Oliver Tremayne glanced their way. His gaze snagged on hers for a moment. Didn’t it? Or was he looking at Mabena, or at his grandfather? His mouth hinted at a smile for a fraction of a second. And then he refocused on his men, calling something to them that had them all taking up their oars.

A man nearer to them—Mr. Menna, it looked like—lifted a hand. Shouted something. Dropped his hand. And the oars dug in, pushing the gigs off, away.

The cheering continued until the boats were out of sight, rounding a promontory of land, and then it died down to jocular speculation on who would overtake whom and which lads looked in the better form today.

Libby leaned toward Mabena. “How far do they go?”

“A mile, then back.”

And what were they to do in the meantime? She nearly asked it, had her mouth open to do so, when an answer of sorts seemed to present itself in the form of a rattle of pottery and a voice calling out, “Anyone going to help me, then?”

Libby spun, heels digging into the sand, to see an older woman stopped at the head of the path, where pavement turned to sand, her hand on an overloaded tray. Steam rose alluringly from a massive urn, and stacks of dozens of sturdy mugs told Libby what had been rattling.

Mr. Gibson and another man of a similar age hurried to her, each taking an end of the cart and carrying it down the path with what must be well-practiced ease.

“That’s Mrs. Gillis,” Mabena told her. “She’s been bringing tea down on Wednesday mornings as long as I can remember. We all chip in a bit to help cover the costs—she’s a widow on a pension, her only son a fisherman.”

As the cart passed them, Libby spotted the jar on the lower shelf that had a few florins and pence in it already. She was quite glad she’d stuck a few pounds in her own pockets this morning, anticipating a stop in a bakery on her way to the Abbey Gardens after the race. There were no other paper bills in the jar, but as that was all she currently had with her, she’d just have to slip it in when no one was paying attention.

She followed Mabena toward the cart and, when Mrs. Gillis turned to her with a blink, as if trying to place her, offered a smile. “May I help?” The words tumbled off her lips before she could examine them too closely.

The widow didn’t seem to find anything amiss in it. She just swept a gaze over her as if taking her measure and nodded. “You must be Lady Elizabeth—and a lady ought to know how to pour a cup. You do the pouring, dearover, and Benna and I will pass them around.”