by Sandra Byrd
I would also send a note to Mr. Lillywhite, asking if he could refer me to someone who might be able to offer some forensic examination of any documents pertaining to my legitimacy, my grandfather’s will, and the notations in Galpine’s journals, and perhaps validate a claim to Highcliffe.
I had nothing to lose and possibly everything, and everyone, to gain.
I carefully penned the letters and quickly headed back to the nursery. Perhaps Lillian could be cajoled into giving the letters to Mr. Galpine.
Alas, she had already left. I tucked them back inside my book and started toward my room. I passed Oliver in the hallway.
Of course! The reason Clementine used Emmeline to pick up and deliver her posts was because Emmeline would not, could not, say to whom letters were posted or from whom they were received.
“Oliver, does Emmeline still deliver letters for Mrs. Everedge?”
He had letters in his hand. “Yes, miss. Or I do.”
He looked as if he was about to say more, so I did not speak.
“Thank you for the boiled caramels, miss,” he continued. “Em and me, we share them with all the family. You’re the first person from the big house who gives to us and does not ask anything in return.”
I swallowed hard. I could not now, of course, ask him or Emmeline to undertake the delivery of my letter. In fact, I grew even more aware of how the others in my family used the staff, lovingly, but carelessly, for their own ends. I had proved to be not very different.
“As long as I am here,” I said, “there shall be never-ending sweets. On your way, now!”
The lad was quick. He returned to his duties, and as he did, I slipped out of the door. I knew it was dangerous but it was worth risking, and fortune was with me; because Mr. Galpine would be courting Lillian today his associate would post the letters. He was someone, I was certain, Clementine did not often speak with. I was quick, too, walking down the drive, which had been freshly laid with expensive wheat-colored gravel. I scared up a flock of ravens and they scattered, like thrown confetti, into the sky as I passed.
I arrived at Lymington and slipped one letter underneath Mr. Lillywhite’s closed door before making my way to Mr. Galpine’s. Once there, I posted the other letter. Before leaving, I spied a familiar person through the window.
Marco! As I was about to leave and greet him, I saw him slip his hand underneath the elbow of a woman, perhaps a year younger than I and very attractive, to help her across the street. She appeared to be laughing, as was the man next to her, and Marco engaged and reengaged her in conversation.
“Who are those people?” I asked Mr. Galpine’s assistant.
“Oh, that’s the Maltese captain,” he said.
I nodded. “Whom is he with?”
“Mr. Robert Baker and his sister, Miss Emily,” he said. He glanced at Miss Emily and then glanced again. She was lovely, and I imagined that second glance was a typical response. The beautiful Miss Baker Lieutenant Bosco had mentioned.
“They are acquaintances?” I pressed.
He looked at me oddly, but answered anyway. “It’s my understanding that Mr. Baker and the captain are discussing investment arrangements. At least that’s what’s been said around town. The Bakers are quite . . . prosperous.” He blushed, perhaps realizing he was caught gossiping, and said no more.
I paged through some books in the lending library till Marco and the Bakers left, remembering what Marco’s friend had said months past. Passing time with a pretty girl will help him attain what he wants.
Miss Baker? And, perhaps, me.
After I was certain they had left, I returned, quickly, to Highcliffe.
The October light slanted so beautifully through the windows of the great hall connected to the foyer in that golden hour. Autumn light was, for its scarcity, perhaps more valuable than that which spilled bountifully in the summer, and its beauty drew me from my melancholy over having seen Marco flirt with Miss Baker and all that it implied. I looked up at the beautiful painting on the great hall’s ceiling; the word was drawn from cielo, heaven, in Italian.
I got down on my knees, and then lay on my back so I could take in, fully, the painting from all angles in the afternoon light. The cherubs edged the outline; the saints rested just inside them. An angel pointed a finger to someplace on a map; it was too small to see from this distance, but I dearly wished to know where he was telling us to go.
I closed my eyes. If I knew, I’d go.
Just then, the door opened. I opened my eyes as Watts rushed by. He looked at me with visible alarm. “Miss? Miss Ashton, are you well?”
I opened my eyes. “Yes, Watts.” He shook his head and made it to the door just as Edward, Clementine, and Albert came in.
They stood stock-still and stared at me. I sat up, then stood and shook out my voluminous dress.
“Whatever are you doing, Annabel?” Clementine’s voice quivered with unease.
“Losing myself in the painting.” I pointed to the ceiling.
“As you lie on the floor?” she asked. Even Watts had removed himself to what, I assumed, he felt to be a safe distance in case a fit of some kind overtook me.
Albert plopped down on the floor, took my hand, and, looking up, smiled with glee. His father had done that, once. “Edward,” I said, “do you not recall when we were children and would do this very same thing? Have you lost your sense of childish wonder?”
In spite of himself, I thought, Edward smiled genuinely, though briefly. We had once lain for an hour or more on that same floor, giggling at the bared breasts of the women in the portrait, wondering if his mother had noticed and, if so, why she had not demanded they be covered up.
“We’re no longer children,” he answered quietly, then pulled the roll of ginger chews from his pocket. “If you ladies will forgive me, I need to prepare for my meeting tonight, with Lord Somerford and Captain Dell’Acqua.”
I kissed Albert’s cheek, then nodded and made some light, pleasant conversation with Clementine until I could escape to my rooms. She’d purchased some new slippers for me, she said, and would have them sent up.
I waited by my window, looking for Somerford’s carriage to arrive, and then Captain Dell’Acqua either by hired carriage or horse. Hours ticked by on the Chinese dragon clock, but neither man arrived.
About seven p.m. there came a knock at my door. It was Mrs. Watts.
“Dinner will be served in rooms tonight,” she said, “on trays. I’ll ensure it’s not macaroni.”
“Thank you.” That was kind. “Just my dinner?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Then Edward’s expected guests didn’t arrive. Did they send word?”
“No,” she answered softly. “Not that I know of. Nor that Mr. Watts knows of.” Jack had returned to London. Mrs. Watts nodded a grim farewell in the setting darkness.
Edward must be livid. And afraid. Had something happened to their arrangements?
Perhaps I’d said too much.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Some days later, I was in the library, sketching by the window as Clementine read quietly, when Emmeline brought the post. She handed it to Clementine and curtseyed slightly before Clementine shooed her back to her duties outside.
“The young lass collects the post now?” I asked as though I didn’t already know.
“Why not?” Clementine riffled through the letters. One was in an especially fine envelope, sealed with red wax. “Mansfield,” she said as she broke the seal.
Clementine slid an invitation from the envelope and from within that a short handwritten letter. “Lord and Lady Mansfield request our presence at a ball and charity auction donation being held four days hence.” She scanned the letter. “She apologizes for the late invitation but has been very occupied.” She grew quiet again and then looked up at me.
“She says you are to attend if you would care to.” She closed the envelope. “I had no idea you’d made acquaintance or that she was aware you existed. Even Edward and I have o
nly occasionally attended their events.”
“Her daughter attended the Rogers Day School for Young Ladies,” I said as a way of reply, hoping she would not press it. Blessedly, she did not.
My heart tried to push its way out of my chest. But would I have a chance to speak with her, privately, at such a large event?
Clementine smiled. “Edward will be very glad indeed to see this. And, it seems the entire county will be in attendance.” She motioned for Watts to ask Edward to come into the drawing room when he was at liberty to do so. Edward soon arrived, and Clementine shared the news with him, which seemed to cheer him.
“Perhaps another avenue to further our interests,” he said, taking the invitation. “The entire county is certain to be invited. It bodes well for us.”
Perhaps Marco would be invited. That was unlikely, though, considering the reception his father had given, or rather had not given, him.
Edward continued to scan the letter. “It says we’re to bring something clever and English, to celebrate Prince Albert’s advancement of such. What shall we take?”
Clementine said nothing, and I didn’t have anything to offer. Watts cleared his throat. “If I may suggest, sir, one of your many fine clocks?”
Edward smiled with relief. “Yes, Watts, that’s exactly right. How about . . .” He thought for a moment. “The one in my study.”
Watts tilted his head. “The one with Hercules fighting the lion?” He glanced toward Clementine. “Made of Derbyshire black marble?”
Edward nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, that’s the one.” He looked at Clementine, who was looking at the floor. The clock, I knew, had been her father’s and had been a wedding gift to Clementine.
“Respond in the affirmative, immediately.”
We arrived at Hebering four nights later. It was located on the outskirts of Romsey and had been crafted from the ruins of a medieval priory. The building itself was Tudor at heart, more modern in its wings, but entirely imposing upon arrival. Even Edward looked nervous, twiddling with his white tie and flicking invisible bits of dust from his black top hat. He’d ingested half his roll of ginger chews before we arrived, I knew; I’d counted. He offered one to me and Clementine, and we both accepted.
The long drive was lined with lit torches and there appeared to be open-aired marquees set up by the lake. The house was ablaze with color, and there were perhaps two dozen carriages near the stable yard and carriage house. Our driver stopped for us to alight near the entrance; Edward carried the box with the clock in both hands, releasing it only to Lord Mansfield’s man once at the door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Edward Everedge, and Miss Annabel Ashton,” Mansfield’s butler announced us. Lord and Lady Mansfield greeted us. I looked at Lord Mansfield straight on. With the exception of his long mustaches, which resembled the bristly fronds of a chimney broom, he was Marco, dead on. Lady Mansfield greeted me warmly, and I knew at that moment I should hold my tongue and say nothing to her of Marco. After all, she might feel him to be a threat to her own children, and their inheritance, though he was, of course, illegitimate and well provided for. Why had I thought this a good idea?
I thanked her for her hospitality, and then walked down the hallway, looking for a familiar face, adrift, out of my league. Marco caught my eye and raised an eyebrow, so I headed toward him. He was but a few feet from Clementine, who nodded her approval.
When I met with him, he took my elbow in his hand, gently, protectively, but perhaps with a tint of ownership as well.
“I couldn’t be more delighted to see you here. I had hoped . . . You said you knew the Mansfields.”
“I was not certain you’d come,” I said. “She knew to invite you?”
“Lord Somerford sent me in his stead,” he replied. “As they’ve gone north. He thought it would be good for Mansfield and me to talk. I’m not certain it’s a sound idea, though, now I’m here. Mansfield would not meet my eye when I arrived.”
Marco had certainly made his way into Lord Somerford’s favor, and Somerford was a good enough man to want the family knitted together again, somehow, if it were possible.
Marco indicated the table set up in the center of the drawing room behind him. “I brought an offering.” His voice was earnest. “I hope it impresses.”
I did not have to look long to find which was his. “Your ship? The model of your ship?”
He grinned like a little boy. “Do you think he will like it? It says so much—about me, about my family, about our craftsmanship. And I’m English, too, correct?”
“How could Lord Mansfield not like it?” I asked. “You should speak with him tonight, as Lord Somerford suggested. Perhaps it is fate . . . or divine intervention . . . that you are here.”
Marco shook his head no. “I’ve already determined not to.”
“I think you should,” I insisted. “It may go better than you think it will.”
And then, you can stay in England.
He said nothing more.
We danced; my card was filled, and I enjoyed every man I danced with: the banter, the camaraderie, the sense of being equal with others and not looked down upon. I danced twice with Marco, and when he entwined his fingers through mine once he formed a lover’s knot shape with his middle finger and thumb and slipped it over my wedding ring finger.
I did not look up at him to confirm his intention. I knew what he’d meant, or I thought I did. I did not withdraw my hand, and he pulled me closer.
After supper, Lady Mansfield had arranged for a casual display of fireworks over the lake. The weather cooperated, and I walked out with Clementine. We milled about the marquees and bonfires, waiting for the display to begin. When it did, the colors were splendid.
“They look rather like jewels falling from the sky, don’t you think?” I asked Clementine.
She, rather melancholically, responded, “To me, they look like tears.”
I put my arm around her shoulder, and she did not pull away. “Have Edward’s discussions gone poorly?”
She shrugged. “I do not know. Captain Dell’Acqua said he would return with papers within the week. But it did not seem promising to me.” She glanced at him then, standing nearby. “We should leave soon. Albert was unwell when we left.”
I nodded, but my mind was not on the young boy. Perhaps I might intervene with Marco, for Edward, though as each day passed I loathed more and more being caught between them and their investment arrangements. However, I feared if I did not, Highcliffe would be lost. I excused myself and walked near enough to Marco to see he was with Lord Mansfield. He had decided to approach his father!
They did not notice me and I allowed myself to eavesdrop. They were, after all, in public.
“. . . at your age I couldn’t keep my hands off of anything in a dress.” Lord Mansfield spoke boldly, his face rosy with drink. “Not sure I remember her, Carlotta. Yes, yes. Nice girl, wealthy Maltese shipping family. Yes, that’s good. Good to know she’s well. Now, lad, if there is nothing further I must return to my guests.”
Marco stood, speechless, fists balled by his side. I didn’t know whether or not I should approach him, but in the end, I decided I should. I walked next to him and slipped my hand over one of his fists, not caring if anyone saw or not. He was crushed; that was clear.
“I should not have come,” he said. “And further, I should not have spoken to him. It would have been wise to regard that he did not return my correspondence. I cannot wait to leave this cold island.”
I remonstrated with myself. I should not have intervened, selfishly hoping it would keep him near. “I’m sorry. He was thoughtless. Perhaps he was surprised.”
Marco shook his head. “No. He just did not want me. I am, as you’ve said of yourself, filius nullius.”
“You are the son of our God,” I whispered, hoping my voice would soothe and calm. “You are . . . beloved of many. Of one.” I emphasized the last word, hoping he understood that I meant myself.
He was not to be soothe
d.
“I’m sorry, Miss Ashton, but I must take my leave.” He took off his hat and bowed toward me. “I hope the remainder of your evening is pleasant.”
With that, he stalked off and, finding his colleagues, walked toward the carriage house while I watched. I heard him speak to one of the men in Maltese.
“I had two objectives when I arrived in this country and I achieved neither. Let’s leave this place in our wake.”
White fireworks shot into the black sky, the grand finale.
Gravity pulled them to earth like the teardrops coursing down my cheeks.
It took the carriage a silent hour until we three returned, worn and worried, wearied, to Highcliffe. I was ever so grateful that Edward and Clementine did not know that I had arranged for the evening. Edward went directly to his study upon arrival; Clementine raced up the stairway to Albert’s rooms. I went to my own, and within minutes of having changed into my dressing gown heard a knock.
I opened the door. “Lillian.”
She put her finger to her lips to shush me. “May I come in?”
I nodded and shut the door behind her. A fire had been lit when we were gone, and carefully tended. Unusual, but welcome. “Come, let’s sit.” I indicated the small sofa near the fire.
“I can’t stay,” she said. “Mrs. Everedge is with Albert, so I slipped away. I wanted you to know that, well, when Mrs. Everedge last called at the lending library, she asked Mr. Galpine about the letters to and from Malta, and examined the dates and postmarks. She asked him if she might tear the pages from the book, as a memento. When he said no . . .” She frowned. “She was most unhappy, and made that known to him. She said she’d soon send Mr. Everedge around. Mr. Galpine has stored the books with a friend for now.”
Edward was concerned about those letters. As well he might be!
“Thank you,” I said to her as she stood to leave. As she passed by my dressing table, she cast a reflexive glance toward it, one I might not have even noticed had I not been looking directly at her.
After letting her out and locking the door behind her, I returned to my dressing table. Everything was in place except for my mother’s expensive ruby hair clips. They were gone. Someone must have taken them while we were at Hebering, because I had considered wearing them and had Maud try them on me that very evening.