by Sandra Byrd
As I approached Clementine’s door, I heard Edward’s voice, raised, through the heavy oak. “You mean to greet my guests dressed like that? This isn’t Dorset, Clementine. Our negotiations are coming down to the final few weeks, and I want to project an air of competence and worldliness. That’s why the whole world has gathered in London for the Exhibition. To see what we English can do, and for my part, I mean to show them.”
Come now, Edward. I freely rolled my eyes as no one was about. The whole world? Dorset was lovely, and his dealings seemed secure.
His voice continued. “Mother was right. I’d prefer our guests see my wife, and their hostess, as the town mouse, not the country mouse, if a mouse she must be.”
That was unfair. Clementine was a fine hostess, and had come up with the St. James celebration ideas on her own. Why didn’t she speak up for herself?
I felt shame blush from my scalp to my toes. Why indeed, Miss Ashton. If it’s so simple, speak up and refuse Mr. Morgan.
I heard high-pitched pleading and then silence from Clementine, and quickly returned down the hallway lest Edward find me eavesdropping. I should, I gathered, have to prepare myself for the evening.
I thought about summoning Mrs. Watts and then changed my mind. A few of my things had been rearranged in my absence. Someone had been minding my business.
Dinner went smoothly, and although I did not exchange lengthy conversations with Captain Dell’Acqua, I glanced his way several times; each time I did I found him glancing my way, smiling widely with a look I knew somehow, as a woman will, had been reserved for me. Had Mr. Morgan observed this? If he had, he did not disclose it as he was deep in conversation with Lord Somerford, who in turn seemed more reserved this evening than I’d seen him before. I hoped all was progressing smoothly. Perhaps Edward was right to be worried.
After dinner, I spoke lightly with Captain Dell’Acqua about his “England lessons” and he promised he would soon agree to be lectured on customs and concerns. I smiled; we’d kept everything proper and superficial, but the feelings ran deeper. Mine did, anyway, though perhaps I should not have let them. And then we ladies withdrew to the drawing room to take tea, and the men retired to the smoking room for cigars and port.
Lady Somerford and Elizabeth took the sofa, two other ladies, wives of men who had come for the evening, seated themselves in the chairs near the window, and Clementine and I sat across a small table from one another. I lifted the lid to the honey container, brought in on a tray, and saw it was nearly empty. How odd, and unlike Mrs. Watts. Captain Dell’Acqua had not yet had time to send more round, I guessed, but local honey could have done.
Next to Clementine’s saucer was a small plate of sugar cubes, the ones lightly tinted green with, I thought, mint, to match the china. I should have brought up some of the neroli-tinted ones. I dropped three into my tea and hoped that would be enough. Then I dropped in one more.
Clementine looked at me strangely but said nothing, turning back to focus her attention on our guests. She looked overdressed in the multitiered creation Edward had insisted she wear, like an elaborate wedding cake set out for simple afternoon tea.
The tea tasted very odd indeed. Within five minutes my head started to feel light and a strange, tingling sensation burned in my lips, almost as when one’s hand tingles if it’s been laid upon all night. The words around me began to run together a little, like a hum from which no distinct word could be parsed. I gripped the chair’s arm and finished the rest of the cup of tea, hoping it would help. It did not. Five more minutes brought a sense of pressure to my chest, a swimming sensation in my mind. I hoped that my heaving efforts to breathe deeply were not noted.
I stood, but as I did my legs buckled some and I began to sway. I heard Elizabeth speak to me, but I could not make out what she’d said. Lady Somerford stood then, too, and I found, somehow, the presence to speak. “Please, be seated—I’m well.”
Had I slurred my words? Clementine looked truly alarmed, and though I felt ill, I could imagine the thought running through her mind was, What will Edward think?
I heard someone, I could not see who, whisper, “Her mother.”
Had someone really whispered that? Or had I imagined it? In my present state, I could not be certain.
I excused myself politely and raced unsteadily down the hall. Unfortunately, I had to pass the smoking room in order to get to the stairway. Captain Dell’Acqua was speaking with Mr. Morgan and Edward, whose backs were toward me. Dell’Acqua saw me sway, I think, and looked alarmed. Mr. Morgan turned around just as I tilted toward the wall. He seemed to be walking toward me. I could not allow that.
I disappeared into the servant’s staircase and as I did, saw Father Gregory and Chef speaking at the foot of the stairs. What was the priest doing here? Or had I imagined that, too?
“Are you all right?” Chef called up to me. I hoped from that distance he would not be able to see the panic and confusion I felt.
“Yes, just a little unwell,” I said, offering no reason for my being on the back stairs. I climbed up and out of their sight. I did not wish to be found until I could come to an understanding of what was happening to me. Instead of stopping at the floor where my rooms were located, I made my way to the top of the narrow passage and slipped into the blessedly quiet quarantine room.
I closed the door behind me. Clementine would find it difficult to excuse herself from her guests for some time. I went to the window, which was chilled from the night air. The stained glass brought me comfort, and pressing my face against the panes cleared my mind.
What had happened? The confusion was, thankfully, receding, but I remained frightened. Was it the first vestiges of the madness I always feared?
I thought back over the evening. I’d felt fine until . . . the tea. The tea in which I’d dropped sugar cubes that had been tinted green, but did not taste of mint but rather, licorice.
Absinthe!
I breathed a deep sigh. I had not gone mad. I was not mad. In fact, I had imbibed of three—no, four—doses of Clementine’s green fairy. So this was how she took her spirits when she wanted no one to know. In sugar cubes. And that was, perhaps, why Maud had been so keen to tend the condiments.
I nearly cried with relief that it all made sense. I’d always disbelieved those who said I must be inclined toward instability because my mother was, but this night, this hour . . . I had worried. I admitted it. And why shouldn’t I have? They’d been so apprehensive about my mother’s madness contaminating us all that they’d left her to be buried, unrecognized, in the asylum grounds. At that moment, I was overwhelmed by that truth, her left alone and unrecognized, unmarked and unremarked. It was not fresh news but now, understanding what she must have felt, I pitied and loved her the more for their thoughtless gesture, one that had left her bereft and alone at the end.
I let my spirits settle and then with my head clear decided to take a moment and look through that magnificent desk once more because, perhaps, it may have been hers or at least used by her during her enforced isolation. I pulled open one drawer after another, only to find them all empty. I ran my hands down the sides of the desk and my palm caught, on one side, on a tiny hinge. I ran my finger round that whole side and found a perfectly crafted little lock. When I flipped it, a door swung open. I pressed hard, and when I did, something fell out.
A miniature sketchbook.
I sank to the floor, hard crinoline crunching round me, picked up the book, and then opened it. Julianna Ashton was scrawled on the inside of it, and nearly every page was filled with sketches—glorious renderings, I had no doubt, drawn by my mother. I quickly flipped through them, promising myself I would savor them, as they deserved, later. The very last sketch was done in a child’s hand, but it showed promise. Underneath the small trio of feebly stemmed tulips my mother had written, Annabel drew this. Isn’t it lovely?
A sob caught in my throat. My first drawing, with my mother. Together. I wanted to keep the notebook but dared not, not yet.
Not until I could find a safe place to keep it. I could hardly clip it to my garter; it was too heavy. I had never owned anything of my mother’s and now, within the span of the four months since I’d returned from Winchester, I’d been gifted with many things. I could not bear to lose any of them.
I took a deep breath, then slipped the notebook back inside the concealed side panel. I had not easily noticed it and hoped no one else would, either. The dust in the room had not been disturbed since my last visit. I heard a little buzz and leaned near the speaking tube. The guests were preparing to depart. The tube sent up voices, men’s voices, from the first-floor hallway. One man made a comment about the ends justifying the means and that it would be well and profitable for all involved. It sounded conclusive and somehow wrong. What ends? What means? I opened the door to the room and started walking down the steps, then turned down the hallway toward my rooms. As I did, I noticed Mrs. Watts coming from the area just outside my door.
I looked at her quizzically.
“Are you quite well?” she asked, noting I had come from the servants’ stairway. Was her brusque question to distract me from the fact that she’d been in my rooms—if she had been—or was the question due to my “episode”?
“Yes.” I took the offensive. “I’m surprised to see you about at this hour.”
“The household is my responsibility,” she said smoothly. “Mrs. Everedge is looking for you.”
“She may find me in my rooms,” I said, and then nodded a dismissal.
I was not in my rooms long before Clementine knocked.
“What happened?” Her face reflected genuine apprehension and confusion. “Mr. Morgan was most concerned.”
If only I could act insane long enough for Mr. Morgan’s interest to move on, I would do it. I knew what the consequences of that would be, however, better than most. And he’d likely find it “interesting.”
“I was unwell, but for a short while,” I said. “After the tea.” I could hardly accuse her of saturating her sugar cubes with spirits. I knew it was probable, but it was also probable that she’d deny it.
Clementine did not venture farther into the room, keeping a distance between us. “But you’ve recovered.”
“I have.” Had Mr. Morgan alone asked after me? I was afraid I’d shamed myself in front of Captain Dell’Acqua. To his knowledge, I had already bowed out of dinner once due to being unwell. “I hope I did not disturb your guests,” was all I could say, and hoped she would shade in the outline.
“The ladies thought you had . . . taken ill,” she said. “Lady Leahy did ask me to offer departing greetings; she returns to London on the morrow. She’ll be back for Christmas, so there’s that to look forward to.”
I nodded.
“None of the gentlemen save Mr. Morgan seemed to notice your sudden and unusual flight,” she continued. She backed to the door. “Good night, Annabel. I truly hope the morning finds you recovered. The gentlemen plan to spend the day at the ropewalk, but will return the day after next.”
After she had closed the door behind her, I wondered why she had not had a similar response if she, too, had eaten the sugars. A terror of anxiety ran through me like an undisciplined child: Perhaps it was true after all? I caught, held, and soothed the thought. Clementine had taken but one cube, perhaps, or had grown accustomed to the effects. Her body had accommodated itself to the physic by habit.
That was all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The next afternoon found me recovering in the conservatory, reading books I’d taken down from the library shelves. I’d left a small watercolor I’d done of Pennington, wrapped in brown paper, near the door; it was one I had hoped to give to Elizabeth the night before but then, due to the circumstances, had been unable. Watts would see it sent along to her.
I had fully recovered from the inconveniences of the previous night and was enjoying the afternoon sun slanting through the freshly cleaned windows. Mrs. Watts had hired additional staff to tend to Highcliffe now that it looked as though the house would not be sold; dust sheets were being removed rather than added, and the packing of rooms had stopped.
Shortly after tea, Watts came into the room and announced that Captain Dell’Acqua had come to call.
Clementine stood up. “He is not expected.”
“Shall I tell him you are not in?” Watts asked.
“No, I shall speak with him.” Clementine straightened her dress and made her way to the hall. Within five minutes she returned—Captain Dell’Acqua in tow!
“The captain says his man had confused the days and hours he was to meet at Winchester and then the ropewalks.”
Dell’Acqua, beside her, lifted up his hands as if to gesture, what to do? But I saw the glint in his eye. There had been no mix-up.
“I wondered, therefore, if Mrs. Everedge would allow you to progress with a lesson on English culture,” he said, looking at me. Then he turned toward her. “Your husband thought it was a splendid idea for me to become more comfortable with local ideas.”
Clementine was fighting fatigue, I knew. This was normally the time when she would take a short afternoon nap, but she could not afford to put off the captain and she could not leave me unchaperoned.
“Perhaps we could stroll outside,” I offered. “We could make our way toward the ropewalks, where we’re sure to meet up with Edward. Watts might set up a chaise lounge for you to recline upon and watch as the captain and I walk.”
She reluctantly agreed and we made our way down the path and toward the ropewalks, which were not far away.
“It was good of Clemmy to allow this,” Marco offered with a tease.
I grinned. “It was not considerate of you to show up unannounced. I would have prepared differently . . .” Oh dear. Now he’d know I would have preened for him. I expected him to make a tease of that, but he did not.
“You are perfect as you are,” he said. “Always.” He did not seem to be trifling with me. His simple pronouncements, in stark contrast to the ornate offerings of other men, never failed to move me. “Are you quite well today?” Concern showed on his face. “I was most anxious all evening.”
“I am not certain what happened,” I began, because it was true that I was not certain, and I could not make unfounded accusations, nor was I sure that, even if I were certain, I should tell him. “Perhaps something I ate.” We had all eaten exactly the same thing . . . except for the sugar. “But I am quite recovered. Thank you for asking.”
“I was very concerned,” he said. “I wanted to ride back this morning, but I thought perhaps it would be unsuitable and remarked upon and then I would not have this time alone with you. I understand from your cousin that Mr. Morgan prefers you not be left alone in my company.”
Was that why he had not spoken of anything more personal, a commitment of some kind, to me? He had been told I was engaged to Morgan? “Mr. Morgan has no rule over me,” I said. Yet. After a long pause, I added, “I look forward to our companionship. But the ropewalks? Were you not supposed to meet Edward and Lord Somerford there today?”
“I shall tell them that you accompanied me to show me where they were, when I arrived, unexpectedly, at Highcliffe,” he said. “I am hoping to soon make my decision as to the ropewalks, perhaps finalizing with your cousin for our mutual arrangements. They will be good for the people of Malta, and they will be good for the people of Lymington—Lord Somerford has confirmed that. Everedge assures us that he has ample men to apply to the task.” He grinned. “There is one other man who is most interested in partnering together. I am still speaking with him as well. I must decide between the two. And then there will be some weeks of negotiations for terms before we’ll finally come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement. But things are moving quickly toward a conclusion.”
“And you will return home soon?” I asked quietly.
“Yes, within a month or so,” he said. “To Malta. Is that my home?” He turned from me and looked out over the sea. “My home is the Poseidon. I h
ave a family, I have friends and . . . others in Malta. But it doesn’t ever quite seem like home.”
I knew that feeling. Highcliffe seemed to be home, but it could never be home because I was always there at someone’s mercy.
“You have ‘others’ to return to?” I asked, heart heavy. “Perhaps a lady?”
“Now, Miss Ashton,” he began, “Bella. What kind of man would I be if I spoke of things like that?”
In spite of myself, I grinned. “Like most other men.”
“You’ve known rogues, then.” He had neatly sidestepped my question.
I thought of the men in my family, and the men who had courted me in years past, and Mr. Morgan. “Yes,” I agreed. “I have. Did you always know you were to be a sailor?” I looked out at the peaceful sea to the right, across the Solent toward the Isle of Wight.
“I’ll answer that by way of a story,” he said, teasingly reminding me of our last conversation. “And to tutor you, too, in the ways of Malta.”
I leaned forward, and he leaned toward me. Our shoulders touched, and I did not move away, nor did he. He smelled of sand and salt and the sea, with the tiniest remnant of his Arabian-tinged cologne. I could barely concentrate on what he might say for the touch of him; I felt his muscles move beneath his linen shirt. I sent up a silent prayer that Clementine had fallen asleep in the sun and would not come after us.
“When a Maltese baby has his or her first birthday, there is a party, of course. There is always a party in Malta!”
I laughed with him. “Of course.”
“At the baby’s birthday, the parents, or in my case, my mother, arrange for a game called il-quċċija, in which a good number of objects are placed in front of the child. There might be a hard-boiled egg, a coin, a book, a rosary or a crucifix, a ring of gold, a charcoal pencil. Whatever the child reaches for and holds on to, that is said to be his or her destiny.”