by Sandra Byrd
I was certain he’d been a beautiful child. That he would have beautiful children himself, someday.
“What did you reach for, Captain Dell’Acqua?” I asked.
“Marco, please. Call me Marco.”
“Se insiste, Marco.” It rolled over my tongue in Italian and not English.
“I do insist,” he said. “You speak beautiful Italian. You should learn Maltese.”
“What did you reach for?” I asked, gliding over that comment. He did not look at me as we strolled, but he took my hand in his own and I did not withdraw it. If only that could be true—that he’d reached for my hand, and that was his destiny.
“I reached for a rope knot,” he said, simply. He let go of my hand to show me, with his hands, the shape of one. “All took that to mean I’d be at sea, and as our family was in shipping, it seemed fortuitous. When, some years later, my mother married and my brother was born, and he reached for the crucifix, we knew he would not be able to support us all.” He smiled. “More children followed, and yet, here I am. My destiny has proved true.”
By then we’d reached the area where the ropewalk began, and it was empty. “Where are Edward, Mr. Morgan, and the others?” I asked.
“Perhaps they have already left,” he said. In front of us stretched long, narrow paths of three hundred feet or more; they had cement guidelines where the rope had been manufactured in times past, and where it would be made again, once the arrangements had been completed.
“We’ll build a shelter atop this, of course,” Marco said. “So the men are out of the elements.”
“That’s kind,” I said.
He bent down and plucked a piece of rope, several feet long, from the ground. It showed some signs of wear; it may have laid there for a dozen years or more.
“Shall I make a knot for you? Like the one I chose?” he asked.
I nodded and he made a quick knot. “A traditional sailor’s knot,” he said. He kept hold of one side of the rope and handed the other side to me. “You try.”
“Oh dear, I am not proficient at that,” I said. But I gamely twisted the rope until it was a loose jumble. “I do not recommend that anyone try to secure his ship with that.” I was about to drop my end of the rope but he indicated that I should hold on to it.
He quickly made another knot, one that resembled one heart slipped through another, circles with no end. “Lover’s knots,” he said, and as he did, he made another one and another until he was pulling me, clutching the far end of the rope, closer to himself.
“You seem well practiced at lover’s knots,” I teased, but my voice had grown rough with emotions: affection for this man, desire for a future I wished could be mine, fear that Edward and Mr. Morgan would return, a wish that the afternoon would never end.
“No, no, that is not true,” he said, and with one final, quick tug on the rope drew me close in front of him. “I have always thought they resembled nothing so much as a noose. Until now, Bella, until now.”
His face was within an inch of mine, and my breath caught. He pulled back.
“My name is Dell’Acqua, ‘of the water,’ and not De’Angelis, ‘of the angels.’ But I do not want to be numbered among the rogues you have known.” With that, he pulled back from me, but the look on his face let me know that he wished he did not have to.
I wondered what he read upon my face. I let the rope fall to the ground. “We should return,” I said. “They will be wondering where I am.” I certainly did not want Edward to quarantine me. “And I shall tell you a story of England, as I promised Clemmy I would.”
He laughed, then, a sound as rich as the sea, a laugh I imagined could be Poseidon’s himself, and placed my hand inside the crook of his arm. “Teach me—I am your most devoted pupil.”
“I shall tell you a story of Hampshire,” I said, “as we are here. In fact, of Winchester, where I used to teach, as you know. That is also where the Benedictine sisters still teach and serve. I had thought, perhaps, to join them.”
He looked at me with great, but silent, surprise, probably happily reaffirming his decision not to kiss me just minutes before. We walked along the seaside path. “My father lives near Winchester,” he said. “It’s one reason I decided to make connections locally rather than on other English coasts.”
Now I looked at him in surprise. “Do I know your father? I know many families hereabouts.”
He gently waved away the question, not willing to divulge the name yet, apparently. I wondered why. “Go on,” he encouraged me. “We have not much time before we return to Highcliffe and I should like to hear your story.”
“Winchester Cathedral used to belong to us, of course,” I said, and risked a daring wink that earned me a deep laugh and his pulling me a bit closer as we walked. ’Twas worth it. “Before the Reformers stole it. Saint Swithin was one of its most beloved saints. Perhaps one hundred years after his death, in the mid-ninth century, he was chosen patron saint for the Benedictine Monastery. He was known for wisdom, and kindness and holiness, but what he is most renowned for is the simple kindness with which he treated the poor. One day as he was crossing a bridge he met a pitiable woman who had only a basket of eggs to sell.”
We approached Highcliffe; Clementine remained in the distance. Marco slowed his gait.
“Go on,” he urged me.
“The woman was somehow jostled by a passerby, and she dropped her basket and the eggs broke; she was completely bereft, and the saint, seeing her distress, took the basket and miraculously made her eggs whole again. Sometimes the simplest acts reveal the most about a person’s character. He was known more for that kindness than for any other. Swithin reminds me of you, Marco.”
He stopped. “Me? A saint? No, my dearest Bella. No.”
“His care for the poor, for the underserved,” I said.
He took my hand again and caressed it slightly before placing it, properly, in the crook of his arm once more as we approached Highcliffe.
There is another way he is like St. Swithin, I thought. Perhaps, somehow, he could make me whole again.
“You make me laugh,” Marco said. “And blush. And question things. And see myself differently.”
“That is good?” I didn’t truly know.
He nodded.
“Then your ‘English’ lesson was profitable today,” I said softly. Clementine quickly approached, rather than waiting for us to greet her.
“It’s been a lovely day, Captain Dell’Acqua, and I’m glad you enjoyed your stroll, which I was able to supervise.”
She could not possibly have seen us all the way to the ropewalk.
“And we shall be very pleased to entertain you and your men tomorrow evening for cards, and supper. Until then!”
It was an abrupt send-off but he bowed politely, and I saw that Watts had already called for his carriage.
We rounded up the steps, and Clementine took my arm rather less gently than Marco had.
“We shall say nothing of the walk,” she hissed. “He need not know.”
I nodded and returned to my rooms.
Who was the he that was not to know: Edward or Mr. Morgan?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Late the following evening, while an autumn storm threw rain against the house, we played cribbage at round tables in the ballroom. Clementine had invited a number of neighbors, now returned from the London season that had been foregone on our end due to lack of resources, so I was able to greet people I hadn’t seen in years. The ballroom had been completely undraped; it was now assumed we would keep Highcliffe. I should ask Mr. Galpine, if I had cause to see him, if the advertisements or enquiries about its sale had ceased.
Edward had allowed Clementine to hire extra staff, who circulated around the room under the careful eye of Mr. and Mrs. Watts. Their son, Jack, had come from London to act as valet for Edward until they all returned to London in a few weeks’ time. I saw the special look of pride that Mrs. Watts had when her son attended the master of the house; it was
the look I’d seen in Clementine’s eye when young Albert had scampered down for cuddles before bed to the delight of the visitors, announcing that he’d been named after the prince and demanding of his mother, “Come and tuck me up!” It was, I imagine, the look Edward’s mother, Judith, would have given Edward. It was the look my mother, I recalled just then, had for me. I blinked back a tear.
“Have a care with the candle, Annabel.” Mummy and I sat on her bed, turning the pages of a book of fairy tales.
“I’m careful. I’m not a small child,” I insisted. I put my head too near the candle; Mother reached forward and took the candle from me. “It throws light, but it can cause fire as well,” she said.
“It smells good. Like honey.”
She laughed. “Oh, Annabel. My papa always said that the reason he kept bees at Highcliffe was because they brought us two great things: sweetness, in the honey, and light, in the beeswax. You love sweetness, and you bring light. Hereafter, I dub you Princess Sweetness and Light.”
“A princess, a princess!” I jumped on her bed and she put that to a quick stop with a stern look.
“A lady, a lady,” she insisted, patting the bed again. I obliged and sat down whilst she started another story.
I should like to have a child look upon me that way, someday, and have that child respond with unconditional love and affection.
“Miss Ashton?” Lady Somerford rested her hand gently on my arm, bringing me back to the present. “Elizabeth has asked after you,” she said, a strange tone coloring her voice.
“Tell her I am well,” I responded. “And I am looking forward to seeing her at Christmas. I hope she received the watercolor of Pennington I painted and had sent to her?”
Lady Somerford shook her head. “She has not mentioned it. I am certain she would have.”
Edward invited us to the dining room.
Edward and Lord Somerford led the way, unaccountably leaving Lady Somerford quite alone. Marco, a true gentleman, took her arm.
Mr. Morgan took mine. “Henceforth,” he said, “please call me Nigel. And I always shall refer to you as . . . Annabel.”
By the time we sat down, Clementine already looked slightly overwrought and emotional. It might have been her predinner drinks, but it probably was also due to the enormous strain put upon her entertaining week after week, knowing that the family’s financial well-being depended upon the successful conclusion of Edward’s negotiation. For his part, he seemed to be ignorant and unappreciative of her efforts on his behalf.
The first course was brought to the table, a little nest of potato sticks upon which rested a single quail’s egg, whole. We were to break the eggs open to eat. I had never seen Chef serve such a thing. I saw a glance exchanged between Marco and Chef—had he talked to Chef?
Marco looked at me, and I saw the slightest smile on his lips. Of course. St. Swithin’s eggs, restored. A sweet and unspoken message, one greatly welcomed. I did not eat my egg and allowed it to be removed whole and intact.
The Maltese men admired the art in the dining room; Edward had our most notable pieces hung there, as it was where guests were most likely to join us. I looked up at the beautifully carved plaster molded ceiling, flecked with gilt, cherubs serving baskets of fruit. “Such a fine collection—some masters, of course,” Lieutenant Bosco observed, pointing toward a large portrait behind Clementine’s seat, “but also some I have not seen before.” He then pointed to one of a Maltese urn overflowing with Mediterranean flowers.
“Thank you,” I said. “My mother painted that.”
Edward opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it. He’d forgotten that was my mother’s work! Bosco tugged on his collar, his face reddening. “There are others, too, which are beautiful.” He followed Edward’s eye and landed upon an English landscape. “Such as that one.”
“Painted by my mother,” Edward spoke up. The frame was, of course, much richer and more detailed than the one surrounding my mother’s simple art. “My mother was quite an artist; she’s been hung at many galleries and I intend to have more of her work placed about the house, now we’re staying.”
We were staying! Highcliffe was not lost. If Highcliffe could be saved then perhaps so could I.
“I should very much like to show you some of her work before you leave, but I’m afraid it will not be hung before you return to Malta,” Edward continued. “Perhaps . . . perhaps a visit to the attic after dinner. I’ve been having it removed from storage, taken from the dust covers and wraps, and with some lamps . . .” He looked toward Watts, who nodded.
Lieutenant Bosco tried to smooth over the path by mentioning that English art could not compare in beauty to English women: Mrs. Everedge, Miss Ashton, and of course, Miss Baker.
“Ah yes, Emily Baker,” Edward said. Clementine’s face went sour. I looked at Marco, who smiled lightly at Bosco’s mention of Miss Baker.
“Miss Baker?” I asked. “I do not think I have made her acquaintance.”
“You should,” Lieutenant Bosco said, but then Marco shifted the conversation toward the ropewalks, and Edward eagerly jumped in with ideas.
Who was Miss Baker?
After the final course was removed, and before the brandy and port, Edward led a few of us up the attic stairs; Lord and Lady Somerford, as well as many other guests, pleaded age and withdrew to the drawing room. The stairs creaked and moaned with the weight of so many replete-with-supper feet, each of us holding a lantern, as though Edward were leading a search party, indoors.
Perhaps he was.
When we reached the top of the stairs we spread out; several stacks of paintings leaned up against load-bearing attic beams. Most had their dust sheets removed. We looked at the first stack—some pretty pictures of Highcliffe, and some of the seascapes nearby. Lovely, but nondescript. There was a little murmuring, but no exclamations of genius. Edward looked eager to find something that would truly impress.
He led us toward the back, to another stack, and one that seemed to have just had the cover removed, judging by the disarray of dust. “Let’s try these,” Edward said aloud. With that, he set down his lantern and lifted a portrait toward us.
I gasped. I could not help but display my shock, though I knew it would not help me. In fact, this portrait, of all things, made my position both more hopeful and ever direr.
Clementine’s eyes widened, and she signaled to Edward that he should set the portrait down. He looked at her and, instead, turned it round to view it for himself.
“That bonnet,” one of the Maltese officers spoke up. “That is the traditional Maltese wedding bonnet that the captain”—he looked at Marco—“showed us a picture of. The drawing of it on her head,” he added, pointing to me. “He was trying to learn from where in Malta such a bonnet might come. Ecco, there it is again—what a coincidence.”
Mr. Morgan looked confused, though presumably he knew what my mother looked like, as he’d seen her portrait in the ballroom, with the hair combs.
Marco looked at me. The woman in the portrait was most certainly my mother, side by side with a raven-haired man, a man who looked, somehow, like me. My mother wore the cap. The marriage cap.
She’d been married, and I was legitimate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“If your mother painted this, she was a fine artist,” Marco told Edward, but I barely paid attention to any conversation as my mind swirled with the implications. Had Judith painted my mother’s marriage portrait—if that was, indeed, what this was—while they were in Malta? If she had, she’d known all along that my mother was married, and that I was legitimate. Or was this a rendering done, perhaps, by my own mother? Was it real? Or had she been duped into a sham marriage?
My father had soft, kind eyes and his hand rested against my mother’s jaw, tenderly. This did not appear to be a man duping a young lady or a man with no scruples. I was undone by seeing my father, perhaps, for the first time, but I did not have time to gawk and founder. He looked like me. “My mother,”
I said. “And . . . my father?”
Edward did not answer, but his face had turned to gray. His mind apparently swirled with implications, too. “This painting—it was not here, nor placed here, when I was last up in the attic. I think I could use a sherry,” he said, leading us in parade back down the stairway, to the music room, where he had arranged for someone to play for our entertainment.
Even I took a sherry that night. What could this mean? Mr. Morgan stayed even more closely by my side after the attic discovery. He understood, surely, that if I were to be somehow proved legitimate, I would be the owner of Highcliffe and all the family investments.
If Morgan and I were married, it would all convey to him. I shuddered at the thought. Edward must certainly recognize that as well. Would it affect his rush to see me married to Morgan once investment matters with the Maltese were concluded?
I could hope.
But he would not want me to marry anyone else, then, either.
The other guests rejoined us and we listened to a few, final songs on the pianoforte. Clementine and Edward exchanged worried glances all evening as the multitude of domestics swirled about in silent pirouettes of service.
I stood with Edward and Clementine and said good-bye to our guests.
After Edward had closed the door on the last of them, he turned to me.
“Did you have something to do with that portrait in the attic?”
“By my faith,” I said honestly, “I had no idea such a thing existed until you showed it to us all.”
Clementine did not look at either of us; instead, she turned to leave instructions with the servants. Edward ran his fingers through his hair and dismissed me.
I went to my rooms, hurriedly undressed, draping my clothing across the dressing table chair, and climbed into my bed. A fire had been thoughtfully prepared for me, and it forestalled, somewhat, the early autumn cool.