Bride of a Distant Isle (30 page)

When I met with him, he took my elbow in his hand, gently, protectively, but perhaps with a tint of ownership as well.

“I couldn't be more delighted to see you here. I had hoped . . . You said you knew the Mansfields.”

“I was not certain you'd come,” I said. “She knew to invite you?”

“Lord Somerford sent me in his stead,” he replied. “As they've gone north. He thought it would be good for Mansfield and me to talk. I'm not certain it's a sound idea, though, now I'm here. Mansfield would not meet my eye when I arrived.”

Marco had certainly made his way into Lord Somerford's favor, and Somerford was a good enough man to want the family knitted together again, somehow, if it were possible.

Marco indicated the table set up in the center of the drawing room behind him. “I brought an offering.” His voice was earnest. “I hope it impresses.”

I did not have to look long to find which was his. “Your ship? The model of your ship?”

He grinned like a little boy. “Do you think he will like it? It says so much—about me, about my family, about our craftsmanship. And I'm English, too, correct?”

“How could Lord Mansfield not like it?” I asked. “You should speak with him tonight, as Lord Somerford suggested. Perhaps it is fate . . . or divine intervention . . . that you are here.”

Marco shook his head no. “I've already determined not to.”

“I think you should,” I insisted. “It may go better than you think it will.”

And then, you can stay in England.

He said nothing more.

We danced; my card was filled, and I enjoyed every man I danced with: the banter, the camaraderie, the sense of being equal with others and not looked down upon. I danced twice with Marco, and when he entwined his fingers through mine once he formed a lover's knot shape with his middle finger and thumb and slipped it over my wedding ring finger.

I did not look up at him to confirm his intention. I knew what he'd meant, or I thought I did. I did not withdraw my hand, and he pulled me closer.

After supper, Lady Mansfield had arranged for a casual display of fireworks over the lake. The weather cooperated, and I walked out with Clementine. We milled about the marquees and bonfires, waiting for the display to begin. When it did, the colors were splendid.

“They look rather like jewels falling from the sky, don't you think?” I asked Clementine.

She, rather melancholically, responded, “To me, they look like tears.”

I put my arm around her shoulder, and she did not pull away. “Have Edward's discussions gone poorly?”

She shrugged. “I do not know. Captain Dell'Acqua said he would return with papers within the week. But it did not seem promising to me.” She glanced at him then, standing nearby. “We should leave soon. Albert was unwell when we left.”

I nodded, but my mind was not on the young boy. Perhaps I might intervene with Marco, for Edward, though as each day passed I loathed more and more being caught between them and their investment arrangements. However, I feared if I did not, Highcliffe would be lost. I excused myself and walked near enough to Marco to see he was with Lord Mansfield. He had decided to approach his father!

They did not notice me and I allowed myself to eavesdrop. They were, after all, in public.

“. . . at your age I couldn't keep my hands off of anything in a dress.” Lord Mansfield spoke boldly, his face rosy with drink. “Not sure I remember her, Carlotta. Yes, yes. Nice girl, wealthy Maltese shipping family. Yes, that's good. Good to know she's well. Now, lad, if there is nothing further I must return to my guests.”

Marco stood, speechless, fists balled by his side. I didn't know whether or not I should approach him, but in the end, I decided I should. I walked next to him and slipped my hand over one of his fists, not caring if anyone saw or not. He was crushed; that was clear.

“I should not have come,” he said. “And further, I should not have spoken to him. It would have been wise to regard that he did not return my correspondence. I cannot wait to leave this cold island.”

I remonstrated with myself. I should not have intervened, selfishly hoping it would keep him near. “I'm sorry. He was thoughtless. Perhaps he was surprised.”

Marco shook his head. “No. He just did not want me. I am, as you've said of yourself,
filius nullius
.”

“You are the son of our God,” I whispered, hoping my voice would soothe and calm. “You are . . . beloved of many. Of
one.
” I emphasized the last word, hoping he understood that I meant myself.

He was not to be soothed.

“I'm sorry, Miss Ashton, but I must take my leave.” He took off his hat and bowed toward me. “I hope the remainder of your evening is pleasant.”

With that, he stalked off and, finding his colleagues, walked toward the carriage house while I watched. I heard him speak to one of the men in Maltese.

“I had two objectives when I arrived in this country and I achieved neither. Let's leave this place in our wake.”

White fireworks shot into the black sky, the grand finale.

Gravity pulled them to earth like the teardrops coursing down my cheeks.

I
t took the carriage a silent hour until we three returned, worn and worried, wearied, to Highcliffe. I was ever so grateful that Edward and Clementine did not know that I had arranged for the evening. Edward went directly to his study upon arrival; Clementine raced up the stairway to Albert's rooms. I went to my own, and within minutes of having changed into my dressing gown heard a knock.

I opened the door. “Lillian.”

She put her finger to her lips to shush me. “May I come in?”

I nodded and shut the door behind her. A fire had been lit when we were gone, and carefully tended. Unusual, but welcome. “Come, let's sit.” I indicated the small sofa near the fire.

“I can't stay,” she said. “Mrs. Everedge is with Albert, so I slipped away. I wanted you to know that, well, when Mrs. Everedge last called at the lending library, she asked Mr. Galpine about the letters to and from Malta, and examined the dates and postmarks. She asked him if she might tear the pages from the book, as a memento. When he said no . . .” She frowned. “She was most unhappy, and made that known to him. She said she'd soon send Mr. Everedge around. Mr. Galpine has stored the books with a friend for now.”

Edward was concerned about those letters. As well he might be!

“Thank you,” I said to her as she stood to leave. As she passed by my dressing table, she cast a reflexive glance toward it, one I might not have even noticed had I not been looking directly at her.

After letting her out and locking the door behind her, I returned to my dressing table. Everything was in place except for my mother's expensive ruby hair clips. They were gone. Someone must have taken them while we were at Hebering, because I had considered wearing them and had Maud try them on me that very evening.

Why had Lillian glanced toward the table, almost imperceptibly? Had she stolen the combs on Clementine's order? And if so, had Clementine sent her to speak with me about Galpine? The postmarks were now officially removed, although supposedly at Galpine's request, and could remain “gone” if need be.

I like my situation here
, Lillian had once told me.

I lifted the chamber pot box and peeked underneath it, relieved to find the sketchbook present and untouched.

I still twitched with nerves all night. Marco blamed me for the disastrous meeting with his father. My combs and cap had been stolen. The postmarks had been “sent away.” Mr. Morgan was soon to return, and, shortly, marry me and take me away to his house of plaster busts. I was utterly bereft of hope.

T
he next afternoon I was bothered by the strangest sensation, something that felt and sounded very much like an insect buzzing, and then I felt as though I would swoon. My tongue grew thick and heavy in my mouth, and I patted the back of my neck in a motherly action, perhaps to reassure myself, though I tried to keep it discreet and, eventually, seemed unable to stop the odd action.

Perhaps nervous energy was the cause of this growing discomfort?

“I'm sorry,” I said, standing up unsteadily as Edward read the paper. Clementine came to her feet to steady me. “I'm unwell, um, er, not quite right.”

“Can I help?” Clementine offered.

I shook my head, not trusting that the maze of letters formed in my mind could be uttered without confusion.

“Perhaps a doctor?” Edward's voice sounded far away, and deep. I thought I heard a dog bark in warning, though we had no such creature. And then I turned my head abruptly at the sound of Marco's sweet laughter.

“What is it?” Clementine asked, fanning herself.

I could not tell her. The captain, I knew, was nowhere near.

Clementine kindly, but knowingly, excused me for the evening; Mrs. Watts would bring a tray.

I returned to my rooms in a haze of strange misperception and nausea, voices drifting in and out of the room though no one was present. I thought of China, for some reason, but no reason at all. I could think of nothing but China: silks, opium, tea, fans—over and over the images from the Great Exhibition presented themselves. Why? I had not thought of them in months.

My stomach clenched and cold chills of fear ran through me as my thoughts raced without control no matter what I tried.

Next I heard people speaking Chinese, or what I thought was Chinese. Was it? Was it in my head? Aloud in the room? I did not know. I put my hands over my ears but the Chinese chatter did not stop.

I had never been to China, nor heard Chinese spoken. Yet I could not rid myself of the fixation! I wondered if I should try to travel there. I shook my head in horror at the thought. Why ever would I have that thought?

I washed my face in cool water from the basin again and again, but it did not help. The constant presence of unwanted, intrusive thoughts troubled me, then disturbed me, then scared me. I felt unremitting pressure inside my skull. I could not blink or shake away the voices or the images. Dread took command when I realized my inability to control my thoughts and my tongue grew too thick for me to swallow easily.

I could not bring myself to look at my Chinese dragon clock for fear of what it might provoke, and then the madness of such a thought filled me with further dread. When, after an hour, perhaps two or more, the sensations receded but would not disappear, I could no longer deny the truth.

I was nearly the age my mother had been when hers had started.

And now, my madness had begun.

MID-OCTOBER, 1851

A
day or two later I heard Edward speaking to Clementine as they left the breakfast room; he mentioned that he'd sent a note, as she'd insisted, and that they should hear back soon.

His voice sounded distressed. Hers sounded pleased.

I passed him in the hall as he mentioned he was off to see his solicitor in Winchester, to potentially list Highcliffe for sale again, just in case. Clementine nodded sadly and then left to meet with Mrs. Watts; the packing might commence once more.