Bride of a Distant Isle (8 page)

M
y prayers were favorably answered.

Clementine was feeling well again and had decided to do her calling on Thursday morning and early afternoon. This was a double boon as she would not only be out of the way, but her lady friends would be taking callers, too, which meant none of them would see me in town. I slipped out of the door, but Watts saw me, as did the young hall boy.

“Can I help you with something, miss?” he asked earnestly. As for many boys, this was probably the only work situation that offered him any hope. Those salterns that had kept the young boys and men working had gone quiet; salt was now cheaply harvested in Liverpool.

“I'm going to sketch,” I said, and then promised myself I actually would so I was not fibbing. “But thank you . . .”

“Oliver,” he said. “My name is Oliver, and I'm at your service.”

I grinned at him. I hastened to the office of Mr. Lillywhite and was overjoyed to see that he was in. I tried to open the door, the wood of which had swelled with age; I pushed forcefully and as I did, it flew open. I nearly fell into the arms of the old man on the other side.

“Please forgive me.” I pulled myself up. “The door . . .”

“It's my fault entirely,” he said, “Mrs. . . .”

“Miss Ashton,” I corrected him, and he looked behind me for a chaperone.

“I'm quite alone,” I admitted.

He nodded. “Ashton!” he suddenly burst out. “Arthur Ashton's granddaughter.”

I smiled. He was, as I'd hoped, Grandfather's solicitor. Who had placed that slip of paper in my reading to tip me off? I could not ask anyone for fear of informing the wrong party.

I nodded. “Yes, I am his granddaughter, though I cannot recall him. He died when I was very young.”

“Julianna's daughter,” he said softly. “You have her gentle smile. Your grandfather had great expectations for her.” He may have realized that line of thought might be hurtful, and changed it. “I was given to understand you were in Winchester, rather permanently until you were to come home and marry.”

Marry? “I have been in Winchester, but things changed.” I clasped my hands in my lap to steady them from trembling. “I am hoping you may be in a position to help me.”

“I am not Everedge's solicitor.”

I tilted my head. “His solicitor is . . .”

“In Winchester,” was all he would say. “How may I assist?”

Lillywhite's wife arrived and hovered nearby, listening.

“I'm wondering . . . I'm wondering about my dowry. I was certain that at one time I'd been told there was a dowry set aside for me. There are a number of ladies of good station that I teach with, former governesses and the like, who had hoped to start a day school in Lymington. Some of them have saved funds or inherited. I thought, perhaps, the terms of my grandfather's will would allow my dowry to be used, immediately, to join them.”

I had to access those funds before Edward gave them to Mr. Morgan.

Lillywhite inhaled deeply, coughed, and then finally spoke. “The terms would have, Miss Ashton. And he'd left a fine sum for you. But Mr. Everedge, not your cousin but his father, accessed and depleted it years ago.”

I stood up, opened my mouth, and then sat down again. “He did? Could he do that within the law?”

He nodded. “They'd been paying for your schooling, and the dowry was left to be used at the discretion of your guardian, who was, after your mother's death, Mr. Everedge.”

“Why would he have needed my dowry sums? I understood that there were plenty of resources, the properties, the incomes . . .”

“There were. But times have changed for us in the past decades. There used to be quite some profit for your family in, er, secretly exporting wool out and importing spices, liquor, and rich fabrics in, but that money is coming to an abrupt end with the change in revenue structure; duties have been relaxed.”

Secretly exporting and importing, all right. Smuggling! I recalled the piney, bitter smell and puckering taste of the hundreds of barrels in the abandoned abbey properties behind Highcliffe. Edward had dared me to take a sip when he did. Gin.

“The trails behind Highcliffe, which lead to the Keyhole,” I said. Naturally hidden, easily accessed from our land, but not from anywhere else.

“Indeed.” He answered all without saying anything.

“I see. If I may return to my grandfather's will. May I know the terms?”

“There was little else that involved you,” he said. “And Everedge's solicitor, if you could even get to him, owes his fiduciary duty to him, not you.”

“My mother?”

“The will disallowed the insane, the illegitimate, and anyone who married a French person from inheriting.”

I laughed loudly at that, and both the aged Lillywhites stared at me with alarm. I composed myself. “I'm sorry, it's the shock.”

They nodded warily but said nothing. Mrs. Lillywhite moved a step back from me.

“Catholics were not precluded, then?”

“No,” Lillywhite answered. “Just the French.”

“Why?”

“The wars, one presumes,” he said. “Also, Ashton had a distinct distaste for Republicans, mainly because he had a firm view on what was proper, which meant monarchy.”

“And legitimacy,” I offered, and he nodded his agreement.

Invalidating me.

“And mental soundness.” Invalidating my mother.

“I'm afraid so.” He looked hard at me, suspicious of my mind, perhaps. Others sometimes were. My familiar fear caught and held my breath, but I forced it aside and spoke.

“Who was it that had my mother committed to the lunatic asylum?” I asked. “Mr. Everedge?” As the male head of household, that would have been most likely.

“Not at all,” Lillywhite disagreed. “It was her sister, Judith. Your mother was accused of—I'm so sorry to have to say this—moral madness after she returned home from Malta
enceinte
. She continued to insist that she was married, would not waver from that in spite of all proof to the contrary.”

I sat back, shocked. I had never been told that my mother had claimed to be married.

Mr. Lillywhite continued. “When her father died, she descended into a final spiral of grief. Her sister tried everything, I'm told, including hiring nurses, but nothing forestalled the fits. When young Edward was born, his safety was paramount.”

My heart clutched within me. Was I ever to be paramount to anyone? I had so few memories of my mother, but those few I treasured were happy and pleasant. How she'd suffered! Would I share her fate? Some had implied I would, that it ran in families. It frightened me: madness and the asylum, and most of all, death within its walls.

“When your mother died, you being, ah, naturally born, you were left
filia nullius
,” Mr. Lillywhite proceeded. “The daughter of no one.”

After a long silence, I whispered, “I am not the daughter of no one. I am the daughter of . . .” I had no father's name to offer. To remind them of my mother was perhaps not in my best interest. “I am the child of God,” I finished. At that, Mrs. Lillywhite came forward again and rested a hand on my shoulder, as her husband spoke one last time.

“Then you should implore God to come to your assistance with all speed,” he said. “For there seems to be no one else who can or will.”

T
here was no one who would or could assist me.
Mr. Lillywhite, who knew so little about me, seemed to understand so much. A light rain pattered on my parasol then stopped, the very essence of a summer shower, as I walked down the High Street toward Mr. Galpine's lending library to post letters.

I stepped into his small shop, which smelt of lemon wax, the tickling dust of newspaper, and the tang of fresh leather-bound books.

“One moment, if you please.” A tall man hardly older than myself raised a finger to me while he finished helping another man, taller yet, in a black top hat. The hatted man spoke about placing an advertisement to hire a secretary.

“Just have the responses sent round, then,” he said, finishing and paying. Galpine nodded and then beckoned me forward.

“How may I assist you, ma'am?”

“My name is Miss Annabel Ashton,” I said.

“Oh!” He smiled. “Of Highcliffe.” His face dimmed. “I'm sorry to hear about the old house.”

I nodded. “You know it's to be sold.”

“I've handled several letters of enquiry. Unfortunate matter. And what can I do for you?”

I'm in desperate straits
, I thought, but of course did not give voice to those worrisome musings.
I must find the means to support myself before the end of the summer—barely two months away.
“I'd like to post letters to Winchester if I may.” I looked at the advertisement, just written, on the oak countertop in front of me and spoke nearly as fast as the idea appeared so I would not lose heart. If I had no resources to form a school for young ladies, I would go to the students, and their paying parents, instead. “And place an advertisement in the local papers.”

“Certainly.” I dictated a short piece, seeking a position as a governess, quickly outlining my qualifications. I need not remain a governess forever, but it would allow immediate independence from Edward.

He nodded his agreement and I left. This was an answer! It was only a matter of time before a suitable arrangement presented itself. I knew from my time teaching that qualified governesses, trained in art, Italian, and literature, were in short supply. It would be lonelier than teaching at school, but no supplement to my stipend would be required. I should simply have to make myself indispensable to Edward until a governess arrangement appeared. He could certainly not disapprove. I would be financially self-sustaining, which is what they wanted.

Wasn't it?

I thought of the quiet mention of Edward's owed debts, by Clementine, Mr. Morgan, and Edward, and wondered if they meant financial obligations or personal ones. How did Edward intend to pay the last type?

Through me? I did not think I would mention my ad until an enquiry arrived.

I headed home, stopping near Highcliffe to sketch the sea at a spot not far from where Mr. Morgan had trapped me only one month earlier. How long did I have until he returned? I shivered, though it was warm, and then sat down on a stump before pulling out my sketchbook and a stick of charcoal from my satchel. I began drawing the Edge of the World, as we'd called it when we were children, in the distance, where the land seemed to drop straight into the sea. The sheep gamboled nearby, and I waved again at the young lass tending them.

Within a few minutes, the young shepherdess came running toward me, brown, beribboned plaits bobbing behind her.

“Hello, my name is Miss Annabel Ashton,” I said. “I don't recognize you. What is your name?”

She shook her head and made a motion of pursing her lips, then shook her head again. I tilted my head toward her.

“You don't speak, then? You're mute?”

She nodded, and hurriedly pointed to a sheep that had wandered near the ledge. She made motions to indicate she was going to fetch the sheep, and could I take her staff and not allow the other sheep to wander?

“Shall I fetch the sheep for you, instead?” I offered. “I don't mind.”

She vigorously shook her head no. I agreed, reluctantly. It didn't seem right letting a child take the risk, but she was certainly more sure-footed and knowledgeable of the trails than I was.

She made her way to the bleating, confused little lamb and knelt. She did not send her dog, which perhaps would have startled the young lamb over the edge. Just went by herself, low and beckoning. And the sheep, which well knew her, came her way to safety. She was wise; the sheep certainly would not have come to me.

She returned to me, and the little lamb ran to the summoning bleat of its mother.

“Well done,” I commended. I quickly sketched a picture of her into the field of sheep I'd already drawn. I titled it
The Lost Lamb and Her Courageous Rescuer
, and read that aloud as I did not know if she could read. I tore it out of my notebook and handed it over. She grinned at me and nodded, then relieved me of her staff and went on her way.

As I made my way back to the house, a sudden and unsettling, even ominous, feeling overtook me. I looked at the sky, a bolt of lightning splitting a black cloud hovering over the water in a summer squall. An omen?
Come now, Annabel
, I reasoned with myself. Mr. Morgan and his talk of omens had tainted my mind.
There is nothing to be concerned about. You've made some fine arrangements and shall soon hear back from your advertisement.
But the shadows persisted, dogging me.

Perhaps it was because the young girl and the sheep had been so close to danger. Perhaps the situation only reminded me of Mr. Morgan, trapping me nearby some weeks before. I tried to shake off the gloom, so unworthy of a summer day, but found I could not; it clung to me like my clothes, moist with the day's humidity.