Bride of a Distant Isle

by Sandra Byrd

  It was true. I knew it was true, and so did, with all probability, everyone present in that room. My mother had been married unless my father had deceived her. She was a clever woman; could she have been tricked?

  Perhaps.

  If she’d been married, and the even more weighty consideration, if I could somehow prove that, Highcliffe and everything else would be mine and she would have been momentously wronged. Edward knew what was at stake now, too, and he, more even than Lady Somerford, was too clever by half.

  I awoke the next morning aware that something felt different. Was it my circumstances? Dark premonition and presentiment closed around me like the curtains tightly drawn around my bed.

  I sat up in bed, threw those curtains aside, and looked toward my dressing table. Somehow, in the night, my clothing had been rearranged.

  I picked up my garters and to my dismay found that the Maltese wedding bonnet was no longer clipped to them. It had disappeared.

  The others were up early, too, odd for a morning after late entertainment. Clementine and Edward had served themselves breakfast from the sideboard and were at the table. Maud, Watts, and Mrs. Watts bustled about in the background. Jack Watts passed me, going out as I was going in, and nodded.

  I took a slice of toast and some marmalade and sat down.

  A minute or two ticked by, then Clementine spoke up. “You had mentioned a bonnet, or cap, some time ago, hadn’t you, Annabel?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I had.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  I had nothing to lose by being honest at this point. “I found one in my rooms.”

  Clementine finished her cup. “May I see it?”

  I looked at her directly. “I’m afraid not. As of this morning, it seems to have disappeared.”

  Edward folded his paper. “Really, Annabel. You expect us to believe that? The night after we see an odd sort of portrait of someone, wearing something, this mysterious cap disappears.”

  “Believe as you may,” I said, “but that is what has happened.”

  “Has anyone other than you seen this cap?” he asked. “Not a sketch of it, but the actual cap itself?”

  I put down my toast, the reality of what he was insinuating crumbling in my mouth. Was he helping me find that which had gone missing, or, more likely, questioning whether or not such a thing may have existed?

  “No. Not that I am aware of,” I said.

  “So perhaps . . . you had seen a portrait of this kind of cap somewhere, and then fancied a drawing of yourself with it on your head. Imitating the first portrait. Might that be true?”

  “No, it is not. I did not imagine the cap; I’ve touched and held it. And I told you, I had not seen that portrait of my mother, wearing a cap, until last night.”

  “Perhaps after remembering the painting from somewhere you wanted to imagine yourself married to someone Maltese and sketched it in some hope . . .” Clementine offered me an exit, quietly.

  I shook my head. “This is not true. I’m very sorry, but it’s not. I held the cap; I saw it repeatedly, many times. It is now missing.”

  “All right,” Edward said soothingly. “All right. It’s gone now, so we shan’t worry about it any longer. I’ve some accounts to tend to; then, later this afternoon, I would like to see you in my study if I may. You’ll be here?”

  Where else would I be? “Of course,” I answered. “I’m at your command.”

  As I left the room, I heard Watts mention the name Lillywhite to him.

  Edward was planning to visit Grandfather’s solicitor. To see if there was further evidence of my mother’s marriage?

  I spent the morning reading in my room and thinking. Had I really seen and touched the cap? Had I placed it on my garter, each day, as I clearly remembered doing? And had I never really viewed that portrait of my mother—and perhaps my father—before? Maybe my mother had had it in her rooms, and I had remembered it so deeply that it came to my unconscious mind but no farther. The implications frightened me. Was I, truly, a lunatic? Or was someone trying to help me by placing some of my mother’s things where I must see them and take heart . . . and action?

  I wanted nothing so much as to visit the quarantine room to see if my mother’s sketchbook was still in place, but I could not risk drawing attention to myself just then. Edward called me down to his study later on that afternoon and to my surprise he had rather good news.

  I sat across from him, just he and I, while one of the day maids served us tea and small cakes, lavender scented and lightly iced, one of Chef’s specialties.

  “Mr. Morgan will not be joining us for a month or so,” Edward began. “He had been planning to speak with you on a singular, personal matter today—”

  “Marriage,” I interjected.

  Edward nodded. “But given the state of your health I suggested that a month of rest might be a good idea. It will allow him to tend to his other concerns, and for you to recuperate. Matrimonial matters can still be settled well before Christmas if we wish that to be so.”

  I did not wish that to be so, and he knew it. I took a moment and looked at Edward, who appeared to be truly befuddled. He was a shrewd card player, though; I’d partnered him at whist many times. Deep down, I knew that he was not giving me time to “recover.” He was going to try to see if he could sort out whether I was legitimate, and if so, if it could be proven.

  For if it could be he would not want me to marry Mr. Morgan, because then his “friend” and investment partner would, in many ways, own Edward. Should I prove legitimate, I, and not Edward, would own all. Should I marry Morgan and have children, they, not Albert, would inherit all. Mr. Morgan would control the family interests in any case. This, then, was why my engagement and subsequent marriage to Morgan had been delayed.

  For now.

  My relief was temporary, and replaced with a new fear. Ten minutes later, as I returned to my rooms, I started up the stairs but found that I had a hard time placing my foot down just right. My feet felt heavy, as though I had sat upon one of them, and now it tingled and did not work properly. I became aware that the day maid was watching me, and I tried to smile at her but felt that only one half of my mouth worked properly.

  I was about to say something to reassure her, but the words would not form correctly. What was her name? Was she wearing my mother’s Maltese cap? I think that she was. How had this happened?

  “Are you quite all right, miss?” she asked.

  I nodded but did not answer.

  It was happening again, only stronger this time, and quite different. But I’d not taken any absinthe!

  I steadied myself and reached my room, where I lay down on my bed. My lips tingled now, too, as well as my feet. I looked at the window, and then quickly closed my eyes. The rays of sunlight had turned into swirling vortexes; then they resembled ship’s masts, rushing toward me, waiting to impale me.

  A knock on the door. I opened my eyes, and the masts had blessedly disappeared. “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Maud,” came a voice. “May I come in?”

  “Not fine, now. I, er, not now. I’m fine.” I could barely force the words out in a sensible order. My mouth felt as though it were filled with toast crumbs once more. “I have not eaten any sugar cubes!” Why had I shouted that? I’d thought it, I knew why I’d thought it, but it needn’t have been said.

  “Yes, miss,” she answered, her voice quietly alarmed. I heard her quick steps down the hallway.

  An hour later, another knock. “Miss Ashton, Annabel. It is Father Gregory.”

  My confessor! I sat up, and blessedly, felt a little better. I checked my reflection in the looking glass; my eyes were rimmed with dark circles, as though I’d been hit. Perhaps it was just the dusk that made them appear so. I opened the door, and Father Gregory came in. Mrs. Watts lit the lamps in the room and then left us.

  “Your cousin’s wife sent for me,” he said, sitting near me on one of the chairs near my fireplace, which was cold.

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry,” I said, my mouth sticky and dry. “She needn’t have.”

  “She said you were unwell, overwrought. It’s most unusual for anyone at Highcliffe to send for me.”

  “Perhaps because I am the only Catholic here,” I said.

  “I’m sorry you were troubled.”

  “It is no trouble, daughter. No matter what anyone has ever said or implied to you, you are no trouble, anywhere, at any time.” He took my hand in his, and I sensed how icy mine was only when enfolded in his warmth.

  “Is there anything you’d like to discuss?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No, Father.”

  “No more thoughts of taking vows?” he finally asked. Had he remembered that on his own or had Clementine suggested that again? It would make a neat solution to their current tribulations.

  Oh dear. Now I was questioning a priest!

  “No, Father. I will speak to you first about anything of import.”

  He patted my hand and said nothing further about it. “This is of import and I’m happy I came. You look tired, daughter,” Father said. “Would you like me to hear your confession? And then bless and anoint you?”

  “Am I ill?” That would be the reason for anointing.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But it cannot hurt.”

  I nodded. “Yes, Father, I would like that. I truly would.”

  Later, Clementine thoughtfully sent a servant to start a fire for me; a cold dinner tray of buttered macaroni—child’s food, not too excitable—was sent to my room; for this I was happy. I had no desire to face the family or the domestic staff until I was fully recovered.

  When would that be? I had no idea what had overcome me. It was very like the earlier event, but also different, stronger, more confusing. I had hallucinated, or had I begun to tip into the insanity that had beset my mother at nearly my age?

  A wisp of the memory of us in the quarantine room came back.

  “I’m like you!” I pointed to the sketch.

  Her eyes grew sad. “In some ways,” she answered. “In only the best ways, I hope.”

  I hoped so, too.

  That one memory seemed to pry loose another, this one less welcome. That sense of foreboding, like curtains closing, drew tight around me again. I could not breathe. “Edward. I’m cold! Edward, let me out.” I banged my little fist against the door of the cold pantry. The handle was too high up for me to reach.

  “Edward!” There was no answer. I turned a crate upside down and sat on it, and let tears roll down my face, their hot trails the only warmth to be found. I stood up and jumped up and down, and then I opened a box of berries from the shelf and ate a few before sitting down again.

  After what seemed a long time, Chef opened the door.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he asked, picking me up and taking me into his arms. “What is this?”

  “I got locked in,” I said.

  “By whom?” His voice rose. I did not tell. I could not tell. If I told, it would be worse next time.

  “Come, I will create for you a warm custard, non?”

  “Oui!” I said, and he laughed. I sat in the kitchen and let the others fuss over me. The next time I visited the kitchen, the handle had been lowered.

  It struck me now, in the deep darkness of my rooms, that no adult from the family had come to look for me: not my aunt nor uncle, nor Edward’s governess, who was to look after me, too, when we were home on holiday. It was time to admit, and face head on, the truth. No matter how much I wished otherwise, I truly had no family. No, not even Edward. Then, as now, I had to care for myself.

  And I would.

  At midnight, I pulled my robe on but left my feet bare and determined to do without a candle. I needed to reach the quarantine room and return to my rooms without being detected.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The macaroni twisted itself into fresh loops in my stomach as I placed my hand on the door handle to my room, deciding, Should I risk it? I knew I must.

  I tiptoed down the silent, dark corridor. Long tables fronted each side of the hallway, some with oriental vases newly filled with fresh flowers, a sign of the loosening of Edward’s purse strings. I was careful to walk right in the middle, so I did not brush anything to either side; as well, the floors were less likely to squeak in the center.

  It did put me more at risk of being seen, however. I could not duck into a wall should someone open a bedroom door.

  The back staircase beckoned; I gently pushed the door into it, and it gave way easily. I made my way up a flight and then two.

  Someone caught and held me! I was pinned in place!

  I stopped and steadied myself. My head was still not quite right yet. I turned and looked behind me. No one. I exhaled slowly, and then looked down. Ah. My bare foot had stepped on the hem of my dressing gown. I lifted the foot and the gown and continued up the narrow stairway to the isolation room. I opened the door, familiar to me now even in the dark, and slipped inside.

  Once in, I sat on the hard bed to allow my eyes to adjust to the room’s light. The moonlight shone through the stained glass once more, and I felt comforted in a very palpable way, a way I had not felt comforted before in this room. I felt at peace for the first time that day. I smelled incense, faintly. It reminded me of incense I had smelt already, dark and smoky but with a bright undertone. I had not smelt it in this room before. Had someone been here?

  Or was I still hallucinating? Maybe mad.

  I stood and walked over to the window where the rusting spyglass rested. I used it to peer out of the window toward the harbor, some distance away. The Poseidon was docked; I recognized her magnificent bowsprit in the moonlight. He was still here. There was still hope.

  Now, eyes adjusted, I quickly got to the task for which I’d come. I put my ear to the speaking tube. Nothing. No one was up and about, or at least no one that I could hear.

  I quietly walked to the desk and felt for the little latch on the side. I flipped it and to my great delight, the sketchbook was still in place.

  I took it and then walked to the window. I wanted to view every sketch here, in the moonlight, in case the book should be taken from me on my way back to my rooms.

  I flipped through the pages. There was a picture of my mother, a self-portrait. She looked happy and smiling and so young—my age. She did not look ill in any manner. There were many sketches of the streets and homes of Malta, their black iron lanterns and soapstone-smooth buildings. A gentle ocean kissing a seawall. A lighthouse.

  A sketch of a man in a naval uniform. I brought that picture close. His eyes were warm, his hair black as the tar that protected ships from rot. I held his gaze, and he seemed to hold mine.

  “Father.” I had not meant to speak, but I could not hold it back. It was the same man as the one in the attic portrait. I touched his face on the paper. Had he left us? Had he left my mother? I was currently trapped in this unconscionable position due to his actions or lack thereof, and yet looking at his face he did not seem capable of such a callous act.

  Or maybe I was incapable of judging character. I did not know.

  There were several pictures of Judith; the sisters had apparently drawn one another as well as painted each other. One portrait of Judith had a man in the background—my father?—and beneath Judith my mother had written an Italian proverb, Invidia non prende nessuna vacanza. Envy takes no holiday. There were flowers in the garden in which Judith stood. Mother had written belladonna. In English, that signified poison. In Italian, beautiful lady.

  Which had she meant?

  I closed the notebook. I was certain, now, that my mother had been married. I did not know if she had been mad or not; perhaps that was a convenient lie others told to gain what she’d held. “I should show this to Marco,” I whispered aloud. “Perhaps it may be of some help.”

  I did not know yet if he could be trusted with a treasure like this. What were his true intentions, in England, and with me? He’d spoken of England. He ha
d not spoken of me.

  Minutes later, safely inside my rooms, I exhaled relief. Now, where to hide the book? I knew my rooms had been searched and would be searched again. I had lost the cap if it had ever really existed; the unwelcome thought presented itself, and I pushed it away.

  I looked around. Nowhere was safe. As I walked toward my bed, an idea came.

  I knelt on the floor and lifted the porcelain chamber pot from the box, turned upside down, upon which it rested underneath my bed.

  If I did not use the chamber pot, no one would have cause to move it. I would put the small sketchbook under the box, and forestall from drinking in the evenings so the pot would never need to be used.

  Shivering, I climbed into my bed. I whispered my prayer. “There is no one left save me to clear her name. I will do whatever it takes . . . if You will help me.”

  A verse of scripture threaded through my mind. And Jesus answering, said: You know not what you ask. Can you drink the chalice that I shall drink?

  “I can,” I whispered into the dark.

  It was now early October, and it seemed as though all arrangements, weighty as they were, were to be finalized between the Maltese and Edward. I had played my part, though it had lasted longer than I’d expected. I had done well by Edward, as usual. As usual, Edward had not done well by me.

  One afternoon I saw Captain Dell’Acqua ride up on a horse he had leased for his stay in England. He dismounted, and I heard Watts welcome him in as a footman ran from the stables to take the horse. I quickly rolled my hair and clasped it with the ruby hair combs; straightened my dress, which was, thankfully, one of my better ones; and made my way downstairs to the library, which communicated with the study, next door.

  I stood at the library shelves, looking for a book, and could hear Dell’Acqua and Edward finalizing plans.

  “But the barracks can be used, I’m certain, to house others if we bring them in,” Edward said.

  Barracks? There were run-down barracks in Lymington, remnants of the last war with Napoleon. French prisoners of war had been held in them, but they were crumbling and unused at the moment.