Bride of a Distant Isle

by Sandra Byrd

  She departed, and I asked Mrs. Watts to bring a tray to my room for supper, which she gladly did, along with a return letter from Elizabeth rejoicing in my health and looking forward to a Christmas together.

  I went to bed early.

  I wanted to be well rested on the morrow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  My uncle chaperoned us the following day, a day that was filled with, fittingly, sweetness and light. It was cold outside, but the fur-lined cloak I wore kept me warm, as did my muff. Albert hugged my leg as I left the house and I promised him I’d soon return, and we’d draw pictures together by the fire in the library. If he was especially good, perhaps we might even take the covering off the billiard table and I would show him how to play.

  We drove down the lane and soon arrived in Lymington, at the harbor. My uncle stayed in the carriage but could see us. We alighted from the carriage and stepped onto the quay.

  “She’s . . . different!” I looked at his ship. As we stood in front of the prow the men aboard scrambled out of the way, giving us privacy. The ship was well cared for as always, but what had changed was . . . “The mast!” I said.

  He laughed. “Can’t help but notice, can you.”

  Where Poseidon alone had blazoned the way across the seas on the bowsprit before, now there was a woman by his side. She was not a mermaid but a proper lady. Except for her hair. Her black hair was wild and free and flew out behind her in waves as though it were being blown by the oncoming wind.

  “She has black hair,” I said, looking up at Marco with a smile.

  “And blue eyes.” He winked and took my hand in his own.

  “I thought you said a woman would distract you and your men as you sailed.”

  “I had thought that to be true. But I’ve had a change of heart. I still sail,” he said, looking at me firmly, “and must always. But the men and I now can look forward to returning home to someone, someone who is guiding us there in the heart and on the ship.”

  “Who is she?” I asked. My voice was a husky whisper in the cold air.

  “She’s the Bride of Poseidon,” he said. “Jien inħobbok, Bella,” he said in Maltese. I love you.

  “Jien inħobbok għal dejjem,” I whispered. I will love you forever.

  “I had asked you to be mine before I left and you did not answer.”

  “You had not asked me to marry you,” I pointed out.

  “What? Oh. Ay!” He hit his forehead with his one free hand.

  “I thought perhaps your mother wouldn’t allow it,” I teased. “Foreign woman.”

  He turned to face me and caressed my face with his hand. “I told her you could speak Maltese. That you are Maltese. Neither convinced her. Then I told her that if I did not marry you then you would most probably take sacred vows. Now, once she understood that to you, the only sensible choice was between me and no man, she saw immediately that you were wise and gave her blessing. It does help,” he said with a grin, “that she knows Mama Bellini. But no matter what she thought, I’d marry you as soon as you’d allow.”

  He pulled me toward him until I was warm and kissed me again and again, as a man would when suddenly given leave to do that which he had long dreamt of.

  “Please marry me, Annabel Ashton Bellini.”

  I remembered what his friend had said early in our acquaintance. A loving father only chooses a man who will love and cherish his daughter. Was this the man my father had chosen? “Will you leave me?” I asked, thinking of how the sea had swallowed my father and with him, my life.

  “If you mean the sea, I must sail away from time to time, but I will always return home to you, and only you, wherever those homes may be. If you mean, will I ever leave you for another? No. Absolutely not. I promise this. There has never been another woman who has captured my heart. There is no other; there could not be. There will never be another.”

  A lifetime had unraveled and then been re-knit since I’d left Winchester seven months earlier, hoping for a quiet life as a teacher. I had learnt who I was, and that I was beloved, and that I could chance risk and prevail. I did not know if the sea would take him from me. But I knew that nothing else, and no one else, would. I once thought I fitted everywhere because I belonged nowhere. I now knew where I belonged. With Marco.

  “Yes,” I said. “I will marry you, Marc Antonio Dell’Acqua.” He pulled me to him and as he did, he kissed each cheek and kissed my eyelids and caressed my face once more before he took my face in both his hands and kissed my lips.

  “There is one thing I have been longing to do,” he said. “Something I promised myself I would do as soon as you agreed to become my wife.”

  I arched an eyebrow, and he laughed. “I assured you I am not a rogue, Bella. For that, I will wait for the priest’s blessing. No, what I want to do is to free you.”

  I nodded my approval, and he unpinned my long black hair and then ran both hands through it, which tumbled in the wind. His hands sent a shiver through me, and I grinned as I heard the roar of approval and applause that came from the ship.

  I was to be the bride of a distant isle, too.

  He kissed me tenderly once more and then my uncle alighted from the carriage, aware, one thought, of his chaperoning duties as uncle and priest.

  “Do you remember what once you told me?” I asked Marco.

  “Of what do you speak, Bella? Please, remind me, my love.”

  I drew near to him, and he tucked me securely and with love underneath his arm.

  “Alla fine andrà tutto bene se non andrà bene, non e le fine,” I said.

  All will be well in the end; if it’s not well, then it’s not the end.

  EPILOGUE

  VALLETTA, MALTA

  1854

  Homer called Malta the center of the sea, and though England was and always would be my home, on this day, Malta was the center of my world.

  We’d left our palazzo in a horse-drawn carriage, netting covering all round so the breezes might cool us while we remained protected from tiny flying pests or wheel-thrown rocks. I sat on one side of the carriage holding our child and twisting the long strand of pearls—Marco’s wedding gift—with the other. Marco sat across from us, arms extended in case the carriage should jostle the baby.

  “How will he be a courageous sailor if you’re overattentive during a carriage ride?” I teased.

  “Can’t be too cautious,” he grumbled. A rooster strutted in the center of our driveway, unafraid. I grinned. A worthy mascot, indeed. I glanced down at the sleeping bundle in my arms.

  “You’ve heard Morgan has been sent to Australia,” Marco said.

  “I’d never! But I cannot say I am surprised. I am certain that it was he in the boat the night Edward died. For what was he sent to Australia?”

  “A variety of offenses that may have led to hanging a man who was not as well connected. Instead, they’ll ship him off for good. Hopefully he won’t harm anyone else,” Marco said. “In any case, my love, he shall ever be far from you, from us.”

  I pulled my son close, thankful he was out of reach from all who had intended to harm me.

  My son. Our son. “You are not filius nullius,” I whispered to Alessandru as I kissed my child’s plump cheeks. “You are a child of Malta, a child of Hampshire, a child of God, the beloved son of Marc Antonio Dell’Acqua. Most of all . . . my son.” I kissed his little cheek again and his mouth opened into a small “O” before he drifted toward sleep once more, his head falling heavily against my arm.

  We made our way down the narrow lanes, the turn of the wheels echoing off the rounded cobblestone. The houses did seem to be carved in buttery stone; in fact, the entire island was alive with gold, saffron, mustard, and yellow. It was as though the sun lit everything from within and without. Doors painted in emerald or olive opened into courtyards with laughing families; turquoise balconies were lashed by wrought iron; oval Arabian windows framed the sides of the doorways.

  We pulled up at Mama’s palazzo, and she ran o
ut to the carriage, greeting Marco and me as quickly as she could, and then relieved us of the baby, who woke and then laughed with her. He was, after all, given the day’s pride of place. It was his il-quċċija.

  Once inside, I saw tables groaning with food to the left and to the right. My own grandmother was already in the room, adding her offering to the copious bounty. She kissed me again and again and then returned to help Mama Dell’Acqua. I approached the table with the il-quċċja items on it.

  A boiled egg, a gold coin. A quill, a small book, a cross.

  A sailor’s knot.

  I reached my hand toward it; it would not be missed. I had already lost my father to the sea; each year I would risk losing Marco, too. I did not want to lose my son.

  A loving hand reached round me and then enclosed my own hand, the one that held the knot.

  “No, my Lady Poseidon, you shall not,” Marco teased. “Alexander will rule the seas someday.”

  Alexander. Not Alessandru. I suppressed a grin and replaced the knot on the table. I would let my boy choose his own fate, his own destiny, guided by the hand of God.

  It had turned out well for me.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Christianity was established in England in the first or second century; of course, Christianity at that time meant, for the most part, the faith as celebrated by the Roman Catholic Church; non-Catholic worship was prohibited and dissenters, including Protestants, were often swiftly and severely punished. Although there were dissenters throughout the centuries, the Catholic Church remained the official church of England until Henry VIII famously broke with Rome in 1534 to establish the Church of England. Following this, all religious properties in England became properties of the crown. Many of them were distributed to friends and supporters of the king, and their families and heirs then inherited them throughout the ages. It is for this reason that many noble houses have names that include religious terms such as “Abbey” in them.

  Henry’s daughter Elizabeth tried to walk the via media, the middle ground between Protestantism and Catholicism, and was tolerant of Catholic worship early in her reign as long as it did not become treasonous. When it did, she acted swiftly; later in her reign that swift action became more frequent and began to reach down to middle- and lower-class Catholics. Highly born Catholics were safe, and some, such as the Dukes of Norfolk—the premier duke—retained power and influence in every age and era after that. However, the common Catholic was penalized, as were others in the intermediate social strata. According to One Hundred and Fifty Years A-Growing: The Story of the Catholic Parish of Lymington, “From 1577 the authorities decided to impose more severe measures for disobeying the religious laws of the land. These included a £5 fine, equivalent to £1000 today (about US $1500) for non-attendance at a Protestant Sunday service.”

  James I, who succeeded Elizabeth I, was even more staunchly Protestant. It was he who commissioned the King James Bible. In spite of a few ensuing years with a Catholic monarch (notably James II, 1685–1688), Britain remained strictly Protestant. “The Act of 1700, provided rewards to spies and informers against Catholics . . .” according to One Hundred and Fifty Years A-Growing, which also tells us, “The New Marriage Act of 1753, compelled Catholics to marry in the Protestant Parish church to legalize the marriage. This rule continued until the early days of Queen Victoria’s reign.” Catholic couples were often married in their own faith, and then “remarried” to comply with the law.

  Change was coming, but slowly. A-Growing states that the “Catholic Relief Act of 1788 enabled Catholics to buy and inherit legally, and it was no longer an offense punished with life-imprisonment to exercise the functions of a Catholic Priest, or run a Catholic school.”

  The Catholic family upon which I loosely based the Somerfords were the generous Welds. Mr. Thomas Weld of Lulworth Castle bought Pylewell House (Milford on Sea) in 1801 for the use of his son Joseph; he was also a founding member of the Royal Yacht Squadron. A-Growing confirms that “A year or so after the Welds first took over Pylewell House, a large ground-floor room at the south end of the house was converted into a chapel, where Mass and other services could be held. The chapel was available for ‘all the local Catholics, both estate and employees, and others living nearby.’ ” Indeed, chapels were set up in private homes all across England for just such a purpose.

  It was true that some priests also served as chefs, and some as butlers, to be legally present and indistinguishable in Catholic households. A-Growing states, “Some other Catholic landowners in this district . . . often employ(ed) a man in their household who was in reality an ordained priest, and could minister to their spiritual needs.”

  The Emancipation Act of 1829 brought more freedoms, including assuring Catholics the freedom to vote and hold office, and freedoms slowly returned to England’s Catholic subjects. Prejudice, however, remained.

  As for that honey Clementine so effectively employed! It has long been known in the ancient world. The Greeks are believed to have been the first to name the honey harvested from bees that feasted on rhododendron blossoms “mad honey.” It was supposed to be a truth serum, and also an aphrodisiac. As for the effects? “This amber-hued mutant’s effects range from a pleasant tingling to dizziness, blurred vision, and impaired speech. Worse, it was once used as a weapon of war. In 67 BC, King Mithridates’s army left chunks of ‘mad honeycomb’ in the path of the Roman enemy, who gobbled it up, lost their minds and were promptly slain” (The Guardian, October 1, 2014).

  According to the September 2014 issue of Modern Farmer, “The dark, reddish, ‘mad honey,’ known as deli bal in Turkey, contains an ingredient from rhododendron nectar called grayanotoxin—a natural neurotoxin that, even in small quantities, brings on light-headedness and sometimes, hallucinations. In the 1700s, the Black Sea region traded this potent produce with Europe, where the honey was infused with drinks to give boozers a greater high than alcohol could deliver.”

  The article continues, “When over-imbibed, however, the honey can cause low blood pressure and irregularities in the heartbeat that bring on nausea, numbness, blurred vision, fainting, potent hallucinations, seizures, and even death, in rare cases. Nowadays, cases of mad honey poisoning crop up every few years—oftentimes in travelers who have visited Turkey.”

  Turkey has long been the trading partner that connects Asia and Europe. For a family involved in import, smuggling, or both, acquiring some would have been an easy get.

  So what if you didn’t eat any deli bal? Could you still be considered mad? Of course you could. The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, on the other side of the Atlantic held similar requirements for confinement; it listed some reasons for admission from 1864 to 1889, and they included:

  Reading novels

  Nursing too long

  Political excitement

  Time of life (perhaps related to another reason for admission, Uterine Derangement)

  Laziness or, conversely, Hard Study

  And, yes, Immoral Life, or Moral Madness

  Having someone admitted to an insane asylum was made more difficult in England due to the Lunacy Act of 1845, but it was not impossible, especially for those with money or influence. According to Life in the Victorian Asylum by Mark Stevens (which I loosely based my account upon), one in four hundred British subjects were placed in an asylum during the Victorian era. About 2 percent of them escaped, if you counted the criminally insane.

  The quote about bees who fill their “hives with honey and wax; thus furnishing mankind with the two noblest of things, which are sweetness and light” was written by Jonathan Swift, and appropriate to the era, but the author would not have been remembered by Annabel at that young age, so I did not quote Swift in the book.

  Finally, there truly was a deep paranoia about being buried alive. Victorians invented items such as the coffin bell to avoid such a fate, and the fear of it shows up in Poe’s stories “The Fall of the House of Usher” and “The Premature Burial.” There was, established in
the late Victorian era, an American Society for the Prevention of People Being Buried Alive, sometime after the setting of this story, but the sentiments had prevailed throughout the era.

  Too, I rather liked the idea of Annabel breaking out of her coffin, in a metaphorical sense as well as the physical sense.

  It’s something each of us should do.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I am blessed to have a number of wonderful people who graciously contributed their many talents to this book.

  I am deeply indebted to Dr. Alex Naylor and Finni Golden, historical advisers and residents of Hampshire, England, both of whom continue to be instrumental in the development of this series. They not only kept my history straight (Alex is a sailor who often represents Lord Nelson; Finni is a genius polymath who had a Victorian grandmother!); they also help me keep my English English, and not American.

  Danielle Egan-Miller, Joanna MacKenzie, and Abby Saul of Browne & Miller Literary Associates are among the rare agents who are also great editors. Thanks, too, to the entire hardworking team at Howard Books who help bring these books to life and to market, including my enjoyable, professional partnership with Senior Editor Beth Datlowe Adams, whose refinements made truly important contributions. Jenny Q of Historical Editorial once more brought her mighty pen and thoughtful insight to both the planning and the rough draft.

  Friends Serena Chase, Dawn Kinzer, and Debbie Austin deserve a shout-out for their focused, valuable comments. My dear friend Janelle Schneider, a Catholic woman, read to ensure fidelity in my representation of the Catholic faith.

  My wonderful husband, Michael, brings not only excellent research skills but great coffee-making and constant encouragement. My three children love and cheer me on at each step of what can sometimes be a daunting journey.