by Sandra Byrd
“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.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
There 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.
I walked up the steps, opened the door to the foyer, and put down my case. I spied Edward in the library not far off, home again, his voice carrying, but happily. Clementine was with him. I stepped toward them; she did not look at or greet me, which was odd. Maybe they’d had a row.
Edward summoned me. I went into the room and stood before him; his wife had abruptly stopped talking as I had appeared.
“I’ve had a letter from Captain Dell’Acqua,” he said, holding it in his hand. “Oliver delivered it just now. He said that his second line of enquiry had proved unsatisfactory, and although he has a few more to consider, he’s leaning toward joining with Morgan and me. He set out to help the Maltese.” He glanced
at the letter. “And perhaps, he thinks, that may mean you, too. Or your family, anyway, meaning me. Nicely done, Annabel! He’ll return shortly and be with us, on and off, throughout the summer.”
I smiled. “I’m here to help in any manner.”
He smiled warmly. “I knew you would be.”
I turned to go but he gently took my arm. “Annabel. I don’t know why you need to remain in the small room Clementine insisted you be placed in.”
“I did not . . .” Clementine started, but Edward silenced her with a look.
“Your stay will be a bit longer than anticipated. Perhaps you’d like to take the rooms that belonged to your mother? I could ask Mrs. Watts to prepare them for you.”
“Edward! Yes, thank you. What a lovely idea.”
“I’ll ask Mrs. Watts to do so. You may find them more comfortable . . . and perhaps comforting, at least for a time.”
“Thank you again, Edward. It means so much to me.” The fog surrounding me lightened, if only a little.
“Very happy to help,” he said, and then returned to the letter, and as I headed to the door to ring for Mrs. Watts, Clementine picked up her conversation again even as Edward steadily ignored her.
“She came when we were out. And she herself came; she did not send a servant.”
He spoke up then. “How do you know? And why ever would she be calling on us now, after all these years? We’re rarely here, and she’s not bothered to stop by when we are.”
“I cannot say. They’re most often at their lands in the north, I believe. But she left her card with the corner turned, so I know her visit was in person. We can’t afford to snub the Somerfords, Edward. She said she’ll return tomorrow.”
I moved into the rooms that had been my mother’s. The staff seemed to have done as much as they could to warm the empty space again, adding pillows and counterpanes, waxing the wardrobe, and bringing the porcelain pitcher in from my other room. I sat in the chairs, which had been covered in sea foam–colored velvet with pineapple designs stamped into it. On the mantel was a clock. I reached up and touched it; it was made of lacquered wood and Chinese symbols marked the hours. Had she touched it, wound it, too?
These rooms overlooked the front of the house, which I rather enjoyed, as I could see who was approaching when I was by the window, as well as the fat geese waddling their way across the lawns. My breath caught when I recognized the fine carriage that pulled up the drive the next morning.
It was the one I had seen just outside of the yacht club the first day I’d visited Lymington! I pulled back from the window, just a little, so I could see who alighted from the carriage.
It was the older woman who had caught my attention in the street. Oh dear!
I dropped the faded drape and sat down at my mother’s writing desk. I was thankful I did not have to receive callers. What if she recognized me and mentioned seeing me in Lymington?
A short while later, a knock sounded upon my door.
“Yes?” I called out. Maud entered the room and shut the door again before speaking.
“It’s Mrs. Everedge, miss,” she said. “She wants you to come down and greet her visitor, the Countess of Somerford.”
I glanced at my dress, which, while serviceable, was hardly the kind of thing I’d want to wear to be introduced to someone from the aristocracy. “Can you offer regrets?”
Maud shook her head. “No, miss. She insisted.” She came a bit farther into the room. “Lady Somerford is now greeting the staff! One by one, in their areas, in the kitchen, even downstairs. It’s said she knew many of them from the days when your grandparents were alive.”
Well, then, I did not feel as concerned. She simply wanted to greet everyone present, and that included me. Lady Somerford must be the caller about whom Clementine had been so exercised.
Had she known my mother?
Maud wound my hair into its normal roll, pulling some tendrils to hang prettily, and I smoothed my gown, then twisted the cameo on my finger to hide the raw patch underneath it. I walked downstairs.
Lady Somerford must have finished greeting the staff, as I saw them round the corner toward the drawing room, itself a dame past her prime, returning just as I approached the foot of the stairs. Clementine looked positively unwell. I hoped she hadn’t been visiting with the green fairies that morning ahead of calling hours. I was a few steps behind the two of them, heading into the drawing room. As I arrived, Clementine stood and beckoned to me.
“Miss Annabel Ashton, Charlotte, the Countess of Somerford, of Pennington Park, our near neighbors.”
To my surprise, Lady Somerford patted the sofa near her. “Do take a seat here, dear,” she said. “How lovely to learn you’ve come back to Highcliffe.”
A trickle of perspiration slid down my spine. Lady Somerford grinned at me, and at that moment I knew she would not disclose my secret visit to Lymington.
“My husband and I have donated land for the school run by the Benedictine Sisters. They keep in touch from time to time and they had noted that a teacher they’d made the acquaintance with, you, had recently returned to her family home.”
I smiled. “You’re Catholic, then!”
She smiled back. “Yes. As are you?”
I nodded.
“The sisters had related as much. I’ve come to invite you to attend divine service with us each week, and as often as you feel you may need to visit a priest. We have a private chapel and welcome every Catholic of any social station to Pennington, even when we are in the north as we mostly are. Your mother worshiped with us. Father Gregory serves the parish here.”
Clementine shook her head. “How kind, Lady Somerford. But I’m afraid . . .”
Lady Somerford snapped her fan shut, all the while keeping a pleasant but firm look on her face. “I know, you’re worried about her being chaperoned. Understandable. I shall look after her myself.”
I held back my delight. Clementine could hardly refuse the Countess of Somerford!
Clementine spoke up. “That’s so very kind. But Edward . . .”
“Yes, he’ll want to see for himself that all is well. So. I’m hosting a large dinner and musical evening shortly. My husband has grown weary, he says, of long seasons in London, and so we’ve re-created some here. Of course, you’ll attend. I’ll have the details sent.”
“Regrettably, we shall have visitors staying with us off and on all summer; Mr. Everedge’s associates come and go, arranging their investment matters.” Clementine tried once more not to offend the most powerful family in the area while simultaneously keeping Edward’s injunction that I not attend a Catholic church.
“Bring them!” Lady Somerford said. “All the merrier. Summer in the country is a round of house visitors coming and going, neighbors all attending social occasions. In the meantime, I shall expect to call for Miss Ashton each Sunday starting with the next.”
We spent the best part of another thirty minutes talking about Lady Somerford’s recently married daughter, and young Albert, the possibility that Highcliffe might be sold, and the blessing of French chefs. Then Lady Somerford stood, and Clementine capitulated.
“Thank you, Lady Somerford. We shall look forward to your musical evening with great anticipation.”
“As shall I,” I said, and hoped my joy shone through my demeanor. I believed that it did, and Lady Somerford returned my humor with a glint in her eye.
“I shall enjoy becoming better acquainted, young lady.” She snapped her fan at Watts, who called for the lady’s carriage driver, and they were off.
I returned to my rooms, sat at my dressing table, and patted powder on my face. In spite of the happy ending, the encounter had been rather taxing.
Something red glinted in the setting summer sun. I reached over to the open India box in which I kept my hair combs. My plain ones had been added to!
After the fuss over the necklace, I could hardly ask Clementine, Mrs. Watts, or Maud.
I plucked out the first pair; they had long,
sharp teeth made of costly jet. These were set with rubies and what looked to be diamonds. I had never owned anything so fine. But I did seem to recognize them from somewhere. Clementine? Had Clementine worn them and then had them delivered to me, in keeping with our newly prominent station?
The second new set was encrusted with high-quality clear crystals. I did not recognize it.
As I mulled it over, I thought I remembered where I had seen them.
In a portrait.
Late that night, after I was certain that the household was asleep, the fires all cooled, and no one would see me, I pulled on my dressing gown, blew out my lamp, and slipped down the stairs. I quietly tiptoed to the ground floor, hoping the creaking would not give me away. It was nearly the end of the month, and there was a new moon, which meant scarce light found its way through the windows. Thank you, I thought, for little graces.
I turned right down the long vestibule that led to the ballroom, now mostly packed. Perhaps it would need to be unpacked; now that the Somerfords had invited us to a social event, Edward would have to reciprocate. The doors were shut, and I opened one quietly, then pulled it closed behind me. Nothing. Silence.
And then . . . a noise.
CHAPTER NINE
I stood statue still, but no further sounds aroused my concern. In the dark, I passed the shrouded game tables and the piano, which had long been closed; Clementine did not play well. The thick dust covers on the furniture rustled against my dressing gown, the rough fabric catching on the smooth, like hands clawing at me each time I tried to pull loose. I shook off the sensation with a shiver and turned toward the window. I pulled back the curtains, stirring up a frenzy of dust, and coughed once, twice. But it had done what I needed it to do. It let in sufficient starlight so that I could clearly see the very thing I thought I’d remembered and now sought.
Hung near a sea-facing window was a portrait of the Ashton daughters: my mother, Julianna, and Edward’s mother, Judith. They were formally gowned, facing each other in profile. My mother’s blond hair was swept back and rolled up, then held by combs studded with rubies, the very combs I now held in my hands.