Bride of a Distant Isle (23 page)

I
spent the week helping Albert draw the simplest things, pinching sweets for Oliver and Emmeline with a few thrown in for myself, and paging through ladies' periodicals with Clementine. Edward had decided, now that the investments with the Maltese and the Somerfords were almost settled, that a few more dresses appropriate for our station were in order. It brought such joy to be true friends, almost equals, with Clementine, and she herself ran to fetch me the moment the post arrived with the latest fashion magazines.

We drank tea together and made our fabric choices; our coloring was so different that we would never overlap. She had Maud arrange for the dressmaker to visit. I noticed that Clementine had cheered. Now that those arrangements seemed securely in place it seemed Highcliffe might be saved; Clementine had therefore taken an even firmer interest in its housekeeping. She'd had Chef tint sugar cubes to match the china, and had little roses pipetted upon them. One afternoon while fetching some caramels I tarried in the stillroom—what fun!—and tinted some cubes myself, pink with strawberry essence, orange with neroli. Neroli, I thought, would make an especially pleasant addition to Earl Grey tea, with its bergamot notes.

It was a pleasant time, and this week held a particular pleasure of its own.

The
Poseidon
had docked.

T
he Chinese dragon clock on the mantel in my room ticked by the quarter hour, then the half hour. I was still in my dressing robes. With less than an hour to go, I left my rooms and began to make my way down the vestibule. Maud had not come to attend to me. I hoped I should not meet anyone in the hallway, especially Mr. Morgan, who was staying in the west wing for a day or two, and I drew my robe more tightly around me.

As I approached Clementine's door, I heard Edward's voice, raised, through the heavy oak. “You mean to greet my guests dressed like that? This isn't Dorset, Clementine. Our negotiations are coming down to the final few weeks, and I want to project an air of competence and worldliness. That's why the whole world has gathered in London for the Exhibition. To see what we English can do, and for my part, I mean to show them.”

Come now, Edward
. I freely rolled my eyes as no one was about.
The whole world?
Dorset was lovely, and his dealings seemed secure.

His voice continued. “Mother was right. I'd prefer our guests see my wife, and their hostess, as the town mouse, not the country mouse, if a mouse she must be.”

That was unfair. Clementine was a fine hostess, and had come up with the St. James celebration ideas on her own. Why didn't she speak up for herself?

I felt shame blush from my scalp to my toes.
Why indeed, Miss Ashton. If it's so simple, speak up and refuse Mr. Morgan.

I heard high-pitched pleading and then silence from Clementine, and quickly returned down the hallway lest Edward find me eavesdropping. I should, I gathered, have to prepare myself for the evening.

I thought about summoning Mrs. Watts and then changed my mind. A few of my things had been rearranged in my absence. Someone had been minding my business.

Dinner went smoothly, and although I did not exchange lengthy conversations with Captain Dell'Acqua, I glanced his way several times; each time I did I found him glancing my way, smiling widely with a look I knew somehow, as a woman will, had been reserved for me. Had Mr. Morgan observed this? If he had, he did not disclose it as he was deep in conversation with Lord Somerford, who in turn seemed more reserved this evening than I'd seen him before. I hoped all was progressing smoothly. Perhaps Edward was right to be worried.

After dinner, I spoke lightly with Captain Dell'Acqua about his “England lessons” and he promised he would soon agree to be lectured on customs and concerns. I smiled; we'd kept everything proper and superficial, but the feelings ran deeper. Mine did, anyway, though perhaps I should not have let them. And then we ladies withdrew to the drawing room to take tea, and the men retired to the smoking room for cigars and port.

Lady Somerford and Elizabeth took the sofa, two other ladies, wives of men who had come for the evening, seated themselves in the chairs near the window, and Clementine and I sat across a small table from one another. I lifted the lid to the honey container, brought in on a tray, and saw it was nearly empty. How odd, and unlike Mrs. Watts. Captain Dell'Acqua had not yet had time to send more round, I guessed, but local honey could have done.

Next to Clementine's saucer was a small plate of sugar cubes, the ones lightly tinted green with, I thought, mint, to match the china. I should have brought up some of the neroli-tinted ones. I dropped three into my tea and hoped that would be enough. Then I dropped in one more.

Clementine looked at me strangely but said nothing, turning back to focus her attention on our guests. She looked overdressed in the multitiered creation Edward had insisted she wear, like an elaborate wedding cake set out for simple afternoon tea.

The tea tasted very odd indeed. Within five minutes my head started to feel light and a strange, tingling sensation burned in my lips, almost as when one's hand tingles if it's been laid upon all night. The words around me began to run together a little, like a hum from which no distinct word could be parsed. I gripped the chair's arm and finished the rest of the cup of tea, hoping it would help. It did not. Five more minutes brought a sense of pressure to my chest, a swimming sensation in my mind. I hoped that my heaving efforts to breathe deeply were not noted.

I stood, but as I did my legs buckled some and I began to sway. I heard Elizabeth speak to me, but I could not make out what she'd said. Lady Somerford stood then, too, and I found, somehow, the presence to speak. “Please, be seated—I'm well.”

Had I slurred my words? Clementine looked truly alarmed, and though I felt ill, I could imagine the thought running through her mind was,
What will Edward think?

I heard someone, I could not see who, whisper,
“Her mother.”

Had someone really whispered that? Or had I imagined it? In my present state, I could not be certain.

I excused myself politely and raced unsteadily down the hall. Unfortunately, I had to pass the smoking room in order to get to the stairway. Captain Dell'Acqua was speaking with Mr. Morgan and Edward, whose backs were toward me. Dell'Acqua saw me sway, I think, and looked alarmed. Mr. Morgan turned around just as I tilted toward the wall. He seemed to be walking toward me. I could not allow that.

I disappeared into the servant's staircase and as I did, saw Father Gregory and Chef speaking at the foot of the stairs. What was the priest doing here? Or had I imagined that, too?

“Are you all right?” Chef called up to me. I hoped from that distance he would not be able to see the panic and confusion I felt.

“Yes, just a little unwell,” I said, offering no reason for my being on the back stairs. I climbed up and out of their sight. I did not wish to be found until I could come to an understanding of what was happening to me. Instead of stopping at the floor where my rooms were located, I made my way to the top of the narrow passage and slipped into the blessedly quiet quarantine room.

I closed the door behind me. Clementine would find it difficult to excuse herself from her guests for some time. I went to the window, which was chilled from the night air. The stained glass brought me comfort, and pressing my face against the panes cleared my mind.

What had happened? The confusion was, thankfully, receding, but I remained frightened. Was it the first vestiges of the madness I always feared?

I thought back over the evening. I'd felt fine until . . . the tea. The tea in which I'd dropped sugar cubes that had been tinted green, but did not taste of mint but rather, licorice.

Absinthe!

I breathed a deep sigh. I had not gone mad. I was
not
mad. In fact, I had imbibed of three—no, four—doses of Clementine's green fairy. So this was how she took her spirits when she wanted no one to know. In sugar cubes. And that was, perhaps, why Maud had been so keen to tend the condiments.

I nearly cried with relief that it all made sense. I'd always disbelieved those who said I must be inclined toward instability because my mother was, but this night, this hour . . . I had worried. I admitted it. And why shouldn't I have? They'd been so apprehensive about my mother's madness contaminating us all that they'd left her to be buried, unrecognized, in the asylum grounds. At that moment, I was overwhelmed by that truth, her left alone and unrecognized, unmarked and unremarked. It was not fresh news but now, understanding what she must have felt, I pitied and loved her the more for their thoughtless gesture, one that had left her bereft and alone at the end.

I let my spirits settle and then with my head clear decided to take a moment and look through that magnificent desk once more because, perhaps, it may have been hers or at least used by her during her enforced isolation. I pulled open one drawer after another, only to find them all empty. I ran my hands down the sides of the desk and my palm caught, on one side, on a tiny hinge. I ran my finger round that whole side and found a perfectly crafted little lock. When I flipped it, a door swung open. I pressed hard, and when I did, something fell out.

A miniature sketchbook.

I sank to the floor, hard crinoline crunching round me, picked up the book, and then opened it.
Julianna Ashton
was scrawled on the inside of it, and nearly every page was filled with sketches—glorious renderings, I had no doubt, drawn by my mother. I quickly flipped through them, promising myself I would savor them, as they deserved, later. The very last sketch was done in a child's hand, but it showed promise. Underneath the small trio of feebly stemmed tulips my mother had written,
Annabel drew this. Isn't it lovely?

A sob caught in my throat. My first drawing, with my mother. Together. I wanted to keep the notebook but dared not, not yet. Not until I could find a safe place to keep it. I could hardly clip it to my garter; it was too heavy. I had never owned anything of my mother's and now, within the span of the four months since I'd returned from Winchester, I'd been gifted with many things. I could not bear to lose any of them.

I took a deep breath, then slipped the notebook back inside the concealed side panel. I had not easily noticed it and hoped no one else would, either. The dust in the room had not been disturbed since my last visit. I heard a little buzz and leaned near the speaking tube. The guests were preparing to depart. The tube sent up voices, men's voices, from the first-floor hallway. One man made a comment about the ends justifying the means and that it would be well and profitable for all involved. It sounded conclusive and somehow wrong. What ends? What means? I opened the door to the room and started walking down the steps, then turned down the hallway toward my rooms. As I did, I noticed Mrs. Watts coming from the area just outside my door.

I looked at her quizzically.

“Are you quite well?” she asked, noting I had come from the servants' stairway. Was her brusque question to distract me from the fact that she'd been in my rooms—if she had been—or was the question due to my “episode”?

“Yes.” I took the offensive. “I'm surprised to see you about at this hour.”

“The household is my responsibility,” she said smoothly. “Mrs. Everedge is looking for you.”

“She may find me in my rooms,” I said, and then nodded a dismissal.

I was not in my rooms long before Clementine knocked.

“What happened?” Her face reflected genuine apprehension and confusion. “Mr. Morgan was most concerned.”

If only I could act insane long enough for Mr. Morgan's interest to move on, I would do it. I knew what the consequences of
that
would be, however, better than most. And he'd likely find it “interesting.”

“I was unwell, but for a short while,” I said. “After the tea.” I could hardly accuse her of saturating her sugar cubes with spirits. I knew it was probable, but it was also probable that she'd deny it.

Clementine did not venture farther into the room, keeping a distance between us. “But you've recovered.”

“I have.” Had Mr. Morgan alone asked after me? I was afraid I'd shamed myself in front of Captain Dell'Acqua. To his knowledge, I had already bowed out of dinner once due to being unwell. “I hope I did not disturb your guests,” was all I could say, and hoped she would shade in the outline.

“The ladies thought you had . . . taken ill,” she said. “Lady Leahy did ask me to offer departing greetings; she returns to London on the morrow. She'll be back for Christmas, so there's that to look forward to.”

I nodded.

“None of the gentlemen save Mr. Morgan seemed to notice your sudden and unusual flight,” she continued. She backed to the door. “Good night, Annabel. I truly hope the morning finds you recovered. The gentlemen plan to spend the day at the ropewalk, but will return the day after next.”