Phoebe dipped her head in assent to sugar and cream as she took a bite of the cake. Margaret then offered her the filled white porcelain teacup.
“Let me help, I can pick it up for you, I have the use of a horse drawn cart and three of the MacLeans escorts with me,” Phoebe said.
Margaret served herself tea and then took a seat in the gently worn chair nearest to the tea table. “Mistress Ames who lives down by the port is our last remaining donor.”
“Mistress Ames? Is she related to Master Ames, who owns the jolly boat?”
Margaret sipped her tea, then nodded. “Yes, indeed. She is his wife.”
“It will be nice to meet Master Ames’s wife. He’s quite a sailor,” Phoebe said.
“It runs in his family, they’ve been sailors going back five generations,” Margaret said, conversationally.
Phoebe’s heart rate picked up as she swallowed, getting ready to put words to a question that had brought her to Margaret’s doorstep. “Did you meet Slade’s betrothed, Sylvia, before she passed?”
Margaret stilled, her teacup pausing halfway to her lips. “Yes, dear. I knew Sylvia. Her mother and I are well acquainted. Sylvia was such a sweet innocent girl, but she took the burdens of the world to heart.”
“How so?” Phoebe said, trying to understand.
Margaret placed her teacup down on the table, seeming to consider the question. “Well, when she was a little girl, she took care of a pair of chaffinches after their mother abandoned its nest. But they were too young, and despite her attempts at feeding them, the poor things perished. She was inconsolable for months and months. She stopped eating. Mistress Willoughby came to see Raghnall asking for help. He went to speak with Sylvia a few times, before he was able to pull her out of her melancholy,” Margaret said.
A twinge of pity sat in Phoebe’s stomach even as something pinched inside her chest. “Was she prone to melancholy?”
“Very much so. She felt too deeply. Mistress Willoughby often tells me her daughter was just too good for the harshness in this world.”
“I imagine Slade loved her very much.” It took a second for Phoebe to realize she’d spoken those words out loud.
“He did. But it was an innocent sort of love, not like the way he loves you, my dear, if the look in his eyes when they fall on you is any indication,” Margaret said.
After the conclusion of tea, as Phoebe finished donning her cloak by the door, Margaret came to stand by her side.
“Have you met Mistress Willoughby before, my dear?”
Phoebe pulled on her gloves, shaking her head. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“She is neighbor to the Ameses. You may very well run into her when you are there.”
The back of her throat tightened. “Oh. Do you think a visit from me will be unwelcomed?”
Margaret shook her head. “I don’t think so, but I thought I’d warn you. After Sylvia died, Victoria … Mistress Willoughby, was bitter and unhappy. She even abandoned her post as governess for one of the Sutherland girls and came to the village to be alone. For a long time she blamed Slade for Sylvia’s death. But recently she seemed to have found some measure of peace.”
Something prickled at the back of Phoebe’s neck. “Why would she blame Slade for Sylvia’s death?”
A look of uncertainty crossed Margaret’s face. “Perhaps Slade should be the one to tell you this … I don’t know the particulars, but Sylvia took her own life.”
“Dear, God.” Phoebe raised her hand to her mouth. Something heavy and cold expanded at her core.
Her heart ached for Slade. Ached for what he must have had to endure. What he must still be enduring. Phoebe leaned back against the doorframe, the air seeming to leave her lungs. She’d never guessed this. She began to understand the reason for her husband’s dark moods.
“But why would Sylvia’s mother blame Slade? Weren’t Slade and Sylvia happy, in love, about to get married?”
Weariness flickered in Margaret’s eyes. “They were in love. I don’t know how or why Sylvia took her life. I suspect only Slade or Victoria know the answer.”
Countless queries swirled inside Phoebe’s head. Why would Sylvia take her own life? Why would Victoria Willoughby blame Slade? The more she learned about Sylvia the more questions she had.
She grabbed her saddle bag from the peg by the door where she’d hung it earlier, then eyed Margaret with a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll return with the donated quilt.”
Half an hour later Phoebe arrived at the port where she and Slade had spotted Master Ames over three months ago. She dismounted from the horse cart with care letting the MacLean’s escorts know she was paying a visit to a friend. The briny, cold wind was stronger this close to the water. It whipped the hem of her skirts and coat about her ankles. A bushy-bearded lanky seaman directed her to a grayish-brown stone cottage with a dark thatched roof a short distance away on a row of dwellings visible from the port.
