Bride of a Distant Isle (29 page)

He was nursing his wound over his father's snub. Yet, Lady Mansfield was so kind. How had she married such a man?

An idea presented itself. I should write to Lady Mansfield—what was there to lose? Perhaps she would invite me to call on her; Clementine could certainly not object to a social call to a woman so highly placed. While there, it might be that I could find some delicate way to raise the situation and Marco's concerns with her. He wanted nothing from her, from his father, after all, but an acquaintance, perhaps a friendship. Then all would be well, Marco might be content to tarry in England, and my options could open.

I would also send a note to Mr. Lillywhite, asking if he could refer me to someone who might be able to offer some forensic examination of any documents pertaining to my legitimacy, my grandfather's will, and the notations in Galpine's journals, and perhaps validate a claim to Highcliffe.

I had nothing to lose and possibly everything, and everyone, to gain.

I carefully penned the letters and quickly headed back to the nursery. Perhaps Lillian could be cajoled into giving the letters to Mr. Galpine.

Alas, she had already left. I tucked them back inside my book and started toward my room. I passed Oliver in the hallway.

Of course! The reason Clementine used Emmeline to pick up and deliver her posts was because Emmeline would not, could not, say to whom letters were posted or from whom they were received.

“Oliver, does Emmeline still deliver letters for Mrs. Everedge?”

He had letters in his hand. “Yes, miss. Or I do.”

He looked as if he was about to say more, so I did not speak.

“Thank you for the boiled caramels, miss,” he continued. “Em and me, we share them with all the family. You're the first person from the big house who gives to us and does not ask anything in return.”

I swallowed hard. I could not now, of course, ask him or Emmeline to undertake the delivery of my letter. In fact, I grew even more aware of how the others in my family used the staff, lovingly, but carelessly, for their own ends. I had proved to be not very different.

“As long as I am here,” I said, “there shall be never-ending sweets. On your way, now!”

The lad was quick. He returned to his duties, and as he did, I slipped out of the door. I knew it was dangerous but it was worth risking, and fortune was with me; because Mr. Galpine would be courting Lillian today his associate would post the letters. He was someone, I was certain, Clementine did not often speak with. I was quick, too, walking down the drive, which had been freshly laid with expensive wheat-colored gravel. I scared up a flock of ravens and they scattered, like thrown confetti, into the sky as I passed.

I arrived at Lymington and slipped one letter underneath Mr. Lillywhite's closed door before making my way to Mr. Galpine's. Once there, I posted the other letter. Before leaving, I spied a familiar person through the window.

Marco! As I was about to leave and greet him, I saw him slip his hand underneath the elbow of a woman, perhaps a year younger than I and very attractive, to help her across the street. She appeared to be laughing, as was the man next to her, and Marco engaged and reengaged her in conversation.

“Who are those people?” I asked Mr. Galpine's assistant.

“Oh, that's the Maltese captain,” he said.

I nodded. “Whom is he with?”

“Mr. Robert Baker and his sister, Miss Emily,” he said. He glanced at Miss Emily and then glanced again. She was lovely, and I imagined that second glance was a typical response. The beautiful Miss Baker Lieutenant Bosco had mentioned.

“They are acquaintances?” I pressed.

He looked at me oddly, but answered anyway. “It's my understanding that Mr. Baker and the captain are discussing investment arrangements. At least that's what's been said around town. The Bakers are quite . . . prosperous.” He blushed, perhaps realizing he was caught gossiping, and said no more.

I paged through some books in the lending library till Marco and the Bakers left, remembering what Marco's friend had said months past.
Passing time with a pretty girl will help him attain what he wants.

Miss Baker? And, perhaps, me.

After I was certain they had left, I returned, quickly, to Highcliffe.

The October light slanted so beautifully through the windows of the great hall connected to the foyer in that golden hour. Autumn light was, for its scarcity, perhaps more valuable than that which spilled bountifully in the summer, and its beauty drew me from my melancholy over having seen Marco flirt with Miss Baker and all that it implied. I looked up at the beautiful painting on the great hall's ceiling; the word was drawn from
cielo
, heaven, in Italian.

I got down on my knees, and then lay on my back so I could take in, fully, the painting from all angles in the afternoon light. The cherubs edged the outline; the saints rested just inside them. An angel pointed a finger to someplace on a map; it was too small to see from this distance, but I dearly wished to know where he was telling us to go.

I closed my eyes. If I knew, I'd go.

Just then, the door opened. I opened my eyes as Watts rushed by. He looked at me with visible alarm. “Miss? Miss Ashton, are you well?”

I opened my eyes. “Yes, Watts.” He shook his head and made it to the door just as Edward, Clementine, and Albert came in.

They stood stock-still and stared at me. I sat up, then stood and shook out my voluminous dress.

“Whatever are you doing, Annabel?” Clementine's voice quivered with unease.

“Losing myself in the painting.” I pointed to the ceiling.

“As you lie on the floor?” she asked. Even Watts had removed himself to what, I assumed, he felt to be a safe distance in case a fit of some kind overtook me.

Albert plopped down on the floor, took my hand, and, looking up, smiled with glee. His father had done that, once. “Edward,” I said, “do you not recall when we were children and would do this very same thing? Have you lost your sense of childish wonder?”

In spite of himself, I thought, Edward smiled genuinely, though briefly. We had once lain for an hour or more on that same floor, giggling at the bared breasts of the women in the portrait, wondering if his mother had noticed and, if so, why she had not demanded they be covered up.

“We're no longer
children
,” he answered quietly, then pulled the roll of ginger chews from his pocket. “If you ladies will forgive me, I need to prepare for my meeting tonight, with Lord Somerford and Captain Dell'Acqua.”

I kissed Albert's cheek, then nodded and made some light, pleasant conversation with Clementine until I could escape to my rooms. She'd purchased some new slippers for me, she said, and would have them sent up.

I waited by my window, looking for Somerford's carriage to arrive, and then Captain Dell'Acqua either by hired carriage or horse. Hours ticked by on the Chinese dragon clock, but neither man arrived.

About seven p.m. there came a knock at my door. It was Mrs. Watts.

“Dinner will be served in rooms tonight,” she said, “on trays. I'll ensure it's not macaroni.”

“Thank you.” That was kind. “Just my dinner?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Then Edward's expected guests didn't arrive. Did they send word?”

“No,” she answered softly. “Not that I know of. Nor that Mr. Watts knows of.” Jack had returned to London. Mrs. Watts nodded a grim farewell in the setting darkness.

Edward must be livid.
And afraid
. Had something happened to their arrangements?

Perhaps I'd said too much.

S
ome days later, I was in the library, sketching by the window as Clementine read quietly, when Emmeline brought the post. She handed it to Clementine and curtseyed slightly before Clementine shooed her back to her duties outside.

“The young lass collects the post now?” I asked as though I didn't already know.

“Why not?” Clementine riffled through the letters. One was in an especially fine envelope, sealed with red wax. “Mansfield,” she said as she broke the seal.

Clementine slid an invitation from the envelope and from within that a short handwritten letter. “Lord and Lady Mansfield request our presence at a ball and charity auction donation being held four days hence.” She scanned the letter. “She apologizes for the late invitation but has been very occupied.” She grew quiet again and then looked up at me.

“She says you are to attend if you would care to.” She closed the envelope. “I had no idea you'd made acquaintance or that she was aware you existed. Even Edward and I have only occasionally attended their events.”

“Her daughter attended the Rogers Day School for Young Ladies,” I said as a way of reply, hoping she would not press it. Blessedly, she did not.

My heart tried to push its way out of my chest. But would I have a chance to speak with her, privately, at such a large event?

Clementine smiled. “Edward will be very glad indeed to see this. And, it seems the entire county will be in attendance.” She motioned for Watts to ask Edward to come into the drawing room when he was at liberty to do so. Edward soon arrived, and Clementine shared the news with him, which seemed to cheer him.

“Perhaps another avenue to further our interests,” he said, taking the invitation. “The entire county is certain to be invited. It bodes well for us.”

Perhaps Marco would be invited. That was unlikely, though, considering the reception his father had given, or rather had not given, him.

Edward continued to scan the letter. “It says we're to bring something clever and English, to celebrate Prince Albert's advancement of such. What shall we take?”

Clementine said nothing, and I didn't have anything to offer. Watts cleared his throat. “If I may suggest, sir, one of your many fine clocks?”

Edward smiled with relief. “Yes, Watts, that's exactly right. How about . . .” He thought for a moment. “The one in my study.”

Watts tilted his head. “The one with Hercules fighting the lion?” He glanced toward Clementine. “Made of Derbyshire black marble?”

Edward nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, that's the one.” He looked at Clementine, who was looking at the floor. The clock, I knew, had been her father's and had been a wedding gift to Clementine.

“Respond in the affirmative, immediately.”

W
e arrived at Hebering four nights later. It was located on the outskirts of Romsey and had been crafted from the ruins of a medieval priory. The building itself was Tudor at heart, more modern in its wings, but entirely imposing upon arrival. Even Edward looked nervous, twiddling with his white tie and flicking invisible bits of dust from his black top hat. He'd ingested half his roll of ginger chews before we arrived, I knew; I'd counted. He offered one to me and Clementine, and we both accepted.

The long drive was lined with lit torches and there appeared to be open-aired marquees set up by the lake. The house was ablaze with color, and there were perhaps two dozen carriages near the stable yard and carriage house. Our driver stopped for us to alight near the entrance; Edward carried the box with the clock in both hands, releasing it only to Lord Mansfield's man once at the door.

“Mr. and Mrs. Edward Everedge, and Miss Annabel Ashton,” Mansfield's butler announced us. Lord and Lady Mansfield greeted us. I looked at Lord Mansfield straight on. With the exception of his long mustaches, which resembled the bristly fronds of a chimney broom, he was Marco, dead on. Lady Mansfield greeted me warmly, and I knew at that moment I should hold my tongue and say nothing to her of Marco. After all, she might feel him to be a threat to her own children, and their inheritance, though he was, of course, illegitimate and well provided for. Why had I thought this a good idea?

I thanked her for her hospitality, and then walked down the hallway, looking for a familiar face, adrift, out of my league. Marco caught my eye and raised an eyebrow, so I headed toward him. He was but a few feet from Clementine, who nodded her approval.