Bride of a Distant Isle (28 page)

If he breaks an English girl's heart to avenge his poor mother along the way, why, so much the better. He'd say so himself.”
Was he still angry with his father?

“I should like to visit sometime,” I said. “It would make a beautiful holiday, a change of place from home.”

“Home?” he asked.

“As Mr. Blake has said, ‘England's green and pleasant land.' Do you not care for England?”

“I like some English, of course. I like your Prince Albert, I like your berries and horses, I like Somerford, an honest man. And then, Bella, well, then, there's you.” He kissed the back of my hand. I had left it ungloved and his lips lingered a moment longer than they had the time before. “Perhaps the blue and agreeable seaside of Malta would be pleasant as well?”

I laughed. Then I lowered my voice so it was barely audible, and tilted my head toward his. Our foreheads touched, tête-à-tête, head to head. I thrilled at the unexpected intimacy but continued whispering. “I must find out what happened to my mother, Marco, clear her name if I can, find out what happened to her in the end. It's a sacred duty to me. I want to set her name right. I must bide my time here whilst I look for documents or contact a solicitor or . . . Edward said Mr. Morgan will not return for a month or more.”

“He may change his mind and return sooner.”

I acknowledged this possibility. “He may.”

Did Marco understand that if I could prove my legitimacy, I would not only reclaim my mother's honor for her, but would be heir? I could say none of that aloud, of course, with Edward in the next room. If I left England and Edward found proof regarding my parents, he would destroy it.

Marco set the book down and then pulled aside his jacket to reveal his waistcoat, this one a brilliant blue, upon which had been embroidered, of course, a rooster. “You will not fail those who depend on you at the moment of need. I admire you for that, Bella. You are more a man than most men.”

I arched one eyebrow.

“Not in all ways, of course,” he said, blushing, “which is obvious to all.” I relished that I had caught him out once as he had caught me out when we first met. As much as I loved the tease, I did not wish to be indiscreet, so I pressed ahead to a fresh subject.

“Were you able to contact your father? I know it was important to you.”

His eyes quickly grew cold. “I sent several letters. None was responded to. I cannot say I am surprised.”

He tried to withdraw his hands from mine, a gesture I well knew. Retreating was safest when the heart was at risk.

“What is his name?”

He shrugged. “Mansfield.”

“Oh! Lord Mansfield,” I said. The Mansfields were definitely in attendance at the social events held round Winchester. “I know him—rather, I know his wife, Lady Sophia. She's quite a lovely person, an American. Their daughter took harpsichord lessons at the school I taught at. They have a young son, too.” Lord Mansfield's Christian name, I knew, was Mark.

Use my name
, he'd said.
Marc Antonio. Marco.

“How wonderful.” Marco's voice spilled out, decanting bitterness.

Oh dear, what a mishap! My face bloomed to the tips of my ears, and I felt real remorse constrict my heart. Just what the man needed—another reminder that he'd been cast aside. I drew close. “That was ill-considered, and I repent having spoken in haste. Please forgive me.” Of course, he would not want to hear about how beloved were Mansfield's legitimate children when he and his mother had been ignored. No wonder he hadn't wanted to share his father's name. He'd been turned away.

“All is forgiven, Miss Ashton,” Marco said softly. “It is good to know they are well cared for.”

Miss Ashton. Not Bella.

At that moment, I heard a carriage arrive and Watts step into the hall. It was Clementine arriving, of that I was certain. I quickly spoke.

“Our time together draws to a close. I hope it will not be our last.”

He smiled and took my hand between his own once more; I felt enfolded within them, both safe and emboldened somehow. “I, too, Bella. I, too.” Did his voice reflect resignation, wistfulness?

Lillian, Albert, and Clementine blew into the hall like leaves on the autumn wind. Lillian bustled Albert upstairs, against his whimpering protests, and Clementine stood in the hallway.

“Good day, Annabel, Captain Dell'Acqua. Are you here together alone?”

“No, my dear, I am here.” Edward quickly came through the study door and made his way to his wife, kissing her on the cheek. Had he overheard us? “Did Albert enjoy the yachts?”

She nodded. “He did. We also spoke with Mr. Galpine.” Her face turned to me, then from angry red to white. Why?

“I was leaving,” Captain Dell'Acqua said. He bowed to me, and to Clementine. He looked at Edward. “I shall be in touch after my solicitor has reviewed the contracts.”

Edward nodded, and Watts showed the captain to the door.

I excused myself and returned to my room, from where I watched the stable boy bring Marco's horse to him. Marco placed the Maltese book and Edward's papers into his saddlebag and then rode off, his blond queue bobbing between his shoulder blades. I did not turn from the window until I could see him no more.

I walked to my bed and bent down, lifting the ruffle. I lifted the dry chamber pot and checked on my sketchbook. I closed my eyes in relief. It was still there.

What had Galpine said to upset Clementine so? I had little time with which to complete my mission. That night, when all were abed, I would continue my midnight wanderings. This time, I intended to reclaim the portrait of my parents. Where I should store it, I did not know.

The larder? The abbey ruins? Deliver it to Lady Somerford somehow?

OCTOBER, 1851

I
was becoming very much like those nocturnal animals I had so despaired of in London, scratching about in the dark whilst all others were, I hoped, abed. Like them, my very life might depend upon going unnoticed. So I took care.

I could not climb the back stairs this time, as it did not communicate with the storage attic. I went to the main staircase and very carefully took each tread silently, slowly. Once there, I tugged on the rope that dropped the attic door and stairway. It fell with a quiet whoosh, a testimony to clever craftsmanship. Then I walked up the stairway, holding my wavering candle before me.

I turned to the left first and looked at a stack of paintings leaning against a beam. There was a dust sheet over the top of them, and I reached out and lifted it, carefully, perhaps somewhat fearfully, as a person might lift a cloth before identifying a dead body.

The cunning face grinning back at me was Aunt Judith's, her eyes hard, marble blue. Somehow, although she'd been dead for some years, she came alive there in front of me and dared me, I thought, not to drop the cloth.

I covered her face and a wave of nausea passed. I then uncovered a second stack and was able to view it simply by thrusting my candle forward. The front painting was a landscape of Highcliffe, and I pulled it forward to view those behind it. Grandfather and my grandmother. Behind that, one of my mother as a child, with her spaniel. I had not seen this before. I delighted in it. In spite of her fairness, and my darkness, she looked like me, here, or I like her.

I should return for this later.

The piece just behind it was, surprisingly, one of my own. It was the unframed painting I'd just done for Elizabeth, of Pennington, and had asked to be sent to her as a gift when she returned to London.

How had it been intercepted, and by whom? She would think I had allowed her leave-taking to go unremarked, when she'd been so kind to me. I could not carry it down now, but I would see, I hoped, that she received it.

Next was a likeness of Edward with old Mr. Everedge, his father. I had never referred to him as Uncle, and he'd not encouraged it. Edward looked stiff in his young man's suit.

I could not afford to dawdle. I turned toward another stack. I held my breath and loosened the pall tightly roped round it. When I was able to lift the cloth, I saw that it was, indeed, the frame that had so recently held the portrait of my parents, my mother in her Maltese wedding cap.

But the portrait had been cut from the frame and removed. I held back the tears, for the moment, and mourned the loss of one of my few family treasures.

Edward was scared, I knew it. And rightly so; that's why the portrait had been removed.

The net was rapidly tightening round me now. My throat constricted in sympathy with my narrowing circumstances.

I walked down the attic stairs and then turned around to push the door quietly back up. When I turned again, someone was standing behind me.

My knees buckled and, with nothing to hold on to, I nearly dropped my candle on my dressing gown.

“Oh,” I sighed when I recognized my stalker. “Oliver. What are you doing here?”

“I sleep on a bench in the hallway, miss, as you'll remember,” he whispered. He somehow knew we should not draw attention to this interchange. “To be at the ready should I be called. I heard something. I thought if I could catch an intruder then Mr. Everedge would be most proud of me. Might even promote me. He did that for Jack, you know.”

Jack, the Wattses' son. I nodded. “Yes, I remember that. But, as you see, I am no intruder.” I kept my voice low.

Oliver looked rather disappointed, and I wished to reach out and gently chuck his young cheek in encouragement. But I did not.

“It would be better,” I said, “if we said nothing of our meeting this night. Or of my being here.”

Would he be questioned?

He nodded. “I understand, miss.”

He looked understandably anxious. I was understandably anxious for him . . . and for myself. Could Oliver be trusted?

D
ays passed. I could think of no way to further help myself. How long would it take Edward to regain his confidence and recall Morgan, or Morgan to press his claim to me against the debts Edward owed him? Not long, I was sure. Weeks, at best. The winds turned wicked, and as I walked the grounds, I watched Edward's head gardener take down a heavy branch that had been damaged but had not completely fallen. It hung there, suspended, waiting to drop upon an innocent passerby.

I felt that branch hanging over my head. I was, in a sense, the helpless passerby. And yet I could not avoid the path I had been given to walk.

One afternoon Lillian indicated that I should follow her into the nursery. “Mr. Galpine has asked to call on me,” she said. “My father has given his permission, and he shall collect me on my day out this week, from my home. Wednesday. Clementine will tend to Albert herself after I'm gone. I think she means to take him to a friend's house in Winchester.”

“Wednesday . . . that's tomorrow. Marvelous!” I said. “I'm so pleased. Galpine seems like a good man.”

“I believe him to be so,” she said, reaching out for my hand. “And good to look upon, too.” She winked. “I'll tell him about the new account-keeping books you gave to me, and how effective they are at keeping track of invoices and receipts.”

I laughed with her. “He's certain to be impressed. You may live above the shop yet.”

She dipped a little bow of happiness and then twirled. “I've you to credit for this. Thank you for taking me with you that very first time.”

“I had my own agenda as well,” I reminded her.

“I know that.” I admired her forthrightness. “But it did us both a bit of good . . .” Her voice grew sad and trailed off.

In the end, we both knew, it had done me no good at all.

I returned to my room and looked over my books, my art, my mother's things, my writing desk. I could pen a letter to my friends in Winchester. I could write to Marco, but what would I say?
I've changed my mind, and I'll accompany you to Malta, in a most unsuitable irregular union though you haven't even asked me for such.
No, no.