling every bit as perplexing as she had on his very first day at Guilford. But she also liked him quite a lot. And she believed him when he said he wouldn’t abandon her. That was an unusual but rather wonderful promise for her. She might finally have an ally.

“Today, I am grateful for that,” she said.

She was getting ready to go outside and begin work in her garden for the day when Mrs. Jagger came running up the corridor, calling out, “He’s come! He’s come!”

Amelia stopped her and, in as calm a voice as she could, asked, “Who has come, Mrs. Jagger?”

“Mr. Stirling, Miss. He’s come back!”

Her uncle—curse it all.

“It’s not been that long since he was last here,” Amelia said. “I hope he doesn’t expect things to be significantly improved in such a short amount of time.”

“Who can say what him expects?” Mrs. Jagger set her shoulders, though she still looked worried. “Us’ll make the best showing for weselves that us can.”

“I will invite them to take a walk through the garden. It has noticeably improved just since they were last here.” And if they were particularly difficult, she might accidentally take them through a patch of stinging nettle she hadn’t yet cut back.

There was no revenge quite like a gardener’s revenge.

Mrs. Jagger nodded. “Marsh will have they ushered inside and do so impeccably.”

Amelia didn’t know what she would have done if the servants hadn’t remained at Guilford.

She made her way to the drawing room, and standing in front of the small mirror hanging on a wall to one side of the door, she checked her reflection. She needed to make as good an impression as she could, and that meant not looking haphazardly put together.

Her uncle had always thought her red hair something of a tragedy, but she didn’t think he held it against her.

He had, however, shown undeniable embarrassment at her ever-present limp.

Gentlemen who carried walking sticks they didn’t actually depend upon were considered quite sophisticated.

Ladies with a twisted foot who often desperately needed their walking stick weren’t given that same glowing compliment.

Still, her appearance was tidy. And while she wouldn’t ever be declared an unparalleled beauty, she felt she had the air of one who was in charge of her situation and was managing it reasonably well. That was precisely the impression she needed to give.

At the sound of footsteps approaching, she took a deep breath and then another. She leaned on her cane, turned, and faced the door.

Marsh stepped inside and, in the ringing tones of a very proper butler, said, “Mr. Stirling and Mr. Winthrop to see you, Miss Archibald.” He then stepped aside and disappeared.

Mr. Winthrop? She didn’t know any Mr. Winthrop.

Her uncle stepped through the doorway, looking a touch more friendly than the last time she’d seen him.

It wasn’t that he had been particularly unfriendly; his mood simply seemed to have improved.

Beside him was a man likely about his own age, just on the other side of fifty.

His hair was a mixture of light, almost golden, brown and a few wisps of gray.

He was tall, appeared to be one who undertook regular exercise, and was dressed as a gentleman of means and sophistication.

He executed a flawless bow, which she returned with a curtsy.

Her uncle immediately began the formal introductions. “Amelia, this is Mr. Winthrop. He has an estate in the vicinity. I was pleased to make his acquaintance quite recently.”

Quite recently . Something in that declaration made her nervous.

“Winthrop, this is my niece, Miss Amelia Archibald.”

They both expressed themselves pleased to meet the other. And where Amelia felt certain she wasn’t entirely hiding her confusion, Mr. Winthrop didn’t appear to be even attempting to hide his assessment of her.

“Your uncle didn’t tell me you were—” His eyes dropped to her cane for the length of a breath. His mouth twisted, and his brow creased deeply.

Amelia had heard a great many descriptors acknowledging her limp and her difficulty walking. Not all those descriptors were polite. Few were flattering. What would this newly met stranger choose?

In the end, he didn’t choose anything. Mr. Winthrop just turned back toward Uncle Stirling and didn’t say anything further.

After an uncomfortable moment, Uncle Stirling looked at Amelia and smiled stiffly. “I suspect you have been hard at work since I was last here, Amelia.”

“I have been,” she said. “In fact, you would be most pleased to see the progress that has been made in the garden at the back of the house.”

“Your uncle did mention you are fond of gardens,” Mr. Winthrop said.

“I am.”

The smile he gave her was clearly meant to indicate that he felt she would be or ought to be impressed with his memory.

Why her being impressed mattered to him at all, she couldn’t say.

By her uncle’s own description, they were not friends of long standing, and Amelia was a poor relation who, while not mistreated, was of no real importance.

Still, the two gentlemen walked with her toward the back of the house. The clunk of her cane filled the silence among them. At the door in the back, they were given their outer coats to put on, as the weather was still cold.

“I have not had the opportunity to visit Guilford, though it is much spoken of in this area of the country,” Mr. Winthrop said. “‘The Little Sister of Mont-Saint-Michel.’ Watching the sea pull back from the road these past twenty-four hours has been fascinating.”

“Have you been in the village?” she asked her uncle as the three of them walked along the path toward the garden. She did her best to ignore the sound of waves crashing against the island.

“We have. We thought to come out and visit sooner, but the sea was being uncooperative.”

He had returned to the area before today. Odd. Still, he seemed in a good mood, which increased the odds that he would approve of what he saw.

She pushed open the iron gate of the garden, and they followed her inside. She was exceptionally grateful that she had started her improvements in the section most visible from the gate. It meant one’s first impression was a very pleasing one.

“You have made some progress,” Uncle said, looking around. “I don’t know that the rest of it can be completed in the remaining four and a half months, but you’ve clearly worked hard.”

It was a compliment but one steeped in far too much doubt for her peace of mind.

“The house is also seeing improvements,” she said. “Furniture has been restored. Broken balusters and banisters are being repaired.”

Uncle’s mouth tightened in a look of perplexity. “I didn’t realize you had that skill, Amelia.”

“I have hired a carpenter who is making excellent progress.”

Uncle’s brow drew low. “I was under the impression that local people don’t generally like coming out to Guilford.”

Amelia motioned ever so subtly toward Mr. Winthrop. “Clearly, not all local people are unwilling to do so.”

“I am, perhaps, braver than most,” the gentleman said. “They fear that water manipulates time. But I find that to be a great deal of nonsense and choose not to allow it to upset me.”

“Multiple people have spoken to me of that,” she said. “‘Time behaves strangely—”

“—on these waters,” he finished. “I think it is far more likely that people behave strangely here, and the locals wish for an explanation as to why.”

Amelia didn’t think so. She would not have heard tales of the strange happenings on the water from so many people and read it in one of the books in the book room if there weren’t something to it beyond local stubbornness.

Time behaved strangely. Storms brewed suddenly.

The locals gave Guilford and the water around it a wide berth.

It was more than grumblings. But what exactly it was, she didn’t know.

“I’d very much like to go see the Guilford lighthouse,” Mr. Winthrop said. “The day is a clear one. We might be able to spy the dual lights at Loftstone.”

“Let’s trudge over that way,” Uncle said. “Ivers and his wife aren’t the most genial of people, but they won’t refuse to allow you to look around.”

Maybe that was part of the reason Mr. and Mrs. Ivers were standoffish with her—because her uncle was a bit arrogant with them.

They all began walking from the garden, but she spotted Kip-ling a ways off in the direction of his work cottage. The two men didn’t seem to notice him there, which was for the best. She wouldn’t have to answer too many questions.

“While you two make your trek down to the lighthouse, I am going to check on the progress of one of the projects we have here.” She didn’t leave them any opportunity to argue with her but turned on her cane and began making her way down the footpath.

They didn’t follow. She moved as swiftly as her unsteadiness and the unevenness of the path allowed.

She caught up with Kipling just outside the door to his work cottage.

“Mick says there are people on the island,” Kipling said without preamble. “How many have come?”

He’d mentioned before that he expected a great many people to visit the island. She wasn’t certain what had given him that impression.

“It is my uncle and a ... a new friend of his.”

“Oh, I’ve been hoping to talk to your uncle. He oversees all this, I believe you said?”

She shook her head as they walked along the path leading back to the house. “He has control over me, but he doesn’t run Guilford. I do that.”

“The management of all this is very strange. I’m having a difficult time sorting it out.”

“That your confusion stems not from the fact that a woman is in charge of something but rather that you aren’t certain who answers to whom is the strangest thing about it.”

“The strangest thing about this place?” He chuckled lightly. He had a captivating smile. “That is a label that would be difficult to assign with any hope of accuracy.”