Well he knew that his house here was small—that even Truro Hall was small by Sheridan’s or Telford’s standards. Just as he knew that chaps of their ilk usually used the word cottage to describe a small mansion, not the holiday cottages on the islands, which they were more likely to call hovels. But he loved this house. Its every stone, its every tapestry, its every stick of furniture meant home. And as Telford had insulted it all last night, Oliver had bitten back all those clever retorts he’d wanted to make and comforted himself with that knowledge.

This was home. He wasn’t ashamed of it. And if his guests couldn’t appreciate that, then it was their own lack, not his.

“I’ve long wanted to come to the Scillies, you know,” Sheridan said. “Beautiful. Even more beautiful than the pictures I’ve seen. And, of course, the history. I’ve always been intrigued by it. By the islands’ role in England’s history, that is.”

Oliver smiled, pulled out one last weed, and gathered the pile of them together. “They are rich in history, for certain. Pirates, exiled princes—you name it, we’ve hosted it.” He stood and walked the weeds to the compost pile in the corner.

“Have you any books on local lore? And would you mind if I borrowed them, if so? Not that I’d take them when we go, of course. While we’re here, I mean.” Hands in his trouser pockets, Sheridan turned to him again, his smile cloudless.

Oliver returned it easily, glad he’d brought home all of the volumes Beth had apparently borrowed. “You’re welcome to whatever I can find. And if it’s local lore you’re after, I ought to introduce you to my grandfather. He could tell you tales you’d never find in a book.” He chuckled. “Some may even have a kernel of truth in them. Though I wouldn’t wager anything on that.”

Sheridan’s face lit. “Jolly good of you. That would be just the way to pass a few days.” His lips twitched, though he didn’t come right out and smile as he said, “I suspect we’ll be here longer than Telly thinks. I’ve always—if we’re being honest—found his sister to be rather hardheaded.”

“Have you?” Oliver frowned, though he directed it at his dirty hands rather than his companion. He clapped off what soil he could and then fetched his utilitarian teacup—Mrs. Dawe never let him take the fine china outside, of course. He wanted to ask how well Sheridan knew Libby. And why he’d say she was stubborn when Oliver had found her to be anything but. At least about things that mattered. Why, she was the sweetest, most gentle-natured lady he’d ever met.