by Sandra Byrd
Why had Lillian glanced toward the table, almost imperceptibly? Had she stolen the combs on Clementine’s order? And if so, had Clementine sent her to speak with me about Galpine? The postmarks were now officially removed, although supposedly at Galpine’s request, and could remain “gone” if need be.
I like my situation here, Lillian had once told me.
I lifted the chamber pot box and peeked underneath it, relieved to find the sketchbook present and untouched.
I still twitched with nerves all night. Marco blamed me for the disastrous meeting with his father. My combs and cap had been stolen. The postmarks had been “sent away.” Mr. Morgan was soon to return, and, shortly, marry me and take me away to his house of plaster busts. I was utterly bereft of hope.
The next afternoon I was bothered by the strangest sensation, something that felt and sounded very much like an insect buzzing, and then I felt as though I would swoon. My tongue grew thick and heavy in my mouth, and I patted the back of my neck in a motherly action, perhaps to reassure myself, though I tried to keep it discreet and, eventually, seemed unable to stop the odd action.
Perhaps nervous energy was the cause of this growing discomfort?
“I’m sorry,” I said, standing up unsteadily as Edward read the paper. Clementine came to her feet to steady me. “I’m unwell, um, er, not quite right.”
“Can I help?” Clementine offered.
I shook my head, not trusting that the maze of letters formed in my mind could be uttered without confusion.
“Perhaps a doctor?” Edward’s voice sounded far away, and deep. I thought I heard a dog bark in warning, though we had no such creature. And then I turned my head abruptly at the sound of Marco’s sweet laughter.
“What is it?” Clementine asked, fanning herself.
I could not tell her. The captain, I knew, was nowhere near.
Clementine kindly, but knowingly, excused me for the evening; Mrs. Watts would bring a tray.
I returned to my rooms in a haze of strange misperception and nausea, voices drifting in and out of the room though no one was present. I thought of China, for some reason, but no reason at all. I could think of nothing but China: silks, opium, tea, fans—over and over the images from the Great Exhibition presented themselves. Why? I had not thought of them in months.
My stomach clenched and cold chills of fear ran through me as my thoughts raced without control no matter what I tried.
Next I heard people speaking Chinese, or what I thought was Chinese. Was it? Was it in my head? Aloud in the room? I did not know. I put my hands over my ears but the Chinese chatter did not stop.
I had never been to China, nor heard Chinese spoken. Yet I could not rid myself of the fixation! I wondered if I should try to travel there. I shook my head in horror at the thought. Why ever would I have that thought?
I washed my face in cool water from the basin again and again, but it did not help. The constant presence of unwanted, intrusive thoughts troubled me, then disturbed me, then scared me. I felt unremitting pressure inside my skull. I could not blink or shake away the voices or the images. Dread took command when I realized my inability to control my thoughts and my tongue grew too thick for me to swallow easily.
I could not bring myself to look at my Chinese dragon clock for fear of what it might provoke, and then the madness of such a thought filled me with further dread. When, after an hour, perhaps two or more, the sensations receded but would not disappear, I could no longer deny the truth.
I was nearly the age my mother had been when hers had started.
And now, my madness had begun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MID-OCTOBER, 1851
A day or two later I heard Edward speaking to Clementine as they left the breakfast room; he mentioned that he’d sent a note, as she’d insisted, and that they should hear back soon.
His voice sounded distressed. Hers sounded pleased.
I passed him in the hall as he mentioned he was off to see his solicitor in Winchester, to potentially list Highcliffe for sale again, just in case. Clementine nodded sadly and then left to meet with Mrs. Watts; the packing might commence once more.
Marco had not returned, and, perhaps with the way things had unfolded at Hebering, he would not. If I saw him, maybe I could convince him that even were I to prove heiress, his dealings would be safe, because I was unwell and could not, therefore, inherit. By such an admission, perhaps I could save Highcliffe.
I could tell him that I had signs of madness. I worried night and day that the persistent Chinese images and sounds would reassert themselves. I had not slept well. I avoided tea, as it reminded me of China. Why China?
Such an admission, to madness, would be self-sacrificial for my family, and our home.
I could not bring myself to do it.
One other thing I did not think I could bring myself to do, but I found that I must, was ask Oliver to deliver a note for me, in confidence. I’d written to Marco and asked him to meet with me, privately, at the abbey ruins, two nights hence, when Clementine and Edward would be at a neighbor’s supper party.
Oliver looked at me doubtfully but took the note. “I know you would not ask me to do this, miss, if it were not of utmost importance. I should not like Mr. Everedge to learn we have kept a second secret from him.”
My heart broke. But if Highcliffe were saved, then Oliver and Emmeline’s positions would be, too. Unless he was already in Edward’s confidence.
“With all speed,” I whispered. “To the Poseidon.”
Although I was still a little tired and wan from my latest fit, I was feeling stronger by the hour. A letter had arrived, one that Clementine apparently had been waiting for with great impatience because she, not Watts, met Emmeline at the front door. She glanced at me, and then tucked it into her periodical. Perhaps she’d forget it . . . leave it there . . . and I could filch it later.
She paged through her magazines and returned to her room to get dressed for that afternoon’s calls. I picked up and flipped through everything she had read.
No letter. She’d remembered.
Later that evening the carriage took off for the neighbors; I had pretended to eat dinner in my room, but I was too excited to do so. I remained in my room, which was lit only by the smallest fire as we were back to rationing coal. I watched the dragon clock tick by the required hours and then slipped my fur-lined cloak on. I pulled the hood up and walked down the stairs. No one stopped me.
The fog rising from the ground enveloped me in its warm breath; I was grateful for the cover it provided. An owl cried sadly in the distance and then his call traveled up the treble clef to become more shrill. Was he preparing to kill? Or warning me? I shook the fanciful thought from my head and pushed opened the rotting door of the abbey.
It was hard to believe that one time, centuries ago, holy sisters had lived, prayed, worshiped, and served in here. The ceiling still showed the flying buttress design of the era, and the stones glowed, eerily, where my candle threw light. But the rooms were empty save for leftover barrels and lids and scraps of wood from the family’s smuggling days that had, it seemed, come to a close.
Perhaps it was the weakness of my mind, or maybe it was the strength of my spirit, but I felt as though a spiritual presence was nearby, comforting me. I could, if I focused, detect the faintest bit of incense, perhaps from decades of worship, now smoked into the pocks and rivets of the very stones themselves.
A noise. Hoof steps and the sound of someone dismounting. My heart raced and I stood to the side of the door, just in case it was someone other than my expected.
The door opened creakily, its hinges protesting, and as Marco walked in, I stepped forth.
“You came,” I said.
He smiled—warm, loving, tender, mine. “I came. Of course I came.”
I nearly cried with relief. “I thought perhaps you were angry with me. You left so abruptly—your father, I’m so sorry.” My words spilled forth in an undirected stream
, but he seemed to know just what to do.
He took me in his arms, and his warm brown eyes, which tilted down at the corners like almonds, held my gaze. “Bella, that man is responsible for his own coldness.”
That man. I understood. A different that man had abandoned my mother to her fate.
“I must apologize for the manner in which I handled my disappointment. I hurt you. I’m sorry. You reached out on my behalf, and I shan’t forget that.”
“I want to apologize for something, too,” I said. “I . . . I fear I may have given you the wrong impression about Edward. He’s not a bad man at heart, really. You can trust him in contractual arrangements.”
He took my hand and led me to a corner where two empty gin barrels had been discarded and sat us down.
“Dearest Bella, that is not why I must cancel our arrangement.”
I inhaled sharply. So he planned to cancel it.
“Should it be found that I am the heiress of the estate,” I said, “I would certainly honor any arrangements he had made that were, well, legal. In moral standing.”
He caressed the back of my hand; although he was a captain, his fingers were still callused from handling rope. “You shan’t be found to be the heiress. After seeing the portrait with the marriage cap, I asked the solicitor in Lymington, under the guise of investing with Edward, if Edward had full legal rights to negotiate, or if, perhaps, there may be another claim to the estate.”
I nodded, but couldn’t swallow my fear.
“Lillywhite said he’d looked into it as recently as this very week and could find nothing to substantiate another claim. He did not mention you by name.”
“Oh.” My hopes and dreams disintegrated under the weight of reality. Mr. Lillywhite had at least given heed to my letter.
Marco put his hand under my chin and lifted it. “You are a good woman, a beautiful woman, Bella.” He switched to Maltese. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Then don’t go,” I answered reflexively in the same language before realizing I had not told him I could speak Maltese.
His eyes widened, his face flushed, and he stood up. “You speak Maltese!” His voice conveyed anger. Perhaps he had not meant me to understand what he’d said.
“I do,” I admitted. “I’m sorry, perhaps you did not mean for me to understand your sentiments.”
“Why did you not tell me this? To deceive me? To learn secrets to share with your cousin?”
I shook my head. “No. And please do not pretend you were not enjoying the information I provided to you whilst negotiating with Edward.”
He nodded. It was true. I continued in a softer voice. “When I was in Winchester, many years as a student, and then as a teacher, I wanted to know something, anything, of my parents. It was then that I found the church, and a kind, elderly Maltese nun named Sister Rita who found me sitting in the back. She’d offered to teach Maltese to me, after hearing my tale. I loved the tangle of Italian, which I already knew, of course, and Arabic. She alone knew I could speak it. I told no one else because . . . it was one thing I could keep for myself.”
No one could shame me for it or trade upon it, or steal it, I wanted to say. Like my combs. Like my cap. Like my dignity.
“Ah. I understand.” He took both my hands in his own. “I’m sorry, lovely Bella. And while I did not have the courage to say it in English, to risk my affections, now I’m very glad that you know how I feel about you. Come with me. Come to Malta. Leave the cold English behind.”
“You could remain here,” I said.
“And be English like Lord Mansfield?” He flushed in anger again.
“You could be English like me,” I said.
He laughed, but then shook his head. “I must sail on the tide day after next. My men, my cargo, my new investment arrangements.”
So he’d replaced Edward. Would he so easily replace me?
“You will like it there.” He reached up with the hand that had been cupping my chin to trace the outline of my face. “The art, the statues. You are almost like one of them, the dark, glossy hair, your sea-blue eyes, but you are not cold marble. You are a woman, and,” he teased, “marble does not have freckles.”
Far from breaking the moment, that light jest drew me to him. “It is not good to point out a woman’s imperfections,” I said with a grin.
“I would not, I have not,” he said, his voice somber. “There is no imperfection.” He drew close to me, our faces nearly touching.
“Come with me,” he said again. “I feel I cannot leave you. My thoughts, my heart, they are drawn to you.”
And yet I had promised Father Gregory that I would make or take no vow without discussing it with him first. If my mother had done that, I might not be in this difficult predicament.
He spoke in Maltese—rough, guttural, emotional, longing. “If you allow me to kiss you just once, I promise I won’t ask again.”
“You expect it to be a disagreeable experience, then?” I teased lightly in the same language, but my mind was swirling again, this time in the best possible manner. I was upended, I was warm, I was vibrantly alive. Was it true, was there no way that my mother’s claim could be proved? Then why should I remain in England?
“By no means, Bella.” His voice was thick.
I leaned toward him, nearly touching his lips, and he understood it to be the permission he’d sought.
He put his hand on the back of my hair and gently drew me toward him. His lips touched mine lightly, then they kissed each cheek, as a man claiming the woman he loves. He kissed my eyelids as someone only does for someone he cherishes. He kissed my mouth once, softly, lightly. I lost myself completely in the moment.
I was about to pull away, for the sake of propriety, when the door to the abbey was flung open.
“What is going on here?” Clementine stood, hands on her hips, with two large stable boys by her side. “One of the men saw a light and came to fetch Watts. I insisted on going myself.”
There was no answer to be given. She’d caught his lips on mine.
Marco stood and tried to speak.
“You, sir, did my husband wrong and now you’re tainting his cousin’s good name and honor. Depart immediately!”
Marco turned and looked at me, held my gaze for a moment. He started to walk back toward me, striding, actually, but the two stable books quickly blocked his way. He began to speak, and as he did, Clementine took me by the arm, and the stable hands now moved to stand in front of us.
“It will go worse for her if you do not leave immediately,” she said to Marco. I caught his eye and nodded. He said nothing more, but somehow, in some way, I believed he conveyed to me that he would return. Clementine kept my arm firmly in hers and led me toward the house.
“And you! Just as we’d feared. Moral madness is manifesting itself here in my home. I should have thought you’d have known better, but clearly, some things cannot be forestalled. Insanity. Immorality.”
“You dare to remonstrate with me about that?”
She flinched at the reminder that Albert had been born but seven months from her marriage, but said nothing more, still hustling me toward the house.
My emotions whirled from the night—the declaration of love, the kiss, the apprehension, the send-off, the fear that bloomed inside me.
“’Tis a good thing I stayed home with Albert and Edward went on his own. No telling how far things might have got. Or had they already?” She threw an accusing glance at me.
“No, of course, nothing like that,” I said.
“Good.” She hurried me up the stairs. “We wouldn’t want history repeating itself. Edward will be home soon, and we’ll deal with this matter tomorrow.”
Shortly thereafter I heard a noise like a heavy piece of furniture being placed in front of my door.
A tray was brought up for me for breakfast, but I was so shaken I couldn’t eat any of it. I drank nothing because I did not want to have to use the chamber pot. Later, I watched out of my window
as the Somerfords’ carriage pulled up at teatime. I could not hear what was said, but about twenty minutes later I saw Edward walk to the carriage with Lady Somerford, waving in a friendly manner. Had she come to speak with me and been turned away? Or had her visit had nothing at all to do with me? Even from the distance I could see that Edward looked wan and distressed. He stumbled on the lower step before catching himself. His face looked pained. Perhaps he felt remorse at having locked me away and kept my friend from me.
He should.
Another hour ticked past and Marco came riding in. I quickly dressed, hoping that he would insist on seeing me and that we could, somehow, talk reasonably with Edward. Perhaps if we could settle the investment arrangements once more, Edward would be appeased.
A half hour ticked by on the dragon clock. I tried to open my door, but was still blocked in.
Shortly after that I heard loud voices downstairs. I heard Watts close the door and ran back to my window. Marco rode off, not having been escorted out by Edward. I didn’t have to wonder too long what had happened. Edward appeared at my door very shortly thereafter, with Clementine quivering like aspic behind him.
“May I come in?” He stood at the door once I’d opened it.
“Of course,” I said, glad that I had taken time to dress properly. Maud had not tended to my needs for some days.
“I believe you saw our guest leave,” he began. He did not sit down, as I did, as Clementine had. Instead, he paced like one of the lions at London’s zoological park, which I had visited with the Rogers school. He rubbed his temple over and over.
“Lady Somerford,” I began smoothly. “I wondered at her visit.”
“She came to call upon Clementine, as lady of the house.” Edward’s voice was snide. “To deliver a letter from Lady Leahy. They’ve become friends.”