Page 89 of To Know Miss May

His smile grew, his eyes squinting delightfully. “Well, if ye wish to o’erhear a conversation, might I suggest givin’ into your wiles and listenin’ to the whole thing? At least then it might save ye from all o’ this grief.”

“I was tryin’ to be a good person,” she defended weakly, his teasing slightly easing the heat from her cheeks.

“And ye ought to be commended for it. But will ye now allow me to explain meself and share why I didn’t deny me sisters when they called ye odd?”

Hearing the word again lowered Livvy’s mood once more, but she nodded all the same. She’d love to hear his reasoning, if only so she could have the chance to prove him wrong.

“First off, there be nothin’ wrong with bein’ odd,” he began.

She sniffed with derision. “Me father would beg to disagree.”

August’s smile disappeared. “There ain’t,” he insisted. “Bein’ odd only means that ye be different from what be expected. Now who wouldn’t want to be that?”

Livvy paused. She’d never thought of it in that way. She’d only ever considered herself bizarre. Strange. An outcast. Like the Mount thought of her—like Father thought of her.

“Furthermore,” August continued, “everyone on the Mount be a little odd in their own right.”

She eyed him dubiously. “As if I could believe that.”

“No, it be true. Name anyone I know, and I’ll share what be odd ’bout ’em.”

She pressed her lips together, deciding to play his little game. “Very well. Your mother.”

She’d caught him out now. He’d never disparage his mother.

But August smiled. “That be an easy one. Me mother can’t ’ave different foods touchin’ on ’er plate, otherwise she won’t eat a single bite.”

Livvy stared, trying to decide if he was in earnest. “Truly?”

“Oh, yes. Nothin’ can touch at all, or she ’as to ’ave an entirely new plate to begin again.”

Livvy tried to picture Mrs. Moon sending away a plate simply because her broccoli touched her fish, but the image nearly sent her into a fit of giggles.

“See? She be quite odd,” August said.

Very well, Mrs. Moon’s little quirk was different. But no one avoided the woman simply because of this little oddity like they did Livvy for hers.

“Who else do ye wish to know ’bout?” August asked next.

Livvy thought for a moment. “Your father?”

Another smile. “’E ’as to begin each mornin’ with a cup o’ tea that be scaldin’ hot. ’E’ll send it back if it be only slightly hot. And ’e won’t start a sailin’ journey on the right. ’E always ’as to start off to the left.”

The load on Livvy’s shoulders began to lift. “Your sisters?”

“Well, I be sure ye’ve noticed Ophelia makin’ up ’er own words. And Portia, well, she can’t abide the color blue.”

“Blue?” That was Livvy’s first favorite color to wear—third favorite color overall. Close behind the lovely shade of grey the clouds turned just before releasing their pent-up rain.

“Yes, blue,” August said. “Now that be very odd. Who doesn’t love blue? I’ve a waistcoat I wear o’ the shade, and she do ’ardly look at me when I don it.”

Livvy continued rattling off people, if only to try to stump August, but one after another, he succeeded in sharing the odd—or rather, different—things about people on the Mount.

Miss Pengelly? She wrote with her left hand and despised sweet foods.

Mr. Cuff? He couldn’t bear his hands to be sticky and always wore stockings to bed.

The other undergardeners? They couldn’t wear stockings to bed.