Bride of a Distant Isle (14 page)

“I would like to find my father, and wish to learn that he did not know he left my mother stranded. I hope that he loves and will be proud of me. And then I will return to my family.”

His vulnerable, honest answer stole my breath once again. He'd had no
papa
, either. I knew he'd entrusted me with something dear. “Your family will surely be happy to see you arrive.”

And I will be sorry to see you leave.

“My mother has an irrational fear that I will marry someone in a distant port and not return,” he answered with a wink. “Lots of sailors' mothers and even their wives fear such! I've promised her I shall not.”

The day, which had taken on the warm luster of the inner shell of an oyster, had now turned to dull, flat white like that shell's exterior.

“Tell me about that.” I pointed to the rooster on his waistcoat to change the subject. “An Englishman would have to be rather daring to wear that as an emblem. It might convey a certain, oh, boastfulness,” I teased. “I cannot imagine that's your intent. I've noticed you have them on all of your . . .” I stopped myself. Now he'd know that I had been examining him carefully each time we'd met.
Temperance, Annabel!

He was a perfect gentleman and did not prod me. “Ah yes, the
serduq
,” he said. This time, I was prepared. I did not let on that I knew what the Maltese word meant. Instead, I tilted my head.

“Rooster,” he said. He pulled back his jacket so I could see it better. I saw a flash of his white linen shirt, too. It had been well tailored to mold perfectly to his body under the waistcoat; he was trim and taut. I convinced myself that I admired him from an artistic point of view, but other models had not stolen my breath.

“I am not afraid to boast when it is called for.” He took my teasing in good spirit. “But in this case it reminds me, each day, of Saint Peter.” I felt very bad then, for entertaining more worldly thoughts when he was thinking of his faith. I firmly redirected my thoughts to the conversation at hand and away from his attire and physicality.

Across the lawn, I spotted Mr. Morgan, who was looking in my direction with a glum, and perhaps angry, visage.

“It reminds me of Saint Peter—the rooster does—the time when Peter denied Christ as the cock crowed,” he continued. “I do not want to fail those who depend on me when it matters most, and so I wear that as a reminder.”

Whispers of his father's betrayal again. Did he even know his father's name?

“I have drawn that very scene,” I said softly. “Not six months ago.”

“May I see it?” he asked.

I did not understand what he meant. “See what?”

“That drawing. I should like to see some of your art.”

I had never shown my art to anyone, save my teachers when I was younger. I kept it in notebooks, as I preferred to work with paper and charcoal. Well, I had given a few pieces away here and there, but rarely. Such as recently, to the young lass Emmeline. Why? Perhaps because like her, I had no voice.

And yet I wanted the captain to see my work. “I shall fetch my notebook.” I walked toward my room, smiling and waving at guests along the way. My heart went out to poor Lady Leahy, who was entrapped in a conversation with Mr. Morgan, but I whispered a silent prayer that she would keep him occupied long enough for me to return to Captain Dell'Acqua unmolested.

I returned and found, to my great relief, that my chair next to the captain was still unoccupied.

I tentatively opened the sketchbook to the portrait of Saint Peter crying in a doorway, alone. I flipped the page and showed the next sketch, of Saint Peter on the beach, joyously sharing a meal of roasted fish that the Lord had cooked for him, restoratively.

“ ‘Feed my sheep,' ” Dell'Acqua said, quoting the scripture passage represented within. “That is exactly what I intend to do. His Maltese sheep, at any cost.”

At any cost.
Edward had often said, in my presence, that every man has his price.

Dell'Acqua turned to me, tucked a piece of stray hair behind his ear, and spoke with passion. “Your art is remarkable, Miss Ashton. I do not say that lightly. It is among the best I have ever seen, and I do not flatter. You have a rare talent—your pictures move and emote. They draw feelings to the surface of the observer, in me. Such talent should not remain hidden.”

“Thank you.” Tears welled, and I looked away, quickly, to regain control lest they slip down my cheeks. To be affirmed in what I most loved, by someone who knew quality art, and in particular . . . by him. Captain Dell'Acqua's hand reached toward me and I thought he was about to take mine in his own. He did not. Instead, he turned the pages of the sketchbook, stopping at the last.

“This . . .” he said. His voice grew sharp. “What is this?”

I turned back to him. He'd found the sketch I'd just drawn, of myself wearing the new cap.

“A cap I found.”

“It's heartening how you've taken to Maltese customs!” He smiled, but his voice shook. “First the engagement necklace; now you're wearing a marriage cap.” He looked skeptical. “You have plans to marry.”

I was shocked, but I kept my voice down so as not to draw attention. “A marriage cap?”

He looked at me, and, I guessed, ascertained that my bewilderment was real.

“Yes, Miss Ashton. Where did you come by this if it does not belong to you?”

He had entrusted me with his feelings about his father, so I decided to take a risk and tell him, on the condition that he kept it to himself.

“I found it in my returned laundry. Tucked in, somehow.” I hoped he believed me. “How do you know it is a marriage cap?”

“Maltese ladies wear a lace bonnet, such as this, when they are married. Widows wear one style, never-married ladies another. This is for a first-married woman. It is most unusual. I have never seen one in England, but they are common, and treasured, in Malta. Perhaps if it's not yours . . .”—he looked at me for confirmation, and I nodded—“it was your mother's? Is there someone you can ask?”

He had not heard about my mother's history. I had to tell him myself, lest he find out from someone else.

“My mother died in a lunatic asylum, Captain Dell'Acqua, when I was four years old.” I distanced myself from him, physically and emotionally. I did not wish to be hurt by his inevitable recoil.

He did not recoil. “I am sorry,” he said, and then he did reach to take my hand in his own. “The circumstances, perhaps . . .”

I nodded, soothed by his acceptance, warmed through by his touch. “Yes. But no one speaks of her. She bore me in unusual circumstances, as you know.” I expected him to nod in agreement, but he did not.

“Perhaps she was married after all,” he suggested, removing his hand from mine, then running his finger over the drawing of the marriage cap. And then he ran his finger over the outline of my face. He touched my face on the paper, but somehow I felt it on my skin. “And this was hers. Now it has made its way to you.”

“Caps cannot just ‘make their way,' ” I answered. But I allowed the possibility to bubble toward the surface, like a swimmer pushing hard from the murky bottom toward the light.

“No, they cannot,” he said, troubled. “And yet . . .”

As for me, I was completely shaken, as though I had fallen over the Edge of the World and found myself sucked into somewhere unknown. Perhaps my mother had been married after all. The necklace. The cap. Why were they appearing now?

If she had been married, my mother had been wrongly maligned for many years. Why hadn't my father come after her? She'd been maltreated by him, and perhaps others—who might they be?—who knew she was married but had hidden or ignored it.

I could restore her honor.

If this were true, then I
must
restore her honor—it would be my sacred duty, something I alone could do. She would not have died insane, of moral madness.
My
mind would no longer be suspected of being of like inclination.

I would be heiress of Highcliffe.

I took back my notebook and wrote
Maltese Wedding Cap
in tiny letters along the bottom of the sketch. “Would you be able to locate the maker of the cap?” I held out a slender hope. Perhaps he or she would remember to whom it had been sold.

Dell'Acqua's face grew somber. “I'm sorry, but no. It looks to be valuable and well made, but there are many crocheted each year. It may be”—he put forward the possibility gently—“that someone simply purchased this as a souvenir, not knowing what it was.”

I nodded. My distress must have shown on my face, because he said, “I will take this sketch back to the ship this afternoon, and ask if anyone recognizes the particular style.”

HIGHCLIFFE HALL, PENNINGTON PARK

LATE JULY, 1851

A
fter some hours of rest, the household stirred again. There was to be Mr. Morgan's entertainment—a surprise—followed by a light supper at midnight. Clementine herself came to knock on my door an hour before I was expected anywhere.

“Mr. Morgan would like to see you ahead of the guests' arrival.”

“Is he not a guest?” I asked.

She nodded. “This is different. I told him he might speak with you in the conservatory. Maud will be along shortly to help you finish dressing.” It was the end of July. Summer would end in a month, and the intimations had been that was when I would be given to Mr. Morgan.

One month.

“Will you accompany me to speak with him, then?” She was the only woman qualified, within the household, to chaperone me. There were times when I, not of the highest status, would not need a chaperone, but when a man wanted to meet with me alone, then, yes.

“The conservatory is glass, and we're all nearby,” she said.

I agreed, for what choice did I have? It was clear, though, that I was not regarded as someone needing the same protection as other highly born ladies.

Maud insisted I wear the lavender gown, and I did not mind, as it showed off my coloring well, and it was a beautiful gown of dusk for midsummer. “You're a midsummer night's dream,” she said, and I found the reference to the Shakespearean play touching.

“You've unplumbed depths, I think,” I told her. “I thank you for the compliment. It gives me courage.”

Neither of us spoke of why I would need courage. I suspected we both knew.

I presented myself within the conservatory, one of Highcliffe's largest rooms. Mr. Morgan waited, sitting on a large sofa that was amply padded and then buttoned down, as was Morgan himself.

“Miss Ashton,” he said. I could see he'd taken pains with his grooming; there were no stains on his clothing and he'd slicked back his hair with tonic or grease. I chose a seat near him but did not sit on the sofa next to him.

“Clementine said you wished to see me?”

He nodded. “As you know, I'm here for a short while, then will return to London to attend to some affairs, and then be back again. While I am away, I would like to remain in your thoughts . . . and heart, if it were possible. As you remain firmly in mine.”

“How kind.” I did not know what else to say. Other than some brief encounters we had shared during my and Edward's childhood and the occasional social event, we had not known one another well. “I had no idea I remained firmly in your thoughts.”

“To quote Madame Necker, I have ‘worshiped you from afar.' I never stopped watching you, Miss Ashton, even when you were unaware.”

I shivered. The evening was beginning to sour. “The rest of Madame Necker's quote, Mr. Morgan, instructs that those whom we worship should remain distant from us lest the contact wither our affections.”

“Not in this case, Miss Ashton.” He withdrew two cases. “My affections for you will never wither, I assure you.” He pressed on. “I have three gifts for you. If you'd be so kind.”

I put up my hand to protest; a lady could not accept anything but the smallest token from a man she was not married or engaged to. He interrupted forcefully. “Everedge said you'd be pleased to accept them and gave permission.”

Edward must have promised me to Morgan. Protocol would require it.

Mr. Morgan continued. “The entertainment tonight is my first offering. I have hired a pantomime troupe to perform.”

Well, that was delightful, in spite of my misgivings. “We'll all enjoy that,” I responded. “Thank you.”

“The story was chosen with you in mind,” he said, leaning forward. I could smell the pitched scent of his piney hair tonic. He took the larger of two wrapped boxes in hand and held it toward me. “Here is the second gift.”

Reluctantly, I pulled the ribbon. It was a wooden chest.

“Open it,” he urged. I did.

Inside I found large chunks of amber, yellow tree resin that had once been sticky and soft and had now hardened and smoothed. I pulled one out. Inside was trapped a mosquito. I worked hard to keep the disgust from my face. The second one held a spider and the third, a small frog, who seemed to have been encased mid-stroke.