by Sandra Byrd
My mother. Her hair had been rolled and teased exactly as I wore my own. Had I adopted that unconsciously, after having seen the portrait? Or was it simply a style that flattered me? I recalled a moment, long ago.
I reached up and patted her hair that looked like nothing so much as sunlit strands wrapped into a spool anchored by jewels. “So pretty, Mama, so pretty.”
She reached out and traced the outline of my face. “So pretty, sweetness, so pretty.” We both giggled, and she carried me down the hallway.
A creaking noise brought me back to the present. I stilled myself, but then there was nothing more. I reached under the collar of my nightgown. Yes, the necklace was still there; I gripped it like a holy relic. What was happening? How were all of these items being returned to me, and by whom, and why now?
Perhaps they had been there all along, as Maud suggested. In that case, I feared for myself, for my mind.
I let the heavy curtain fall and stealthily walked back to the door. I heard a noise behind it. Shoes, footsteps. I heard breathing on the other side and held my own. The breathing accelerated to panting and my limbs iced.
If I made noise enough to jar the door open, I was certain to wake staff or family—or fall into the grasp of whoever was just outside. But I had to escape. After ten frantic seconds looking about, I remembered a concealed door hidden behind a portrait of some long-dead relation so that staff could come and serve and then leave unobtrusively. Edward and I had eavesdropped on social doings from behind that door, on one of the rare occasions when we were partners, and friends. Now I tiptoed over to it and then jiggled the clasp that held it shut, pushed the door, and turned into a hallway that led to the back stairs, closing the concealed door to the ballroom, and not a moment too soon. As I did, I heard the door I’d first come through, which had just been blocked, open.
I quickly and quietly fled to my rooms and, after having arrived, closed and bolted the door behind me before collapsing onto my bed. My palm bled; I’d pressed the teeth of the comb too firmly into it as I fled.
Someone had been bracing the ballroom door against me. I could not imagine who it could have been, who even might have known that I’d gone downstairs unless they had been observing me in secret. The thought sent a scared chill through me.
Could I have imagined that scenario? Had darkness and fear gotten a hold of me, grasping me as that rough fabric had the smooth? I turned my mind away from the temptation of those ruminations and back to the hair combs. If I wore them, Edward would be sure to notice. Who had put them in my India box? There had been an opportunity for any servant or any family member, except for Clementine and me. Even Clementine could have given them to, perhaps, Maud, to place in my room as we took Lady Somerford’s call. Maud would do whatever she asked.
I got up out of my bed and stared out across the dark lawn. Even through the panes of glass I could hear the ocean churning, wearing down the land by means of gentle persistence. Why should Clementine have secretly offered the combs to me? Pity, perhaps. Maybe she had inherited them from Judith’s things. She had no love for her former mother-in-law—that was certain.
Perhaps Lady Somerford had brought them and left instructions with one of the staff. I should like to wear them Sunday next. I would ask Lady Somerford about them then, and all might become clear.
Next morning, I was shocked to find Mr. Nigel Morgan at the slightly worn breakfast table, dining with Edward.
“Mr. Morgan. I . . . I had not expected to see you,” I said. “I was not aware that you had returned.”
“Is that delight in your eyes?” Morgan asked. I do not know if he jested or if he had completely duped himself over the state of my feelings. I looked at Edward, who continued to read his papers. I pushed away my egg and sipped my tea, hoping those choices would settle my stomach.
“I’m glad you met with no harm on your journey.” I could say that, at least, with sincerity.
“You look lovely this morning,” Morgan spoke up. “Those jeweled combs in your hair are exquisite.”
“Where did you come by those?” Edward tossed his paper down and looked intently at my hair.
“They were my mother’s.” I sipped my tea and willed my hand not to shake. “Surely you remember that.”
“I do not recall ever seeing them on you,” he replied.
“You do not?” I opened my eyes wide like others did when they were politely questioning my mental well-being.
“Oh, but I think they are her mother’s,” Mr. Morgan spoke up, coming to my rescue. My mouth was agape. How could he have known this?
“You never met her mother,” Edward insisted. “It’s not likely you’d know.”
“I do remember seeing them once.” Morgan stroked his beard and looked at the ceiling, where porcelain cherubs floated ethereally. “Ah, yes. In a portrait of the sisters, in the ballroom.”
I looked at Morgan, fear coursing through me. He smiled and winked.
He had been following me, stalking me like the prey he’d had mounted in his townhome.
Edward got up and made his way down the vestibule—leaving me alone and unchaperoned with Mr. Morgan!
“I should like to have your portrait painted,” Morgan said. “What shall you wear?”
“You shall not have my portrait painted,” I answered.
“We’ll start with a cameo, then.” He bit into his egg, and I heard a doorway open in the distance, and then close again. Edward made his way back and said nothing further, though he gave me a hard look.
CHAPTER TEN
HIGHCLIFFE HALL, PENNINGTON PARK
JULY, 1851
True to her word, as I knew she would be, Lady Somerford arrived on Sunday to fetch me, unusually, herself, so that I might attend Mass at Pennington. Her footman helped me, and I sat opposite her for the short ride. Although the driveway was uneven, this ride was smooth because of their expensively appointed carriage.
“I cannot thank you enough,” I said. “I was in despair over losing the comfort and guidance of my faith. I prayed, and magically you showed up with a solution.”
“Not magically, my dear.” She reached across the aisle and squeezed my gloved hand in hers but for a moment. “Divinely. And I’ve been looking forward to your company.”
“I, too.” The carriage rolled down the drive and onto the now smooth, better-tended road that led us west. “I’m delighted to learn you’ve provided the property for the Benedictine school. Your name had never been mentioned.”
“My husband does not like it to be trumpeted about,” she said, and then quoted Holy Scripture. “ ‘But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.’ ”
I nodded. “I felt such comfort there.”
“The sisters are wonderful, godly women,” she agreed. “Not all are called to take solemn vows. But we can each assist those who are.”
In saying that, Lady Somerford teased forth a thought that had been but a wisp when I’d lived in Winchester and had steadily spun into a sturdier thread in the past weeks. I should have to ask Father Gregory about my idea.
The carriage soon pulled up in front of Pennington, an imposing estate perhaps twice the size of Highcliffe. It was centered by a three-story column, two-story wings extending to the right and left. It seemed to me that those wings were arms flung wide open, and as soon as I entered through the heart and into the grand hall I felt embraced.
The chapel was a large room; perhaps it had once been an additional study that was repurposed for the sake of worship. Until only a few decades earlier, and since the English Reformation some three hundred years past, Catholic worship had either been outlawed, forbidden, or, if one was highly enough placed and well-to-do, frowned upon and overlooked. Some large towns, like Winchester, had actual churches. But in the country, it was mostly house chapels.
Lord Somerford had thoughtfully provided pews with padded kneelers, and he knelt contritely. I spied several others who were well dressed, and some trade
smen, and finally low-born servants. In this household, at least, all were equal in the presence of God.
Lady Somerford arranged for my confession to be heard and afterward for me to speak with Father Gregory. His vestments were neat and carefully fitted, his body slender and his warm eyes the middling brown of autumn leaves; all round them his skin was crinkled with age, just like those leaves. His smile, though, his smile! It conveyed his genuineness and made me feel at ease in his company. We spoke for a few moments, me telling him how much I’d craved attending service again, how thankful I was for his good words and presence. He welcomed me to return anytime, and then quietly got to the point.
“What troubles you, daughter?”
I told him that I had just learned that I had no dowry, and that my cousin would not care for me much longer, and that it was possible that he would marry me to a man who seemed unusual and perhaps cruel. “I do not wish to take the vow of the sacrament of marriage with a man who will not uphold it . . . I have been considering making solemn vows and becoming a nun.”
He did not ridicule or dismiss me, for which I was grateful. But he did speak. “Living in this world can be difficult, but interceding for this world is just as difficult if not more so. It should not be undertaken by those who are not certain they are called to do so.”
I nodded but remained unconvinced. “I’d even pray for the souls of Edward and Mr. Morgan if I were allowed to make vows.”
Father Gregory laughed and took my hand in his own. When he did, I did not need to twist my ring to gain comfort; it came through Father’s hand, which though it shook with age was the steadiest thing I’d held on to for a long time.
“It’s honorable and holy that you do not want to undertake the sacrament of marriage without a true and willing commitment,” he continued. “Similarly, you will not want to make the solemn vows of a nun without God’s calling. Promise me you will make no vow without speaking with me first.”
“Of course, Father, I promise,” I said. I then walked back to Lady Somerford, who was to return me to Highcliffe herself so Edward could have no protest.
All the way home I thought about vows: solemn and marriage. When I considered marriage, though, it was not fear of Mr. Morgan that dominated my thoughts but, extraordinarily enough, the persistent image of the compelling Maltese captain who would soon return to Highcliffe. Perhaps he would ill use me, as had been implied. But . . . perhaps he would not. I chided myself, Do not continue drifting dreamily like a foolish schoolgirl. It was no use.
My heart and thoughts had begun to settle upon Captain Dell’Acqua.
A week later our guests were shortly to arrive. I waited in the vestibule as a young maid finished sweeping damp tea leaves off the Turkish carpets, trying to coax away the musty smell of an unattended house. Oliver, the hall boy, stood near the speaking tube, waiting to be called into duty, polishing a stair rail with his shirtsleeve. I walked up to him. He was so often up and down the back stairs; perhaps I could ask him if he’d noticed anyone near my rooms.
“That young lass,” I pointed to the departing maid, “reminds me of the shepherdess who tends the flocks. Do you know the shepherdess?”
Oliver smiled. “Of course I do, miss. She’s my sister, Emmeline.”
“Ah,” I said. I sat on the bench next to him, which seemed to make him uncomfortable, so I stood again, and he relaxed.
“I did not know her name. I asked her, but she indicated that she was mute.”
He nodded. “Yes, miss. She is, so she cannot be a maid like the one you pointed out, that one that just left. We all have to work, you see, cleaning boots, shoveling coal, taking rubbish out, taking post to and from town. Someday, I hope to be an under-footman!”
“I’m certain you shall be,” I said, though I did not know who would employ him once Highcliffe was sold. Perhaps the new owners. The other staff would not require or desire new positions, I thought; they were older and had only come back for this short season. But what about the young ones?
“Emmeline, well, tending the flocks with the dogs was something she can do,” he finished.
“She does it very well,” I said, pleased by the proud look that came upon him at my praise. “Has she always been mute?”
A troubled look came over him, and he seemed pulled into a memory. “Mr. Everedge—the big man, not Mr. Edward—used to be here. Before he died. There was a lot of men coming and going near our house,” he said, as much to himself as anyone. “On the trails.”
“The sheep trails outside Highcliffe?” I asked. “That lead to the sea?”
He nodded and continued. “We were just young ones, then, out amusing ourselves. How were we to know what was happening? We all hid and followed them, and one of the men started begging and such and Mr. Everedge put him in that smuggling cave with the bees, he did. We heard him scream, and then when he came out he was crying and swollen and his mates took him to the apothecary. A grown man crying! We ran away good.”
I’d stopped breathing, I realized. Such cruelty numbed a person like ice on the tongue. I took a deep breath and encouraged Oliver to continue.
“My brother told my father, he did, and Father switched him and told him to say nothing if he didn’t want to be put in with the bees next. My brother didn’t snitch on us that we were with him. But after that, Emmeline didn’t talk again. Doesn’t need to. Safer to say nothing about what we see. And . . . I sometimes have frightening dreams.”
“I’m so very sorry, Oliver,” I said, my heart breaking. “That is a terrible thing for a young lad and lass to witness.”
“You shan’t say anything, shall you?” His lips grew white. “I shouldn’t have told what we saw!”
“I shan’t,” I said. “But you may call upon me if you ever have a need of help and I will help you. I promise.”
He nodded, and ten seconds passed. “Is there some way I can assist you, miss?” he asked. His whole face had gone bluish white now; I knew he was anxious he’d said too much. Family did not usually linger in vestibules gossiping with servants.
I could not now, in good conscience, ask what I’d intended: if he had seen anyone entering or leaving my rooms. Oliver’s words of warning ran in my head. Safer to say nothing, one way or another, about what we see.
“Do you like sweets, Oliver? Does Emmeline?”
His voice grew bright and cracked; in spite of his bravado his voice had not yet broken into manhood. “I think we do, miss, not having had them often.”
“Wait here.”
I made my way down to the stillroom and filled two small boxes with soft sweets and hard caramels. I returned and held them out to Oliver. “One for you, and one for your sister.”
“Are you sure, miss? I wouldn’t want anyone angry.”
“They shan’t be,” I promised. “And there will be more in future. I’d rather you think of my family sweetly than with bad dreams.”
The next week, Clementine and I took tea in the drawing room on a day when callers were not expected. It was warm, being mid-July, and I had asked to be served cool rosewater in addition to my tea. Chef willingly obliged; I think he rather enjoyed serving something unusual as well as the opportunity to utilize the stillroom. While she browsed her lady’s periodicals, I paged through Edward’s Hampshire Chronicle, which drew an arched brow from Clementine. Advertisements for dental surgery, wet nurses, cottages for let, estate sales, and yes! Governess.
No, this was not mine. It began with, A Young Lady of the Established Church, desirous of forming an immediate engagement in a clergyman’s or gentleman’s family.
I could not say I was of the established church, and clearly that was important enough to be placed at the top of the solicitation. Where was my enquiry? What was I to do? I must find a situation—and quickly! Midway through the hour, Watts announced the arrival of the Maltese men. I did not have time to continue looking.
Clementine rose to greet them and advised Watts to bring their things to the guest quarters.
“Thank you, kind Mrs. Everedge, but we shall quarter on my ship, the Poseidon. It will be easier for me to discuss my ventures that way, too,” Dell’Acqua said.
Ah. Perhaps he had matters to conduct that he did not want Edward to know of.
“I’m sorry my husband isn’t here to greet you just now,” Clementine said. “May I offer you refreshment in his absence?”
Dell’Acqua shook his head no and then caught my eye. Had he not seen me earlier? Oh, Annabel, I reproached myself. You are perhaps nothing more to him than a means to an end, as he is intended, by Edward, to be for you.
“I should very much like to take tea with you and Miss Ashton,” Dell’Acqua said. Two other men accompanied him, and the three of them, plus Clementine, joined me in the drawing room. Whether it was intentional or not, Dell’Acqua took the seat Clementine had been sitting in, the one directly across the small table from where I sat. That left the others to be seated near the window, a little ways away from the two of us.
Unaccountably, my spirits rose.
“May I pour tea for you, Captain?” I asked. “My grandfather’s tea set, from Malta, I believe. He was a great collector of fine silver. I like to think I get my artistic interests from him, and from my mother.”
The captain smiled. “And we are renowned for our silversmiths. Our artists, really.” He smiled at me. “Perhaps your father was an artist.”
“I have no father,” I gently rebuked. “I am, in English law, filia nullius. However, sometime I shall have to show you the art of Highcliffe,” I said. “Before it’s sold off or carried away to London.”
“I am most interested in the art of Miss Ashton,” he said, not mentioning my father again. He looked at the teapot. “Yes, I do believe that is Maltese. Is this the only Maltese teapot you have?”