He glanced up to check the sun in lieu of digging out his pocket watch and getting it dirty. Probably around eight o’clock. He’d finish here and then clean up, and with a bit of luck, he’d miss his guests in the breakfast room. After he finished eating, he’d check on Mamm-wynn again, and by then he should know if Mabena had made the trip or if he should go and fetch them from St. Mary’s. The storm, at least, had blown itself out overnight.

And only the first gusts and droplets had caught them last night—not that Telford had thanked him for it, though Sheridan had made a good-natured exclamation about their providential timing.

The fuchsias weren’t thriving as they should be. Oliver leaned close, examining the stalks, the leaves. Well-eaten by caterpillars, which was no great surprise. He’d fetch some soapy water to spritz on them to deter the insects.

“Well, how nice. Do you always have your morning tea in the dirt? I think I’d rather like that.”

Oliver turned at the voice, glad it was Lord Sheridan who’d just stepped outside and not Lord Telford. His comments last night hadn’t been half as acerbic. And given his way of turning every conversation to the next dig he had planned, Oliver suspected he meant this greeting sincerely too.

He glanced at his teacup to see if anything remained in it. It was as empty as it had been the last time he checked. “Not every morning, but several times a week, yes. Mr. Dawe officially manages the garden, but he’s not as young as he once was, and it’s difficult for him to kneel for so long. And I enjoy it.” Not that he had to defend himself—plenty of gentlemen enjoyed nurturing their own gardens.

Sheridan didn’t seem bent on judging him anyway. He’d meandered over toward the slab of granite in the corner. “Interesting. I was reading about your Abbey Gardens yesterday while we waited for Lady Elizabeth to return. It mentioned a stone that dates from the Druid days, presumably. Are there many such things about?”

“Here and there. Most of the slabs are just thatch anchors.” Not that his roof had thatch. Some Tremayne of generations past had invested in slate. And not that he’d apologize for it if it did.