Bride of a Distant Isle (7 page)

T
he following days found the men away from Highcliffe, mostly attending to their common interests. The Maltese sailed from Lymington, where they'd been anchored, to meet with other Englishmen. While I was sorry to lose the company of Captain Dell'Acqua—I told myself I was simply eager to learn more of Malta during his stay in England—I did not miss the hovering menace of Mr. Morgan. He had departed quickly and without comment to me. Very unexpected.

One morning Edward sent Mrs. Watts to request I meet him downstairs.

“He'd like to see you right away, miss.”

“I'll be down presently,” I said as pleasantly as I could. Mrs. Watts had a bit of a French lilt in her voice. She was always perfectly polite to me, but perfectly correct as well, so we did not have occasion for discussion. Not like Chef. He encouraged my sweets-pinching and chattering manner, then and now. I fancied that I was one reason he'd returned for the summer. It felt lovely to imagine someone wished for my company.

I smiled at that and to my surprise, Mrs. Watts smiled back at me. “Did you meet my son, Jack, in London?”

“Oh yes. He was running the household like a man twice his age but with the energy of a man of his years. I'm certain he does Edward a great service.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, and cheerfully plumped my pillows before taking her leave. Shortly thereafter, I met Edward in the library, which was graced with a priceless long-case clock, its polished oak case inlaid with mahogany and satinwood. He'd said once, teasingly, I hoped, that the only reason he'd agreed to marry Clementine is her father had added the clock to the deal. Edward set his newspaper down and popped a ginger chew into his mouth.

“You had a brief occasion to speak with Dell'Acqua,” he said. “Did you learn anything useful?”

His pleasant disposition toward anyone, including me, depended upon their usefulness to him. “He did say that once he decides upon something—perhaps an investment arrangement—he pursues it until it is his.” Being helpful to Edward would allow things, perhaps, to remain inconclusive with Mr. Morgan till I could figure a way out. I'd had an idea.

“He enjoys your company and opens up to you.” Edward smiled. “Excellent.” He glanced down at the front of my gown.

“That necklace . . .” he began. “You're not wearing it any longer.”

I was wearing it, of course; it may have been my mother's, treasure of treasures, an unexpected grace! I had tucked it beneath my chemise and dress.

“I don't want to give the wrong impression,” I answered. “That I'm married.”

He nodded. “Where did you come by it?”

“It was in my jewelry box. Perhaps it had long been there; I don't know.”

He stared at me for a moment, and then said, “I know your faith would preclude you from speaking mistruths.”

Was that a question? “I take my faith very seriously,” I responded.

“Maud said you were shocked to see it.” Had he thought that I was plotting against him somehow before Maud had spoken up? Had he interrogated her or had she freely offered information about our strange discussion? “Do you know who may have placed it in your jewelry box or when?”

“No. But it shall cause no further troubles.” It had been my life's habit to comply and cause no trouble. Perhaps, I'd thought, by acting perfectly in every situation I could reclaim some of my mother's honor for her. For me.

He nodded his approval and Watts slipped into the back of the room, signaling to Edward, so I knew our time would be short. One of the maids came in to dust and Cook refilled the hot water in the teapot. I heard Albert fussing in the vestibule, and Lillian shushing him lest Edward become annoyed. Where was Clementine? We were to ride together that afternoon. And where was Morgan?

“Mr. Morgan has taken his leave?” I asked.

“You miss his company. I understand. He's attending some unexpected complications while I sort through matters close to home. He's, well, he has better-established connections with the firms under discussion.”

They preferred Mr. Morgan to Edward?
For a brief moment I wondered if Morgan was double-dealing my cousin.

“He'll return soon, and at that time, he and I must conclude important matters that I will then share with you.”

“Why not now?”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Soon. Now, I must visit Winchester for the day, to tend to my affairs, and call upon my solicitor.” It sounded as though he were consoling himself. I saw an opening and slipped into it.

“Would that be the same solicitor that Grandfather had?”

“Why do you ask?” He abruptly stopped winding his watch. I did not want to alarm him further after the affair with the necklace, so probable reasons raced through my mind. I settled on one.

“I thought that as you have recalled me from Winchester I may need my dowry, and perhaps this may be an opportune time to speak with him. I will need the dowry, isn't that correct? Or why else would you insist I come home?”

His face relaxed then, and he stood up. Perhaps he thought my question implied compliance with his plans.

“I have only recently engaged this solicitor.”

“So who, then, was Grandfather's solicitor?”

“I cannot recall Grandfather's solicitor's name,” Edward said, too smoothly.

His faith, apparently, did not preclude
him
from lying. Nor did he mention my dowry. I did not bring that up again just then. I did not want to suggest something he may not have thought of. Instead, I pressed forth another concern.

“You mentioned my faith,” I began. “I should like to seek a Catholic chapel nearby. Do you know of one?”

“No,” he responded. “Why would I know of some papist gathering? You've no need.” He waved his hand condescendingly. “Burn a candle or pray a rosary in your room if you must.”

“Clementine gave me permission to attend in London.”

“Clementine acted out of turn. I won't nurture idolatry in my household.”

I rolled my eyes and as I did, glanced at the large portrait of his mother. I wondered that it had not yet been packed away in the attic, as so much of the artwork already was. It had been rather strange to observe our rooms with nothing hung on the walls, the wallpaper bright in areas where it had been hidden, dark where the sun had discolored it over time.

I then realized that there was no portrait of his father at Highcliffe. Or at the London townhouse, either. Suddenly a memory wended its way back to my heart: a holiday at home, I upstairs near a speaking tube, Edward's father beating him for poor academic performance and having joined the cricket club instead, where he'd shined. Shaming us all, his father had said as Edward sobbed that he would, from then on, obey.

“And now I must be off.” Watts handed Edward's hat and gloves to him, briefing him on what the day ahead held as they walked to the door.

I remained in the lonely library for some time. Its walls had once been painted a deep gold to better reflect the burnished leather tones of the books. I bathed in the river of morning sun coursing through the unclean high windows as I sipped a cup of tea. I then chose a volume or two of reading to take to my rooms—something, anything, to replace that odious Poe. I climbed the ladder and plucked a book of saints and angels from the shelves. It was coated in dust and very old. What was a Catholic book doing in our household?

I took it and climbed back down the ladder, then returned to my rooms, where I spent the afternoon reading.

Two days later, after breakfast, I returned to my room to pick up the book again, as well as my sketchbook, to take outside and enjoy the pleasant weather, when I noticed a slip of paper sticking from the top of the book; it had not been there when I selected the book. I slid the paper out.

In nondescript handwriting, freshly inked, was written,
Jacob Lillywhite, Esq., Lymington.

Who is Mr. Lillywhite?

T
he next morning, Clementine sent a note that she was unwell and would not be able to ride with me. I saw my chance. I pulled on my walking boots and tucked my sketchbook in a satchel so I'd have an excuse should someone stop me. Then I began the trek to Lymington. I passed through our property, hoping not to call any attention to myself, and I didn't, except to the young shepherdess in the near distance. I waved to her, making sure to flaunt my sketchbook so that if asked she could say she'd seen me go walking with my art case. She waved in return and then turned back to her charges. I made my way down the neglected drive, more dirt than gravel, and onto the path that would lead me to town after a bit more than an hour's walk.

I crossed the green expanse of lawn, and then passed the small pond that seemed out of place, dwarfed, on a property that bordered the sea. In the middle of the pond stood an elaborate fountain, chipped and stained, the gargoyles stock-still and dry, their mouths open; in better years the pumps drove water through them. Pumps were costly to maintain and had been abandoned. Instead, their mouths remained open but mute, gasping as though they were dying of thirst, crying to me for help. I shook the worrisome thought from my head and tried to replace it with sensible observations, instead.

Did others have worrisome, fanciful thoughts? Or just I . . . perhaps, like my mother.

My skin grew tight with the salt mist as I approached the town and the sea. The grasses of summer grew on one side, and I had a care not to allow the nettles to latch onto me. To the other side were the tide flats, shallow pools of water that still held partly sunken ancient salterns, which since Roman times had been used to gather salt. The flats were outlined by patches of marsh and bog that smelt of rotting fish. Birds cried and cawed in the background, but other than them, and the steady hum of insects, I heard nothing.

I grew suddenly aware that I was a young woman alone on the trail.

Could I come to harm? The thought had not occurred to me before, but there was always a possibility that ruffians may lie waiting; I stepped up my pace and to distract myself I composed, in my head, letters to my friends in Winchester, whom I had unwillingly and abruptly left behind. They were mostly like myself, in somewhat constrained circumstances. I could not expect a visit from them.

I soon arrived at the outskirts of the town. It was built up from the harbor as most sea communities were, anchored by the yacht club and centered on the spine of the High Street. As I stepped onto the street near the yacht club, a fine carriage began to exit the drive. As it passed, an older woman peered out of the window at me from beneath her tight bonnet. She held my gaze as if she were someone I should have known.

But I did not know her.

I smiled politely and bowed my head, and she nodded back at me and then her carriage was gone. I sauntered up the street and asked a kindly looking man where I might find Jacob Lillywhite.

“Oh, miss, he's in his office rarely these days. Him being old and all that. What's today? Wednesday?” He shook his head and clucked. “Head up toward Christchurch Road, and you may find him.”

“And where might I post a letter?”

He looked at me oddly. My dress, station, and accent clearly marked me as a lady, but here I was, unattended and unchaperoned.

“Mr. Galpine has a circulating library, which acts also as a post office,” he said. “Say . . .”

I bowed slightly. “Thank you, I shall be on my way.”

I turned onto Christchurch Road and halfway up found a narrow doorway tightly leveraged between two other buildings.

SHUT
, a sign on the door said.
IN ATTENDANCE ON THURSDAYS
.

My heart fell. I did not even know why I was here, and now Mr. Lillywhite was not present. I had no idea if I would be able to make my way to town again, alone, the next day. But I knew I must try to find out why I'd been pointed to him and hope that it would somehow lead me to freedom.

I returned home, wrote letters to my friends, and blew the lamp out early, then extinguished the lone candle in my room. Its smoke rose and curled, wended and wound like wispy white specters. The house was still but for weak crying in the distance, though I could not tell from whom. I prayed with all my might that I would be able to slip away again on the morrow.