Bride of a Distant Isle

by Sandra Byrd

  “I don’t make a habit of befriending carriage drivers, but I do understand that one was your source.”

  “Do not refuse my offer, Annabel,” she said. “Or rebuke me in my kindness. I shall not offer again.”

  “Did Edward tell you I’d learned my father’s name?”

  She shrugged. “Yes, and what of it? There is nothing that can be proved even if your mother was married. I’ve enquired of Lillywhite. I wanted nothing to complicate the sale of Highcliffe.”

  Yes, of course. If I were proved heir and not Edward, she would not be able to sell Highcliffe.

  “The cap, the necklace, the portrait . . .” I said. She did not flinch.

  “The Maltese stamps at Galpine’s.”

  Then she did.

  “Oh yes, I know you had gone looking for them. To remove them.” She said nothing, and I stood. “I’m sorry, but I have no calling to take sacred vows.”

  “Then you’d best find another position somewhere, with someone, quickly. You will remove yourself from my home within the week.”

  I turned to leave the room. “If my claim had been proved, I would have taken care of you and Albert.”

  “I am taking care of you, Annabel,” she said. “Consider very carefully my proposal to fund your joining the Benedictine sisters in Winchester, as it will be my only offer. I’ve made enquiries. It seems they would welcome you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  EARLY DECEMBER, 1851

  A note arrived two mornings later, laid on my dressing table. I assumed Mrs. Watts had placed it there. It read, Please meet me this afternoon in the Abbey.

  My heart leapt. Could it be from Marco? But the handwriting was a woman’s. Marco would not have received my letter yet in any case, would not perhaps until just before Christmas. Then, too, there was no guarantee he would even respond. Was he the man I’d thought him to be? Or was he the man Edward claimed he was? Perhaps I should never know.

  Lady Leahy, Elizabeth, would not have sent me a secret note, and though I still hoped to hear from her, too, she had probably only just received my letter. Who could have written this?

  I did not have to wait long to find out.

  After a light, welcome luncheon of salmon patties prepared by Chef, who had come back at my pleading until Clementine concluded Edward’s affairs and returned to London, I pulled my boots on and walked down the stairs.

  Emmeline tended the sheep in the distance; they looked like giant puffs of breath hanging in the winter air. She waved at me, and I waved back. I slipped my way into the abbey.

  “Hello?” I called out. “Who’s there?”

  A moment of fear passed through me; could Morgan have had his “sister” write the note and be waiting for me? Surely I would have seen his carriage. He had not tried to contact me since the night Edward had died.

  “Miss Ashton.” I turned around and saw Lillian waiting behind the door.

  “Lillian!” I grinned and then my face fell. “My combs!” My ruby combs, the ones that had belonged to my mother, were neatly pushed into her hair.

  She laughed. “Yes, your combs.” She shook her hair out a little and then handed them to me. “One night when I approached Mrs. Everedge’s room, to update her as to Albert’s illness, I heard her instruct Maud to take the red combs from your room. I was not eavesdropping; she had not even cared to shut her door, so bold was she. Maud refused. When you left for Winchester that night . . .”

  “The night of the soirée at Lord Mansfield’s,” I said.

  “Precisely. I went to your room and took them. I knew you could not keep them safe, but I could hide them at my father’s house.”

  I wrapped my hands around the combs, not caring if they pinched my palm in the process. “Thank you, Lillian. How go matters between you and Mr. Galpine?” I let my eyes twinkle at her.

  “Very well indeed,” she said. “I expect he shall soon be speaking to my father. It is for that very reason I have not taken on another position after Mrs. Everedge let me go. She was not pleased with me; I would not speak ill of you to the nurse who came to care for you in your, er, affliction.”

  “You’ve heard, then, that I was not truly afflicted. The constable has all but determined the cause of my symptoms to be a particular honey from Turkey that induces something like madness.”

  She blushed. “Yes. I’m sorry to say that none of us was sure if you were well or not, and would not have expected that of Mr. Everedge.”

  Nor should you have, I thought. I smiled at her. “Do not remonstrate with yourself.” I would not tell her, but there had been recent times when I had not been completely certain I was sound! “It may be that soon I shall have to apply for a position. I must leave Highcliffe by the end of the week. Was Mr. Galpine able to post my letters? Mrs. Watts said she would deliver them to you.”

  “Indeed he was,” Lillian said. “He’s also safely kept the postmarks from Malta from years past. He understood the true meaning of them once Mrs. Everedge asked to rip them from the book.” She kept smiling broadly, in a most unexpected way. I was truly happy that she’d returned my combs to me, but that did not seem to call for this level of jollity.

  “I hope to hear back soon,” I said.

  “Indeed you shall!” She took my arm in her own.

  “When I first sent the note to you,” she said, “I thought that the happiest news I would have to share with you would be the return of your mother’s combs. But I was wrong.”

  I tilted my head. “How?”

  “Mr. Galpine handed me a letter, to you, from Lady Leahy. He was most insistent that it safely make its way to you and asked if I might assist. I assured him I would place it into your hands myself!”

  She handed me the letter, sealed with an “L” for Leahy.

  “Now that I’ve delivered both the combs and the letter to you, and I’ve no fear of Mrs. Everedge stopping us, I’ll share my most happy news.”

  She smiled so largely I expected to hear her laugh. What was the cause of this?

  We walked around the grounds until we’d nearly reached the Edge of the World. I saw Emmeline, in this distance, keeping an eye on me.

  “Can you see it?” Lillian pointed toward the harbor in Lymington, some miles away.

  “No.” All was so distant, and gauzed in sea haze.

  “I will tell you, then. A ship has arrived. From Malta.”

  “The Poseidon!”

  Lillian laughed aloud. “Didn’t you just send a letter to the captain of that ship?”

  I nodded. “But a few days ago. It could not possibly have arrived in Malta by now.”

  “Well then,” she said. “As of an hour ago, he’s arrived without your bidding.”

  Hope suffused throughout me. Why would he come back if not for me?

  Perhaps for the beautiful Miss Baker. My heart twisted as I turned the cameo on my finger. I hoped not.

  Perhaps it was for his investment concerns.

  With whom? Someone in Winchester? He would have sailed into Southampton or Portsmouth, then.

  Lord Somerford? Lord Somerford was not here; he was in the north.

  He must have come for me. Had he? Had he?

  “What shall I do?” I asked Lillian.

  She laughed again. “Change out of mourning! He’s sure to arrive at Highcliffe soon!”

  And so I changed. Mrs. Watts helped me find my clothing, which had been placed in storage until the house sale was complete, and I plucked out the silver evening gown Marco had so admired. It did not matter to me that it was daytime, and might be viewed as somewhat inappropriate. I’d already been viewed as being most irregular much of my life and did not care to concern myself with that just then.

  I placed my mother’s combs in my hair. I found the bottle of neroli oil and rubbed some into my hair, into my neck, into the pulse points at my wrists. Clementine was in the library, still in widow’s crepe, when I went downstairs to read, Albert by her side, quietly stacking some blocks.

  �
��Where did you find that dress, and why are you wearing it in the middle of the afternoon?” she asked. “It’s perhaps a little flamboyant when Edward is so recently buried.”

  “The dress is mine,” I simply answered. “And I’ll honor him as he deserved to be honored.”

  I read my letter from Elizabeth. She promised to look into a situation for me, or perhaps, even better, introduce me to a Catholic gentleman in need of a governess. She told me her mother had come calling for me once and had been turned away, but was pleased to hear I was now well and would look forward to seeing me at Christmas.

  I, of course, did not know if I would still be here at Christmas. I’d rather hoped she could find a situation for me even sooner, as Clementine had given me only six more days.

  A carriage rumbled up the drive and Clementine stood. “I am not expecting anyone.” She did not even think to ask, of course, if I was.

  I stood near a window, too, but not too close to her. I did not wish to be within striking distance when she saw who alighted from the carriage.

  “Mr. Lillywhite,” she said, her voice reflecting light concern, then climbing a pitch higher on the scale of desperation. “And that Captain Dell’Acqua!” She turned to face me. “He’s been gone more than a month and we had expected him never to return. Did you know about this?” She looked at my fancy gown and nodded knowingly.

  “Not until today,” I said sweetly. She had no more time to question me further, as the men were walking toward the door; Watts appeared prepared to let them in. Watts then came into the library to announce them.

  “Well, bring them in, then, I suppose.” Clementine waved her hand in irritation. Albert looked at me for guidance, sensing, I suppose, something freshly amiss in his newly upended life. I gently smiled at him in reassurance.

  Clementine stood as they entered the room. “Mr. Lillywhite . . . Captain Dell’Acqua. What a surprise! I did not expect visitors. I’m in mourning, as you’ll”—she nodded toward Lillywhite—“remember.”

  Both men offered sincere condolences.

  And then, Marco locked eyes with me. There he stood—his blond hair pulled back into its queue. His rough-stubbled sailor’s beard. His silk clothing. I did not believe, quite yet, that this was happening; I closed my eyes and swayed for a moment, overcome by emotion. I could barely keep myself from swooning. From smiling. From running toward him. I could not keep the smile from my face, however, and in spite of the somber week he smiled broadly back.

  “It is for that very reason I have come,” Mr. Lillywhite said. “After having spoken with Captain Dell’Acqua.” He nodded politely at me, but I caught a note of pleasure in his mostly somber face. “May I speak with you, Mrs. Everedge, in the study?”

  She nodded. “I’ll leave Albert with you, Annabel,” she said. She made no mention of Captain Dell’Acqua.

  Once they left the room, though they were just in the next room, Marco came and took my hands in his own, then pulled me to my feet and embraced me in a most intimate, most welcome way. I felt the warmth of him radiate through me, smelled his sandalwood soap and Arabian cologne; they made me heady.

  “You came back,” I said softly as he let go of me and led me to two soft chairs by the window, where we could still keep an eye on Albert.

  “Of course I did. Was there any question?”

  I raised my eyebrow. “I had no idea you would ever return.”

  He pulled his jacket back to reveal his rooster-embroidered waistcoat. “I could not let down the one who was most dependent upon me. You shall see. I could have stayed and said much, but, un oceano si trova tra ciò che viene detto e ciò che è fatto.” An ocean lies between what is said and what is done.

  “You did not abandon me, then.” I brushed a tear away. He lifted his hand to my other cheek, catching the tear’s twin.

  “No, my love, I raced the wind and mastered the sea to do the one thing that I knew could save you.”

  “I do not understand,” I said. “Oliver made certain I received your parting gift. The empty oyster shell. I understood its meaning—that you had opened yourself to the possibilities—but, in the end, found our, er, association to be empty at heart.”

  He laughed lightly, though I did not think it amusing and pursed my lips to convey that.

  “Bella, no. That was not the meaning. I could not risk a note but, in this case, my unspoken message went completely awry. I opened myself, the tightly closed oyster, as you’d said. I found the pearl, but the pearl was lost when I lost you. Without you, Bella, I am empty inside.” He put his closed fist to his heart for emphasis.

  “Oh.” A little sigh escaped my mouth. “But then why did you leave? You’ve heard that Edward had me committed . . .”

  He smiled again. “Yes.”

  “Why are you smiling?” I demanded, though I kept my tone lighter than the words themselves might have implied. “That was no sport.”

  “I’m smiling because I heard how you escaped. You see? The Maltese woman inside you broke out of her English coffin. Literally and figuratively!”

  “An English girl broke out of that coffin,” I sniffed. Then I laughed. Then I grew somber again. “I see you’ve heard Edward has died.”

  “I’m very sorry for that,” he said. “He was not a good man, but did not perhaps deserve that death. You understand that I had returned to Highcliffe, before I went to Malta, to tell him that we could not sign a contract.”

  I nodded. “He told me it was because of me.”

  “No.” He took my hands in his own again, enveloping them completely. “If anything, I considered the possibilities far too long knowing that your family home was at stake, which gave me an excuse to do what I wanted to do, though I thought it, perhaps, wrong. He was not going to use local lads for work, men who needed it, but was going to bring in outside labor cheaply. I could not abide that; it was not my intention. Somerford eventually backed out, too; he was only to invest for the good of the men hereabouts. He and I said we would consider the ropewalks together, on more moral terms and only for the benefit of local families, here and in Malta. I did not have a chance to finalize that with him, though, before I fled.”

  “Edward was not a good man,” I said. “But it pains me to think this of him.”

  “I was not so very different than he was, not so very long ago.” Marco looked in my eyes, searching me, seeking an answer to a question he had not yet posed. I did not turn away, though my middle weakened and my breath came quickly. “I found a new star to navigate by—you, Bella—and changed courses because you saw something good in me. When you said I was like Swithin, I knew I was not. But then, I wanted to be.”

  He’d just said I was his star.

  “If I’d not left, perhaps your cousin would not be dead,” he continued. “I feel badly about this.”

  I reached out and touched his face. “Edward’s death was of his own making. Do not blame yourself. And though I should not care to repeat my confinement, if I had not gone to Medstone I should not have found my mother’s grave, nor understood that portion of her life and learned that she died in peace, something I’d always yearned to know. I might not have developed a tender conscience toward those incarcerated within, who are much like you and me, and who became my friends. I should not have learned my father’s last name. I was kept safe, for a time, while you sailed back to Malta to find proof of my parents’ marriage. Had I not been confined, Edward might have sent me to Mr. Morgan much sooner. I should not have known how very much I treasure life in whatever form it is given, and how much I was willing to risk to keep it.”

  The winter wind rattled the sea salt–filmed panes next to us, and Watts came in to stir the fire; it was dusk now, and he began to light the lamps. He had hovered in the background, a most unusual chaperone, but the only one at hand; and it allowed us to talk in private, though now more softly.

  “On one point, you are wrong,” he said. I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, but he put his finger softly to my lips to
hush me. Against the gentle pressure, I obeyed.

  “Why did you flee?” I said when he removed his hand.

  “Because of your nurse,” he said simply. “Your Sister Rita.”

  “Sister Rita? My nurse’s name was Mrs. Strange, not Sister Rita. Sister Rita was the nun who taught me to speak Maltese, a Benedictine sister.”

  “Yes, I know—you’d just told me that very night, you’ll recall. In the abbey. When I returned to discuss the termination of our arrangements with Edward, who would not let me speak with you, your nurse stopped me on the way out. She spoke to me in perfect Maltese. She handed me this.” He withdrew something from his pocket. “And then she told me you’d be safe with her. I knew you trusted her, and so I did, too.”

  “My mother’s sketchbook!” I snatched it from his hand, and he laughed.

  “Yes. And she told me to return to Malta with all speed. So I did. You’d said she was old, though.” His face looked puzzled.

  “Sister Rita was old, at least thirty years older than Mrs. Strange, the nurse,” I said. “And I did not know Mrs. Strange could speak Maltese.”

  “And yet . . .” Marco began.

  “And yet.” I looked at him strangely, and then at the sketchbook, and I smelt the faint aroma of incense once again. From where did it come?

  “On the way back to Malta, I paged through the notebook, wondering why you had given it to me. And then, I suddenly knew. It was divinely appointed, I think, Bella.”

  “I did not send it to you,” I said. “Mrs. Strange must have done that on her own.”

  Now it was his turn to look bewildered. He spoke on, however.

  “I did not know if you intended to marry Mr. Morgan.”

  I could not keep the reflexive revulsion from my face, and he grinned. “Or,” he continued, “if you’d intended to take sacred vows, as you’d once mentioned. I only knew that I must do what I could for you, to restore your faith in Maltese men and to rescue you if you wanted to be rescued.”

  I nodded. Yes, yes, how I wanted—want—you to rescue me.

  “When you returned the quail egg, uneaten, that night, I thought that perhaps you did not feel for me as I did for you. But I pressed on for your sake, if not mine.”