Dark Angel (6 page)

Chapter Five

The night had been disturbing to me in a number of ways, not the least of which was my realization Gerard would not be in any hurry to assist me in leaving the island. It frustrated me, yet at the same time, I understood why.

I could not imagine what his life had been like, a man with no equals with whom to form a friendship. His descriptions of the village suggested no one else of his class resided there, and as master of Alexander Hall, he would find it impossible to socialize with members of his staff, even if he could find one of like mind and sensibilities. I was clearly beneath him in social rank, but being that I was a gentlewoman, he may have decided to overlook Society’s rules as they would otherwise apply to me.

It seemed to me Gerard was starved for companionship, and his need drew me as a beacon drew a moth. I’d never met anyone like him before; he struck me as larger than life, grander than the ordinary males who inhabited my earthly sphere. He wore his shimmering sensuality like a golden robe over naked flesh: glittering and mesmerizing and impossible to look away from. It was daunting, and I’d only been exposed to him for a few days. I could not imagine what the women of this island must endure on a constant basis. I’d bet it was nigh impossible for him to establish simple friendships, for surely the men must be as threatened by him as the women were entranced?

I shuddered to think how I would react in his circumstance if I had been the one confined to the same few miles of land and the same people for years without possibility of escape, with no one to share my heart. The idea it might very well
be
me someday, I thrust aside.

As the result of a night of troubled sleep, I did not rouse until well after noon. When I did, I was determined to visit the village and seek out a method of extricating myself from this intolerable situation. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and noticed a slim, leather-bound book on the nightstand. I knew before I picked it up it was the volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets I had admired from Gerard’s library. I looked at the door. The key had been in it when I returned, and this time, I had been the one to lock it behind me. I rose and tested it now; it was still locked.

Apparently, there was another key, though how he’d managed to work it with this key still in the lock I could not imagine. I tightened my lips and picked up the book, understanding there would be no privacy here unless Gerard wished it.

Perhaps he meant the book—and the key—as a sort of peace offering; I did not know. Notably absent was any accompanying book of Holy Scriptures I had told him I also favored.

Eros without Agape
.

I set the volume aside.

The authorities must have begun searching for me by now. News of the
Merry Widow’s
foundering would surely have made its way back to port. While no one knew precisely which ship I had boarded, or indeed that I had boarded any at all, it would only require minor inquiries to conclude I had left the Isle of Man secretly and taken the ship to Liverpool.

I had been owner and head proprietress of the Benevolent Home for Disadvantaged Children for the past two years. I provided an education and a daily hot meal, as well as a safe place for the children to live, in the hopes that they might better themselves and become productive members of society.

My father-in-law had wrongly believed he could bring me to heel by putting my money into his own accounts and refusing to consign me more than a pittance of an allowance, so that I might not support the children of whores. When his bankers realized the notes of credit from Jonathan’s father had been forged, they would waste no time in pursuing me for fraud.

I had counted that payment of the overdue taxes on the Benevolent Home with the stolen notes and coins I’d hidden in my reticule would buy enough time for the sale of my own home to conclude. But I had not anticipated the storm or the loss of the money.

Now I was trapped here, a victim of circumstance, while the clock ticked away and time turned from friend to enemy.

It did not matter. I would find a way home.

I was determined. I was
unstoppable
.

The word brought back memories of Gerard’s strangely erotic speech last night, and I pushed that thought aside as well.

No more distractions.

More than anything, I could not allow myself to dwell on my attraction to him. As an unchaperoned female guest in his home, I was already courting disaster. Hence my determination to visit the village today: if I couldn’t find passage off the island, other lodgings might be had which would prevent me from falling into disrepute if I should have to stay awhile. Tempting as a liaison with Gerard might be, I could not become entangled with any man at this point in my life. Aside from the moral implications, the children needed me, and the actions I had taken to protect them could bring ruin upon any man associated with me.

Mrs. Jones had apparently been informed of my desire to visit the village, for after I ate a late meal, she sought me out and bundled me up appropriately, for the wind was biting, she said. We loaded up in Gerard’s well sprung, if old-fashioned, open carriage with two footmen behind and a driver up front, and off we went.

The village turned out to be only two miles away, hardly far enough to launch such equipage on it, but I saw no point in insisting on walking. I knew enough about Gerard to understand his servants would balk at any opposition to his commands. I settled back on the squabs, Mrs. Jones opposite me, and observed the passing scenery, the first opportunity I had had to do so since my arrival.

The island was stark and beautiful. The recent storm had piled the billowing clouds into one corner of the sky, where they bunched up like feather pillows thrust aside by some giant, restless hand, allowing the sun to peek through. Wind and rain had etched the edges of the island into craggy cliffs and steep drop-offs, while the interior was dense with primordial woods.

Sprawling Alexander Hall, formed of dark slate walls and red sandstone tiled roofs, was joined to the island by a projection of land shaped like a hand curled into a fist, the island being the arm, the wrist of which formed the only means of traveling to and from the main road and back to Gerard’s estate. A wide path had been laid in a winding S-shape over which the horses clopped on their way down the hillside. Gorse and heather grew along its edges.

Despite the fact that it was near the end of October, the grass still grew emerald green, and brown, woolly sheep dotted the fields. A small inlet was the only easy access to the ocean, as far as I could see. I gazed at it, so calm now despite the raging storm that had brought me here. I saw debris scattered over the shoreline—clothing, fluttering papers, damaged books, broken bits of crockery, and incongruously, a brass-buckled shoe gleaming in the sun. About a dozen women, heads down, skirts tucked up, picked through the flotsam, their aprons bulging with their finds. I peered intently, realizing it was the wreckage from sunken ships Gerard had described—perhaps even my own. I had taken few possessions with me, but if I could get away, I would try to search the beach to see if any of them had washed ashore.

As I looked out at the horizon, I saw a flash of light winking at the line where the sky met the sea, and frowned. Even as I squinted at it and tried to make out what it might be, it disappeared.

“Did you see that, Mrs. Jones?”

“What, ma’am?” She looked at me politely.

“Hmm…” There was nothing there to see. “Never mind.” I turned to observe our approach to the main road. We passed a small picturesque graveyard along the road, the moss-covered headstones standing at canted angles to the ground.

I noticed as we drew abreast, however, a section of the cemetery stood apart from the rest. It was newer, or perhaps better tended. It had a brightly painted white-picket fence surrounding it, the gate standing ajar. Inside were rows of tiny crosses carefully lined up side by side. There were dozens of them, and I wondered what they signified. We passed quickly, the horses’ ears pressed back and twitching when we drew abreast. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Jones about it on the way back. For now, I wished to know more about
Ynys Nos
.

I turned to my companion. “How large is this island?”

She folded her hands in front of her. “Well, from tip to tip, it is fifteen miles, or thereabouts. At its widest, about eight. We are traveling along the shoreline, as ye can see, heading northeast. That’s Alexander’s Bay behind ye,” she indicated with a nod of her head in the direction we had just come, “where ye washed ashore.” She looked at me, and in her eyes, I could see my presence here still astounded her. “Praise be to God.”

Considering the fate of my companions, praise be to Him, indeed. “And the population? How many live on the island? And do they all live in the village or serve at Alexander Hall?”

“There are less than five hundred souls here, most in the village, the rest scattered about the island in farms and cottages. We all serve the master, yes.”

“Do you know most of the people here well?”

“Every face.”

“And what of you? Is there a Mr. Jones? Or children?”

Her eyes shuttered and she turned away, staring toward the receding churchyard. “No. Mr. Jones died long ago. We were never blessed with children.”

An old pain lanced through me with a sharpness that surprised me to this day, even after seven years. I traced the cameo nestled between my breasts with my fingertip. “Perhaps, in a way, that is a blessing in itself,” I murmured.

Mrs. Jones gave me a queer look but did not inquire as to my meaning. I forced my mind away from Eliza, my lost child, and back to the matter at hand.

“Gerard—that is, your master—said there were industries on the island? Men of trades and such?”

“We have learned to provide for each other’s needs.”

“But no doctor?” I mused. “What do you do when someone becomes ill?”

Her glance flickered away again. “Oh, ’tis a rare thing, that. Injury is more a cause of concern than illness. A broken bone, a serious cut—those can be very painful and lingering.”

Perhaps, if I was forced to stay longer than a few days, I might contribute my knowledge of medicine for the benefit of the village. I was no physician, but I had treated my share of serious injuries and aided many a doctor. “I could be of assistance in that area. I am a nurse. I can organize a lecture series while I am here for those who show an aptitude for medical care. Miss Nightingale is very insistent that good hygiene and sound nutrition are the keys to recovery. She’s written several papers to that end. Why, while we were in Turkey, she discovered—”

“Yes, ma’am, but here’s the village now.” Mrs. Jones seemed relieved to change the subject. I suspected I had been boring her thoroughly, and grimaced at the thought. I examined the village as we approached.

It had a faded air about it, like that of an elegant spinster who was once the fair beauty of the ball but whose time had long passed. Most of the homes were clustered around the main high street, through which a rushing stream cut and was bounded by a stone bridge arching over it. The little houses on the high street were made mostly of
stone with thick walls and roofs of split natural tiles, although I noted a few thatched cottages here and there as well.
Farther down I could see two stone-mill structures with a whirling wheel clacking behind them, powered by the stream. A market-cross sat in the middle of the town, its sturdy pointed roof supported by four thick pillars—an ideal location from which to trade wares or hold celebrations.
A village pub held up the north end of the street, while a weathered vicarage commanded the southern end.

Doors opened up and down the street, heads bobbed out, gentlemen shrugged into overcoats against the cool mist descending over the hills, women wiped baking flour off their hands as they left their houses, children ducked behind their skirts. The villagers watched the carriage with an air of anticipation and trepidation as we approached.

“Stop here,” I ordered the driver. He cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at me, but obeyed. By the time he pulled the horses up near a stone butter-cross, a mounting block for horse riders, and the footmen had clambered down to assist the elderly Mrs. Jones and me in alighting, I thought surely the town square must be filled with every inhabitant of the island. Oddly silent, they gawked and stared, and I began to feel like a prize pig at a country fair. Several gray-haired, very old men in solemn dress conferred in lowered voices with a handsome gentleman who stood in their midst. The older men appeared to debate something, gesturing first at me and then at the younger man, who nodded his head periodically in response. He was in his late thirties with eyes the color of lapis lazuli, his brown hair threaded with gold.

Finally, he pressed forward through the crowd and approached me with a pleasant, ready smile. I noted the clerical collar around his neck and realized with surprise that he must be the inhabitant of the vicarage. He reached the front of the crowd, quickly taking me in with one glance as he grasped my hand in greeting.

“Madam,” he declared in a strong, resonating voice, “I am the vicar, Matthew Pangburn, at your service. On behalf of our elder council, I have been given the pleasure of being the first of our village to welcome you to
Ynys Nos
. Welcome to our home!”

Cheers of “huzzah” went up through the crowd, and an excited buzz of conversation, well-wishes, and welcome surrounded me. The villagers began bombarding me with questions about the world beyond their shores, pressing my hand in greeting and bestowing gifts which appeared like magic from aprons and pockets—a packet of tea, a fine wool scarf, jars of jam—until I was laden down and staggering beneath their weight. With a good-natured laugh, the vicar encouraged the footmen to load the proffered gifts into the carriage for me. He turned to the crowd and held up his hands, calling for silence, and they eventually quieted.