by TJ Bennett
Mrs. Jones had apparently been informed of my desire to visit the village, for after I ate a late meal, she sought me out and bundled me up appropriately, for the wind was biting, she said. We loaded up in Gerard’s well sprung, if old-fashioned, open carriage with two footmen behind and a driver up front, and off we went.
The village turned out to be only two miles away, hardly far enough to launch such equipage on it, but I saw no point in insisting on walking. I knew enough about Gerard to understand his servants would balk at any opposition to his commands. I settled back on the squabs, Mrs. Jones opposite me, and observed the passing scenery, the first opportunity I had had to do so since my arrival.
The island was stark and beautiful. The recent storm had piled the billowing clouds into one corner of the sky, where they bunched up like feather pillows thrust aside by some giant, restless hand, allowing the sun to peek through. Wind and rain had etched the edges of the island into craggy cliffs and steep drop-offs, while the interior was dense with primordial woods.
Sprawling Alexander Hall, formed of dark slate walls and red sandstone tiled roofs, was joined to the island by a projection of land shaped like a hand curled into a fist, the island being the arm, the wrist of which formed the only means of traveling to and from the main road and back to Gerard’s estate. A wide path had been laid in a winding S-shape over which the horses clopped on their way down the hillside. Gorse and heather grew along its edges.
Despite the fact that it was near the end of October, the grass still grew emerald green, and brown, woolly sheep dotted the fields. A small inlet was the only easy access to the ocean, as far as I could see. I gazed at it, so calm now despite the raging storm that had brought me here. I saw debris scattered over the shoreline—clothing, fluttering papers, damaged books, broken bits of crockery, and incongruously, a brass-buckled shoe gleaming in the sun. About a dozen women, heads down, skirts tucked up, picked through the flotsam, their aprons bulging with their finds. I peered intently, realizing it was the wreckage from sunken ships Gerard had described—perhaps even my own. I had taken few possessions with me, but if I could get away, I would try to search the beach to see if any of them had washed ashore.
As I looked out at the horizon, I saw a flash of light winking at the line where the sky met the sea, and frowned. Even as I squinted at it and tried to make out what it might be, it disappeared.
“Did you see that, Mrs. Jones?”
“What, ma’am?” She looked at me politely.
“Hmm…” There was nothing there to see. “Never mind.” I turned to observe our approach to the main road. We passed a small picturesque graveyard along the road, the moss-covered headstones standing at canted angles to the ground.
I noticed as we drew abreast, however, a section of the cemetery stood apart from the rest. It was newer, or perhaps better tended. It had a brightly painted white-picket fence surrounding it, the gate standing ajar. Inside were rows of tiny crosses carefully lined up side by side. There were dozens of them, and I wondered what they signified. We passed quickly, the horses’ ears pressed back and twitching when we drew abreast. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Jones about it on the way back. For now, I wished to know more about Ynys Nos.
I turned to my companion. “How large is this island?”
She folded her hands in front of her. “Well, from tip to tip, it is fifteen miles, or thereabouts. At its widest, about eight. We are traveling along the shoreline, as ye can see, heading northeast. That’s Alexander’s Bay behind ye,” she indicated with a nod of her head in the direction we had just come, “where ye washed ashore.” She looked at me, and in her eyes, I could see my presence here still astounded her. “Praise be to God.”
Considering the fate of my companions, praise be to Him, indeed. “And the population? How many live on the island? And do they all live in the village or serve at Alexander Hall?”
“There are less than five hundred souls here, most in the village, the rest scattered about the island in farms and cottages. We all serve the master, yes.”
“Do you know most of the people here well?”
“Every face.”
“And what of you? Is there a Mr. Jones? Or children?”
Her eyes shuttered and she turned away, staring toward the receding churchyard. “No. Mr. Jones died long ago. We were never blessed with children.”
An old pain lanced through me with a sharpness that surprised me to this day, even after seven years. I traced the cameo nestled between my breasts with my fingertip. “Perhaps, in a way, that is a blessing in itself,” I murmured.
Mrs. Jones gave me a queer look but did not inquire as to my meaning. I forced my mind away from Eliza, my lost child, and back to the matter at hand.
“Gerard—that is, your master—said there were industries on the island? Men of trades and such?”
“We have learned to provide for each other’s needs.”
“But no doctor?” I mused. “What do you do when someone becomes ill?”
Her glance flickered away again. “Oh, ’tis a rare thing, that. Injury is more a cause of concern than illness. A broken bone, a serious cut—those can be very painful and lingering.”
Perhaps, if I was forced to stay longer than a few days, I might contribute my knowledge of medicine for the benefit of the village. I was no physician, but I had treated my share of serious injuries and aided many a doctor. “I could be of assistance in that area. I am a nurse. I can organize a lecture series while I am here for those who show an aptitude for medical care. Miss Nightingale is very insistent that good hygiene and sound nutrition are the keys to recovery. She’s written several papers to that end. Why, while we were in Turkey, she discovered—”
“Yes, ma’am, but here’s the village now.” Mrs. Jones seemed relieved to change the subject. I suspected I had been boring her thoroughly, and grimaced at the thought. I examined the village as we approached.
It had a faded air about it, like that of an elegant spinster who was once the fair beauty of the ball but whose time had long passed. Most of the homes were clustered around the main high street, through which a rushing stream cut and was bounded by a stone bridge arching over it. The little houses on the high street were made mostly of stone with thick walls and roofs of split natural tiles, although I noted a few thatched cottages here and there as well. Farther down I could see two stone-mill structures with a whirling wheel clacking behind them, powered by the stream. A market-cross sat in the middle of the town, its sturdy pointed roof supported by four thick pillars—an ideal location from which to trade wares or hold celebrations. A village pub held up the north end of the street, while a weathered vicarage commanded the southern end.
Doors opened up and down the street, heads bobbed out, gentlemen shrugged into overcoats against the cool mist descending over the hills, women wiped baking flour off their hands as they left their houses, children ducked behind their skirts. The villagers watched the carriage with an air of anticipation and trepidation as we approached.
“Stop here,” I ordered the driver. He cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at me, but obeyed. By the time he pulled the horses up near a stone butter-cross, a mounting block for horse riders, and the footmen had clambered down to assist the elderly Mrs. Jones and me in alighting, I thought surely the town square must be filled with every inhabitant of the island. Oddly silent, they gawked and stared, and I began to feel like a prize pig at a country fair. Several gray-haired, very old men in solemn dress conferred in lowered voices with a handsome gentleman who stood in their midst. The older men appeared to debate something, gesturing first at me and then at the younger man, who nodded his head periodically in response. He was in his late thirties with eyes the color of lapis lazuli, his brown hair threaded with gold.
Finally, he pressed forward through the crowd and approached me with a pleasant, ready smile. I noted the clerical collar around his neck and realized with surprise that he must be the inhabitant of the vicarage. He reached
the front of the crowd, quickly taking me in with one glance as he grasped my hand in greeting.
“Madam,” he declared in a strong, resonating voice, “I am the vicar, Matthew Pangburn, at your service. On behalf of our elder council, I have been given the pleasure of being the first of our village to welcome you to Ynys Nos. Welcome to our home!”
Cheers of “huzzah” went up through the crowd, and an excited buzz of conversation, well-wishes, and welcome surrounded me. The villagers began bombarding me with questions about the world beyond their shores, pressing my hand in greeting and bestowing gifts which appeared like magic from aprons and pockets—a packet of tea, a fine wool scarf, jars of jam—until I was laden down and staggering beneath their weight. With a good-natured laugh, the vicar encouraged the footmen to load the proffered gifts into the carriage for me. He turned to the crowd and held up his hands, calling for silence, and they eventually quieted.
“I am sure the lady will answer all of our questions in due time. She will know how excited we are to have this blessing from above arrive on our very doorstep, bringing with her hope and a future. In the meanwhile, we must allow her to catch her breath.” He turned to me. “Please forgive us. We are not,” he said with a wry smile, “accustomed to visitors.”
He threw a glance to the councilmen to whom he had earlier referred. They nodded as one, obviously giving him encouragement to continue. “Allow me to invite you to my home for a spot of tea. My cousin, Mrs. Mariah Howard née Pangburn, is a marvelous hostess and will be most delighted to meet you.”
At this, Mrs. Jones stepped forward. I had nearly forgotten her in all the excitement. “The master insists that Mrs. Briton’s visit to the village be a short one,” she said in a loud voice. “The lady is still recovering, Mr. Pangburn, and he is worried for her lest she endure any further shocks. He says to let ye know ye may call upon Mrs. Briton at the Hall in a day or two with a few of the elder council, and news can be shared then. We were instructed to take a turn through the village and come back straightaway.”
The vicar frowned and the councilmen exchanged portentous glances. “I see,” the vicar murmured.
I turned to her. I had no intention of allowing her, or more precisely, Gerard, to keep me from learning more about this island. I had to get home to the children. “I assure you, Mrs. Jones, I am as hale as a horse, and quite capable of looking after myself. If you need to return quickly, please take the carriage back to your master’s house. In the meantime, I shall accept the vicar’s invitation to tea. I will meet you here in one hour. If I do not see the carriage then, I am quite content to walk back on my own.”
I turned to the vicar in time to catch his astonished expression. Several of the council frowned and stroked their long beards.
The vicar quickly schooled his features while I smiled brightly at him.
“Mr. Pangburn, I am all yours. Kindly lead the way.”
After a brief hesitation, and another look back at the councilmen, he extended his arm, and I took it. I did not miss the worried glance he flicked over my head to Mrs. Jones, or her raised eyebrows in return. I hoped I had not put them in an untenable position by forcing them to disobey the lord of the manor, but I would not be put on a leash to satisfy some sense of ownership Gerard might have over me.
Better for the men, and the entire village, to know right now that Catherine Briton made her own decisions, and Gerard, for all he might lord it over these people, was no master of mine.
Just then, a man stepped into our path. Solidly built, his shoulders had the broad, thick span of a tavern brawler, his neck and arms solid as cordwood. With his square jaw and wavy, dark hair, he was handsome in a rough sort of way, with a gleam in his eye that said he was fully aware of his appeal. His clothing was that of a dandy, his pea-green waistcoat flamboyant and yet oddly old-fashioned. His shrewd gaze assessed me from top to toes.
“Here now, Vicar. Give another fellow a chance.” He grinned and tipped his hat, but his flirtatious smile did not reach his bright green eyes.
The vicar stiffened, his good humor dimming. He acknowledged the other man, but did not introduce us, something I found interesting. “As I said, Howard, I’m sure she’ll be happy to choose her company later, after she’s had a chance to settle in.”
Howard, who I wondered might be related to the cousin of the vicar, shot him a glance.
“Who died and made you the master?” Howard quipped. Nervous titters and a few gasps sounded from the crowd around us. He smiled, amused at something I did not understand, and shrugged. “Perhaps another time, then,” he said to me. Turning to Mr. Pangburn, he offered blandly, “Be sure to give Mariah my best, now.”
The vicar, a man who appeared to be naturally congenial, frowned. “I’ll hope to see you in church next week, Howard. There is a first time for everything, after all.” With that dismissal, Mr. Pangburn directed me around the fellow and toward the vicarage.
I caught Howard scowling at the vicar’s back, but he did not attempt to follow us.
I turned my attention to the vicarage, which had likely seen better days in its prime. It was charming, but obviously in want of funds for proper upkeep. Still, the rooms had been swept and scrubbed clean with ruthless efficiency. Someone had tried hard to impress a sense of warmth with stitched pillows and hand-tooled lace scattered about the place. Over the mantle of the cheery fire, a gleaming, antique rapier mounted on a polished wood cradle held pride of place. I thought it an odd addition to the otherwise serene image of domestic tranquility.
I wondered also that Gerard did not provide more funds for the vicarage, as I had no doubt it must depend upon the manor for most of its needs.
I was distracted, however, for Mrs. Jones decided to accompany me after all. In fact, the entire village trailed after us, first attempting to squeeze into the vicar’s home and then being required to wait outside while the footmen guarded the door. Finally, after much leave-taking, we were settled in while he went in search of his cousin and the neighbors pressed their noses to the window from without, eagerly watching our every move and chattering amongst themselves. Their reaction to my presence supported Gerard’s assertion that there had been no newcomers here in a very long time. I struggled with my waning hope, determined to keep my spirits up despite the mounting obstacles to my departure.
Within moments, the vicar’s cousin arrived behind him like a fresh wind off the water, sweeping into the room with her hands outthrust, the same beautiful blue eyes and blond-brown hair distinguishing her otherwise plain features. She appeared to be a few years younger than her cousin.
“Mrs. Briton! How pleased I am to make your acquaintance. My cousin says you are to take tea with us.” She smiled at him with affection. “I am Mariah Howard.” She clasped my hand in a gesture of familiarity to which I was beginning to become accustomed. “Oh, to see a new face, and such a lovely one besides. I am so excited to meet you, dear lady, I hardly know where to begin.”
The vicar pressed a cautioning hand to her sleeve. “Mariah, the master has expressed his wishes that we tread lightly with the lady. She is lately recovering, and he wants any interview with her to be delayed until he may be in attendance.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Howard, I am quite healthy,” I insisted. “It is likely I have as many questions for you as you have for me. Perhaps, when tea is ready, we might indulge each other shamelessly, regardless of what the gentlemen prefer.” I smiled to soften the rebuke of her master and her vicar, and her eyes twinkled in a conspiratorial response.
“Oh, I like you already. We shall get on famously. You have a rebellious streak in you.” She grinned. “I am told I do as well. Please, please, sit.” She gestured to a comfortable-looking chair by the fire, and rushed off to fetch the tea.
Mrs. Jones fidgeted nervously. She and the vicar exchanged wordless glances rife with communication. I let them have their intrigue, for I was determined not to be put off, and in Mrs. Howard, I believed I had found an ally.
She came back bearing a tea tray laden with a flowered porcelain service, delicious-looking miniature cakes, and triangle-shaped sandwiches with the crusts off. The vicar leaped up and relieved her of her burden, laying out the service between us on a small sitting table. Whatever their circumstances, at least they did not want for food.
I wondered again if the man we had met outside, Roger Howard, was related, or if the surnames were simply a coincidence. But if they were relations, perhaps even married, surely Mr. Pangburn would have invited him to take tea?
“Shall I be mother?” Mrs. Howard asked, and when I agreed, she poured the tea and dribbled in milk and honey at my request. She then served the vicar and Mrs. Jones.
“Well,” she said, settling back in her chair and ignoring her neighbors staring at us through the windowpanes, “isn’t this nice?”
“Yes, quite,” I responded, not entirely certain where to begin.
“Tell us, what is the state of the world abroad?” Mr. Pangburn asked.
“Yes, are we at war? Is there peace? Who is England’s regent?” Mrs. Howard interjected.
“Do forgive me for coming quickly to the point, Mrs. Howard, Mr. Pangburn, but while I understand your natural curiosity about the world outside, and will be happy to answer your questions later, I urgently wish to know about your island and its inhabitants. I must admit that what I wish to know most, however, is how to leave it. I hope you do not think me terrible for saying so.”
This brought a smile to Mrs. Howard’s face and a round of self-conscious laughter from the other two occupants of the room.
“Not at all. I think it is a question we all would wish the answer to if we could discover it. I am certain the master has told you of the impossibility of leaving the island?” she asked.