Ember Island

by Kimberley Freeman

  Hettie nodded, the dress clutched between desperate hands.

  “The best way out is through the cane fields. If you can get changed down here, then slip by the eastern side of the house and down the steep side of the escarpment, you’ll be on flat ground in no time. If anyone sees you from a distance, they’ll think it’s me.”

  “But what if they see you too?”

  “I’ll go through the western edge of the cane fields. It doesn’t matter who sees either of us; they won’t see both of us. You’ll probably get to the boat first. Wait for me there. Don’t panic, I will come.” Tilly checked around again. “We will not row to the mainland.”

  “No? Then where?”

  “There is another island to the north. It’s uninhabited. I will fill the boat tomorrow with food, water and blankets. We will make it our home for a week or so. They will be expecting us to make for the mainland. While they are all searching to the west, we will be heading to the north.”

  Hettie’s eyes glimmered sharply. “That is a good plan,” she said, then added, “But you don’t look well.”

  “I am tired. I was awake in the night, moving the boat into place.”

  “I don’t know how I can thank you.”

  “You can thank me by living a happy life.”

  Hettie turned her face up to the afternoon sunshine, closed her eyes. “I will be so happy when I hold my babies in my arms. When last I saw them, they were so small. My son little more than a baby, with only a few words. I can see him in my mind’s eye.” She tapped her temple, then opened her eyes. “He will be different. The plumpness will have melted, his limbs grown long. My daughter, too. You cannot imagine how precious the years with them will be to me; years that I thought I had forsaken forever. I thought I might not see them again until they were grown, with no memory or care for who I was. And you have made this possible. God bless you, Tilly. God bless you.”

  Tilly’s heart swelled. Yes, this would work. This would absolve her. She was desperate now for the plan to unfold without incident, for Hettie to be returned to the arms of her loved ones without detection. Was she naïve to think either of these things were possible? And what of her own future?

  “Hide the dress under a hedge,” Tilly advised. “Even if the dew falls tonight, it will have most of the day to dry out. Tomorrow I will organize the food and blankets. Everything should be in place for sunset.”

  Hettie clasped her hands in front of her, trembling visibly. “I will be ready.”

  “I will see you at the boat.”

  •

  Tilly slept like the dead, exhausted from the previous night, and only woke when Nell knocked hard at her door.

  “Tilly? Are you there?”

  “Come in,” Tilly croaked.

  The door opened. Nell’s face was pale with concern. “You weren’t at breakfast and then you didn’t come to class. Are you ill?”

  “I . . .” Tilly realized she might need an excuse to get away early today. “I am a little. Yes. But I will dress and come to class. Go and wait for me in the library.”

  “Are you certain? Perhaps I should get somebody to bring you breakfast on a tray.”

  The thought of eating made her stomach lurch. “I have no appetite. I may feel better once I’m up and about.” She offered a smile. “You may have to be gentle with me today.”

  “I will be so gentle,” Nell said, hand on her heart. “And I’ll understand entirely if you want to stay in bed.”

  Then Nell was gone, closing the door softly behind her.

  By the time Tilly was dressed in her red dress and had arrived at the library, Nell had been to the kitchen and fetched a banana for her.

  Tilly picked it up gratefully. “Thank you, dear.”

  “I know you’re not hungry, but food may make you feel better. I stayed up late last night writing another chapter, Tilly. Would you like to hear it?”

  Tilly peeled the banana and took a bite. “I certainly would,” she said.

  “Go and sit on the sofa. You’ll be more comfortable.”

  So Tilly took her banana to the leather sofa beside the bookcases, and Nell came and sat on the floor next to her and read. Tilly closed her eyes and listened, allowing herself to be lost in Nell’s world. The girl really was a fine writer, with a big imagination and a wonderful command of language for her age. She wondered what Nell would do in the future, how life would treat her, who would break her heart.

  After an hour, Nell stopped, right at a crucial point.

  Tilly opened her eyes. “Go on,” she said.

  “That’s it. That’s as far as I’ve written.”

  “But does Emmeline ever find her mother?”

  Nell shrugged. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to wait until I write some more.”

  Tilly’s eyes pricked with tears and Nell noticed immediately.

  “Tilly? Did I make you cry?”

  “Your story is lovely,” Tilly muttered, sniffing the tears back. “That’s all.”

  Nell beamed. “Do you really think so?”

  Tilly took her hand. “I really think so. You’re a marvelous writer. Imagine the places you might go with it.”

  Nell stood and did a little twirl of delight. “Imagine the stories I might write. I don’t really want to go anywhere. There couldn’t be anywhere as beautiful as Ember Island, don’t you think?”

  Back to reality, Tilly was swamped by the things she had to get done. Her stomach twitched. “Nell, would you mind if we canceled lessons for the rest of the day? I can give you some exercises to go on with . . .”

  “No, I’m going to my room to write. So I can read you some more tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. The tomorrow that wouldn’t come for them. “That’s a wonderful idea,” she murmured.

  Nell was gone in a flash, brimming with excitement and imagination.

  Tilly lay back again, closed her eyes. One moment of quiet before the storm of apprehension and agitation. Opened her eyes. Stood and went to the kitchen.

  The big echoing room was empty. Their cook had left a large pot of soup simmering on the stove, filling the air with the salty smell of ham. Tilly found the largest picnic basket they kept, under the big wooden table in the middle of the room, and placed it on the bench. A hulking bunch of bananas sat on the table, mostly green. She put in a dozen of those, a loaf of bread, a knife. Heard footsteps come and go in the hallway and stood frozen a few moments. Then went searching for more things. Eggs, flour, matches, a small pot. She realized she was grasping things at random, but as long as they could stay alive for a week on the next island, they could eat well when they finally got to the mainland. Tilly closed the picnic basket when it was filled to the brim, piled two blankets rolled around two spare dresses on top, and went out the back door.

  The cool air stirred with a wind from the sea. A sailing ship glided past in the distance, between the island and the mainland, all its sails gleaming white in the autumn sunlight. The bay was green-blue, thumping. Tilly hoped the wind would calm by this evening, that the swell would settle. She didn’t relish the idea of being out there on a small boat.

  She took the road down towards the beach and then came around the rocks and into the swamp. The sun fell vertically through the trees onto the dank mud. The tide was up, so she had to make her way between the trees rather than along the shore line. Her skin shrank against the bugs and creeping branches. It was slow going and she made a note to herself to leave plenty of time this afternoon. It would be better for her to arrive before Hettie, to greet her and put her at ease.

  For a long time she didn’t think she would see the tree with the blue ribbon. She wondered if it had blown away into the water, but the tide was up so the tree was a lot further out than she remembered, standing in the salt water with the bright ribbon rattling in the wind.

  She saw the boat a moment later, as she’d left it. She made her way over, and placed the picnic basket and blankets in it. Then stood for a moment looking out through the trees
at the water, catching her breath and her thoughts. The minutes and hours were buzzing past. Soon it would all come to fruition.

  •

  On returning to the house, Tilly’s first order of business was to change into a clean dress and shoes. Mud had spattered the ones she was wearing. Nell was a curious girl and Tilly hadn’t the energy for a series of plausible lies. From outside her door, she could smell food and it made her stomach rumble. She stepped out into the corridor and down to the dining room, where Nell sat alone at the dining table with a tureen of tomato soup and a plate of bread rolls in front of her. Tilly stopped in the threshhold.

  “Are you feeling any better?” Nell said, her eyes revealing a hint of suspicion.

  “Not much.”

  “Will you eat? There’s more than enough. Papa has some business over at the stockade and couldn’t join me and I do hate to eat alone.”

  Tilly wouldn’t be here for dinner and food might be scarce over coming days, so she said, “Yes. Yes, I will.”

  She pulled out a chair and served herself some soup, dipped the warm bread into it, pushed it in her mouth. Took a moment to savor it. “Did you write?” she asked Nell.

  “I only stopped because I was so hungry,” Nell answered. “I have had a breakthrough. I believe I’ll finish it this afternoon and can read it to you tomorrow. Provided you are well, of course.”

  “Who knows what tomorrow will bring?” Tilly said lightly, between mouthfuls.

  Nell was quiet a few moments, then said, “Tilly?”

  Tilly’s skin prickled. “Yes?”

  But then Nell shook her head. “Nothing. It’s good soup, isn’t it? Cook never makes it too salty. We once had a cook that added so much salt to everything that sometimes my tongue would feel thick after a meal.”

  And on she went, making small talk. Tilly nodded and made noises in the right places, all the time her mind a whirl of other, darker thoughts.

  After lunch, she returned to her room and went through her belongings. While she couldn’t be seen with a suitcase, she had a cotton bag that she could sling over her shoulder and take with her, so she slid her inlaid writing box into it: the last remnant of an old life that receded further and further into her memory. What would Grandpa, not quite a year dead in his grave, think of this turn of events? What shame he would feel, knowing she had fallen so low and was preparing to take such desperate steps.

  “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” she said, under her breath, caressing the box. Then she put the bag down near the dresser and knelt by her bed and, for the first time in many months, began to pray.

  It was while she was begging for forgiveness and clarity that a knock sounded at her door. She stood, smoothed down her skirt and said, “Come in.”

  It was Sterling, in his dark blue vest and shirtsleeves. His familiar smell—skin, soap, leather—washed over her and she had to restrain herself from leaning towards him to take a deep breath.

  “I am terribly sorry to bother you,” he said, “but we’ve had our mail and there’s a letter for you.”

  “For me?”

  He held out the envelope. He was curious, she could tell. The handwriting was familiar and the return address was the same as the last. Laura Mornington had written again, via Mrs. Fraser’s. The series of crossings-out on the envelope told her it had been passed on to Mr. Hamblyn’s before being redirected here. “Thank you,” she said, in a tone that was as neutral as she could manage.

  “Where precisely is Guernsey?” he asked.

  “It’s an island in the English Channel. I lived there for a time,” she added boldly. There was no point in hiding it. “Very unhappily, I might add.”

  “So you are no stranger to islands, then,” he said gently. “Perhaps that is why you fit in so well here.” His eyes lit on the dress and shoes that lay in a pool on the floor. “Is that mud?” he asked.

  “I’ve been down to the mangrove forest,” she said, heartbeat twitching in her throat.

  “For fresh air?”

  “I was thinking of taking Nell down there next week. For a science lesson. I wasn’t prepared for quite how muddy it was, so I turned around almost immediately.”

  “Don’t take Nell down there, please,” he said. “It’s neither safe nor pleasant.”

  “I am unwell,” she said coolly. “I won’t be at dinner. And I’ll be resting all afternoon and don’t want to be disturbed.”

  He blinked rapidly, taken aback. “Of course.” He gathered himself, resolved. “I’ll let Nell know. Good day.”

  She turned away so she couldn’t watch him leave. When the door had closed she said, “Good-bye, Sterling,” and tears welled and spilled over. She sat on the bed with her face in her hands and let the tears fall. Tears of love and loss and fear and strain. Tilly cried for nearly half an hour, then turned to Laura’s letter.

  There wasn’t the urgency opening it this time, for she suspected it would say much the same as the first. In fact, she almost didn’t read it. It wasn’t for her at all. But then she thought that a fresh stab of guilt over her crime may be necessary to get her through the evening. She tore the envelope and unfolded the pages within.

  •

  Dear Chantelle,

  It has been some time since I last wrote, and I waited in vain for a letter from you to reassure me. I can see now why you didn’t write back, and perhaps this letter will disappear into nowhere because you have already moved on, as you must, given how culpable you are.

  Since my last letter, things have come to light that were not apparent to me before and I feel such a fool for trusting you, giving you the benefit of doubt, and even defending you to the very woman who suspected you wanted to destroy her happiness. Now I know you would have willingly destroyed her happiness and destroyed her along with it.

  After the fire, when the police came, they found love letters between you and Jasper in your room. They found no passport, and we all presumed Jasper had broken it off and you had fled. No suspicion over the fire was laid upon you because the cause was found to be simply a broken lamp in a downstairs room. Perhaps the curtain had caught it. The window had been left open and the curtains appeared to be the first thing that went up. I was glad when the police had told me all this because I had been so worried that the timing of your leaving would cast suspicion on you. “She is a good woman,” I had told the police so many times. “She is an orphan and I have done my best to help her.”

  And so I went on, believing you innocent of all sin, suspecting only that you had run off with a broken heart and didn’t even know about the accidental fire at Lumière sur la Mer. I worried for you, nearly every day. I even kept your room for you, until it became impractical. My daughter Maria and her child have now moved in with us, and we needed to hire more servants. It was time to clear out your room.

  I had a few sad moments as I packed up your dresses and shoes, your hair clips and toiletries. Much of it I have thrown away or given to charity. As a servant, you had nothing fine. Or so I thought.

  On the final day, before the two new beds were to be moved in to a room you had luxuriated in alone—thanks to Jasper, and to Tilly’s great dismay—I checked the dresser drawers one last time. I noted that the bottom drawer was shallower than the others, and in investigating this irregularity, I discovered the drawer had a false bottom. When I lifted out the flat panel of wood, I found all your secrets.

  Not just jewelry—jewelry a woman of your station could never afford—but the other letters, the wicked letters as I’ve come to think of them. Every single one of them from Jasper, but do not think that you are not implicated in every wicked line.

  Some made me blush with their lascivious details. I wonder if you wrote such shocking and improper letters in return. I read through them, even though they made me ill. What I thought were fantasies on the page turned out to be memories. The fact that you saved such lewd and indecent writings from him says something of your character, Chantelle.

  But there was much worse to come.r />
  Other letters, hidden also. The letters you wanted to save but wanted nobody ever to find. Letters that spoke of love and lust, but also spoke of plans for murder. When I think of poor Tilly coming to me for comfort and how I simply told her that husbands have affairs and it means nothing and she should go about her life expecting happiness . . . it makes me want to sob with guilt and anguish. That poor young woman, played like a fool by Jasper, egged on by you, with the goal of taking her money and then making her appear to be going mad, and ultimately . . . would you have really done it, Chantelle? Would you have really gone through with poisoning her? Pushing her out a window? Drowning her in the sea? These were all suggestions Jasper had made, and the letters indicated that you were avidly involved in arguing the details of these acts with him. Would you have really stood by as Jasper spoke to the authorities of her repeated attempts to take her own life? She had no family left to speak of; I suppose you might have got away with such a lie. And then would you have set up house at Lumière sur la Mer with Jasper as though you somehow deserved it?

  What a horror you are. What a ghastly last few weeks in this world poor Tilly must have experienced. Well you might run, Chantelle Lejeune. You had much to run from.

  Ralph insisted I burn the letters, so you need not fear the interest of the police. His reasoning was that Tilly is dead now, and unable to be saved. That Jasper, too, will never answer for his crimes. And that he wants to think of it no more, and he doesn’t want the trouble and shame of an investigation. I disagreed with him, but did as a good wife should and followed his directions. All those letters were burned in my hearthplace, and I swear they smelled of brimstone as they went up: that is how much evil was in them.

  But although you need not fear the judgment of the earthly law, Chantelle, you will face the judgment of God on your final day. That gives me comfort. And writing this letter has given me a chance to express my horror and anger. I wish you only misery. I wish you an awful life.