Bride of a Distant Isle (27 page)

T
he macaroni twisted itself into fresh loops in my stomach as I placed my hand on the door handle to my room, deciding,
Should I risk it?
I knew I must.

I tiptoed down the silent, dark corridor. Long tables fronted each side of the hallway, some with oriental vases newly filled with fresh flowers, a sign of the loosening of Edward's purse strings. I was careful to walk right in the middle, so I did not brush anything to either side; as well, the floors were less likely to squeak in the center.

It did put me more at risk of being seen, however. I could not duck into a wall should someone open a bedroom door.

The back staircase beckoned; I gently pushed the door into it, and it gave way easily. I made my way up a flight and then two.

Someone caught and held me! I was pinned in place!

I stopped and steadied myself. My head was still not quite right yet. I turned and looked behind me. No one. I exhaled slowly, and then looked down.
Ah.
My bare foot had stepped on the hem of my dressing gown. I lifted the foot and the gown and continued up the narrow stairway to the isolation room. I opened the door, familiar to me now even in the dark, and slipped inside.

Once in, I sat on the hard bed to allow my eyes to adjust to the room's light. The moonlight shone through the stained glass once more, and I felt comforted in a very palpable way, a way I had not felt comforted before in this room. I felt at peace for the first time that day. I smelled incense, faintly. It reminded me of incense I had smelt already, dark and smoky but with a bright undertone. I had not smelt it in this room before. Had someone been here?

Or was I still hallucinating? Maybe mad.

I stood and walked over to the window where the rusting spyglass rested. I used it to peer out of the window toward the harbor, some distance away. The
Poseidon
was docked; I recognized her magnificent bowsprit in the moonlight. He was still here. There was still hope.

Now, eyes adjusted, I quickly got to the task for which I'd come. I put my ear to the speaking tube. Nothing. No one was up and about, or at least no one that I could hear.

I quietly walked to the desk and felt for the little latch on the side. I flipped it and to my great delight, the sketchbook was still in place.

I took it and then walked to the window. I wanted to view every sketch here, in the moonlight, in case the book should be taken from me on my way back to my rooms.

I flipped through the pages. There was a picture of my mother, a self-portrait. She looked happy and smiling and so young—my age. She did not look ill in any manner. There were many sketches of the streets and homes of Malta, their black iron lanterns and soapstone-smooth buildings. A gentle ocean kissing a seawall. A lighthouse.

A sketch of a man in a naval uniform. I brought that picture close. His eyes were warm, his hair black as the tar that protected ships from rot. I held his gaze, and he seemed to hold mine.

“Father.” I had not meant to speak, but I could not hold it back. It was the same man as the one in the attic portrait. I touched his face on the paper. Had he left us? Had he left my mother? I was currently trapped in this unconscionable position due to his actions or lack thereof, and yet looking at his face he did not seem capable of such a callous act.

Or maybe I was incapable of judging character. I did not know.

There were several pictures of Judith; the sisters had apparently drawn one another as well as painted each other. One portrait of Judith had a man in the background—my father?—and beneath Judith my mother had written an Italian proverb,
Invidia non prende nessuna vacanza
. Envy takes no holiday. There were flowers in the garden in which Judith stood. Mother had written
belladonna.
In English, that signified poison. In Italian, beautiful lady.

Which had she meant?

I closed the notebook. I was certain, now, that my mother had been married. I did not know if she had been mad or not; perhaps that was a convenient lie others told to gain what she'd held. “I should show this to Marco,” I whispered aloud. “Perhaps it may be of some help.”

I did not know yet if he could be trusted with a treasure like this. What were his true intentions, in England, and with me? He'd spoken of England. He had not spoken of me.

Minutes later, safely inside my rooms, I exhaled relief. Now, where to hide the book? I knew my rooms had been searched and would be searched again. I had lost the cap
if it had ever really existed
; the unwelcome thought presented itself, and I pushed it away.

I looked around. Nowhere was safe. As I walked toward my bed, an idea came.

I knelt on the floor and lifted the porcelain chamber pot from the box, turned upside down, upon which it rested underneath my bed.

If I did not use the chamber pot, no one would have cause to move it. I would put the small sketchbook under the box, and forestall from drinking in the evenings so the pot would never need to be used.

Shivering, I climbed into my bed. I whispered my prayer. “There is no one left save me to clear her name. I will do whatever it takes . . . if You will help me.”

A verse of scripture threaded through my mind.
And Jesus answering, said: You know not what you ask. Can you drink the chalice that I shall drink?

“I can,” I whispered into the dark.

I
t was now early October, and it seemed as though all arrangements, weighty as they were, were to be finalized between the Maltese and Edward. I had played my part, though it had lasted longer than I'd expected. I had done well by Edward, as usual. As usual, Edward had not done well by me.

One afternoon I saw Captain Dell'Acqua ride up on a horse he had leased for his stay in England. He dismounted, and I heard Watts welcome him in as a footman ran from the stables to take the horse. I quickly rolled my hair and clasped it with the ruby hair combs; straightened my dress, which was, thankfully, one of my better ones; and made my way downstairs to the library, which communicated with the study, next door.

I stood at the library shelves, looking for a book, and could hear Dell'Acqua and Edward finalizing plans.

“But the barracks can be used, I'm certain, to house others if we bring them in,” Edward said.

Barracks? There were run-down barracks in Lymington, remnants of the last war with Napoleon. French prisoners of war had been held in them, but they were crumbling and unused at the moment.

“Will we need the others?” Marco's voice sounded displeased.

“For better profit, yes.” Edward sounded insistent.

Marco hesitated, and then said he would take the papers to his solicitors in London as well as speak with some local lads.

Edward grew silent for a moment and then consented. They'd plan to bring things to a close by mid-October. The Exhibition's final day was October 11, there were to be a number of social events commemorating the experience, and then the waters around England would be filled with ships setting sail back to many nations. I hurried back to my chair.

The door to the study opened, and Marco and Edward came into the library, where I sat with my tea and book.

“Miss Ashton,” Marco said. “I'm delighted to see you. In fact, I was hoping you would be at home. I have brought a memento for you. A book of Malta. May I?” He turned to Edward.

Edward could not very well say no with his contract in the captain's hand. “Clementine is not here to supervise,” he offered.

“Where has she gone?” I asked.

“She took Albert and Lillian to Lymington to see the yachts. And return books to Mr. Galpine's lending library.”

I had never seen Clementine with any reading material other than ladies' periodicals. Perhaps she was collecting the post herself these days. That which had been addressed to her, and maybe, to me.

“You could remain in the study, nearby?” I suggested to Edward. He finally agreed with a curt nod. He turned and left, and the captain came and sat near me.

“Bella,” he said. He looked at me with the same wide-eyed concern as that displayed by the African masks hung on the nearest wall. We had dropped the pretenses of his visiting with me to facilitate his arrangements with Edward.

“I am well,” I said. I would say no more and taint his view of my health.

“I was concerned, after the
confusione
in the attic, about the wedding portrait.”

So he'd thought it a
confusione
. Or at least recognized that something odd was underfoot. “It was my mother in that picture,” I said simply. “And most probably my father.”

“
Ecco
. A Maltese man, for sure.”

“You did not recognize him?” I held out a slender hope.

He shook his head. “I'm sorry. Perhaps if I saw the portrait again.”

I could not take him up to the attic now, and if I left his company for a moment Edward would find a way to make him leave. “I shall think upon that,” I said. I nodded toward the book. “It was too kind of you to bring this.”

“I want you to see,” he said, opening it. Inside were a dozen or more woodcuts of Malta. The first picture was of a beautiful palace, built of neatly placed stones, each window framed by ornate stone carvings. “The Auberge de Castille in Valletta,” he said. “One of the inns built for the Knights of Saint John. We have been entrusted through the ages with defending the faith.” He drew his chest up.

“That might come as a surprise to Queen Victoria,” I teased, “who considers herself defender of the faith.”

“Ah!” He held his hands up and shrugged. “What faith, I ask you. What faith? Christianity, Catholicism, has been in Malta nearly two thousand years, brought by Saint Paul himself!”

I laughed. “Show me more.”

“Our art galleries are second to none. Rich in talent and treasure.” He paged through. “Here is a spread of the simple but honest people of Malta. Here, a goatherd.” In the engraving, a man with a neatly trimmed beard paced his goats with a stick. “Our women work, too, just as the women here.” He pointed to a day maid shuffling by in the hallway. That page held wood engravings of proud, but poor, egg sellers, choristers, an onion seller—her papery wares spilling from a basket—a bran seller and a water seller, side by side, each woman balancing a heavy jar upon her head.

“A cheese man,” I said, delighted with the open, honest face in front of me.

“We have the best cheese,” Marco said. “I promise that. But they earn very little.” He turned the page. “They often cannot eat the wares they sell.”

“Lymington has many poor as well. We no longer have salterns; smuggling, for better or worse, has gone or is reduced now that revenues are restructured. It's good that you're bringing back the ropewalk. It will deliver real hope.” I smiled, but he did not smile in return. Instead, he oddly pressed on with his book.

“Now here”—he put his finger on another wood-carved stamp—“is the governor's palace.”

“I believe my mother was there,” I said, staring at it. “I know Aunt Judith was.”

“And they probably met your father there. I imagine they were of the same social station.”

The final pages showed horse-drawn carriages, their beautifully turned-out passengers enclosed in lightly knit netting rather than behind door and panels, to better let through the Mediterranean breezes.

“It is Eden, is it not?” He closed the book and took my hand in his and looked into my eyes, unflinching. I hoped Edward would not come into the room just then.

Was he asking me that question, directly, or something else? I sensed something deeper. Was he asking me to . . . leave? I did not know him well enough for that and truthfully, he had not offered me anything . . . official. Perhaps this was the very kind of proposition my mother had fallen for. I remembered what his friends, who knew him so well and whom he seemed to trust implicitly, had said, the very first day I'd met him, at the Exhibition.