Bride of a Distant Isle

by Sandra Byrd

  He shrugged. “She understood nothing. She does not speak Maltese.”

  I moved away, slowly, pretending to look at the paintings on the wall, meeting no gaze, nor indicating that I had overhead.

  Oh, but I do speak Maltese, Lieutenant. Yes, I understood you. Completely.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning Clementine told me to be ready to visit some shops just after breakfast. Normally the seamstress came to visit, but on this occasion Clementine wanted to visit the dressmaker herself. “They have ready-made items in shops run by milliners and other tradeswomen of quality,” she added, comfortingly. “Edward says you need some new attire.”

  I set my teacup down near my plated egg. “Edward wants me to buy dresses? I had thought we were to economize.”

  She nodded. “We are. But you must be appropriately attired for our station. He looks at the improvements as an investment.” She glanced at my fish necklace, her face scrunching, but said nothing about it, for which I was glad. What should I answer if she asked me how I’d come to own such an unusual object? I willed her gaze away, and saints be praised, it worked. Clementine dregged her tea and stood up. “Be ready on the hour.”

  She excused herself whilst I finished, and as I did, I took in the richness of the room. It had been expensively papered and the floors furnished with plush carpets that our family had imported from Turkey, one component of the family investments that yet flourished. We’d been importing and exporting for a century or more, I knew. Around the room were many fine examples of Grandfather’s sterling collection: table bells and candlesticks, even silver ostrich egg cups, some fashioned to look like coconut shells. I recalled our confectioner serving coconut ices in them at Highcliffe when Edward and I had been children. Edward’s pilfered all the best bits from Highcliffe, scavenging the fleet as it were before he abandoned it.

  I met Clementine by the front door; as the weather was mild we decided to walk, which I greatly enjoyed. We nodded at other women as they, too, walked along the promenade and made our way toward the shop Clementine had in mind.

  “I’m still confused at why I am not returning to Winchester.” I hoped the truth would be easier to pry from her than from Edward.

  “Resources. You cannot stay there without a supplement to your stipend, and we can no longer afford it. Clearly, Annabel, you see that. We are selling Highcliffe.”

  “Will there not be sufficient funds for my needs then, after the sale?”

  Clementine looked at me as though I were a child, and not, in actuality, a year older than she. “What is ‘sufficient,’ Annabel?”

  “A rightful portion. Where has the money gone?”

  “Revenue Acts,” she said quietly. “Taxes are lowered. Times have changed. There are debts.”

  It still made no sense to me. What had revenue collection to do with the family’s importing and exporting concerns? “What will happen to me? Shall I move to London with you?”

  She shook her head and just then we arrived at the dress shop. We spent an hour or more there; she bought several dresses for me, day wear and evening wear, which would be delivered that very day, including a lovely midnight-blue gown that set off my eyes. I delighted in it until she commented, “Perhaps the darkness of the dress will bring out the paleness of your skin and minimize your freckles.”

  Crestfallen, I said, “I hadn’t thought they were conspicuous. Perhaps I should employ rose cream and try to lighten them.”

  “Don’t bother. Apparently Mr. Morgan finds them charming. Distinctive. His opinion is what matters.”

  “It is?” I asked, but she kept looking ahead, walking briskly. A chill swept over me though there was no wind. Had Morgan made so personal, so evaluating a comment about me to Clementine? And was I now to please him? At what cost to myself, and for what reason? I felt ill and though normally spry, in need of a rest.

  Edward will ensure you come to no harm, I tried to reassure myself. He was a merciless teaser, he was selfish, yes, but we were cousins. Siblings, almost, at least in my eyes. Perhaps I just very much wanted to convince myself that I could trust him.

  As we walked toward the townhouse we passed what looked to be a Catholic church; as there were few left in England, I couldn’t be certain. “I should like to attend before we leave, if I may,” I said, tentatively. “It will have been a week and as you know, there is no Catholic church in Lymington.”

  I had felt spiritually at home during my years in Winchester, at St. Peter’s on St. Peter’s Street. Where would I now attend Mass? Who would hear my confession?

  To my great surprise, Clementine said, “You may attend if it brings you comfort.”

  “Thank you!” I gently squeezed her arm.

  After a few moments, she asked, “Why did you become Catholic?”

  She had been married to Edward for but a few years, and most of that time I had been in Winchester. I did not know what she had been told of my background.

  “My mother, Julianna Ashton, was the older sister of Edward’s mother, Judith,” I began.

  “Oh, the sainted Mrs. Judith Ashton Everedge,” she exclaimed, bitterness filling in the edges of her voice. “Of whom one might never imply wrongdoing, or even the clay feet of mere humanity. Edward’s petulant that I have inherited her things.”

  I had few memories of my mother’s sister; she had not wanted me around, so many of my holidays were spent with governesses or at school, and when I’d been home she’d had little to do with me. In truth, she’d had little to do with Edward.

  “Carry on, Annabel.” Clementine waved her fan at me. “Continue.”

  “When they were young ladies they took a Grand Tour, spending an especial amount of time in Malta because of the rich art history. My mother became a Catholic while there, and, I assume, fell in love with a Maltese man. When trouble began brewing with Greek independence, Grandfather sent for them to come home. He was ill. They returned, and, well, Judith married Edward’s father.”

  I’d heard that Grandfather had first intended Edward’s father for my mother. “My mother soon bore me. She died a few years hence.”

  In an asylum, gone mad, having had a child out of wedlock. Then there was the strain of having been abandoned. Papist. Raving. I did not speak this, of course. There was always vigorous concern for the children of the insane, that they, too, might carry a tainted strain that would suddenly manifest itself. It was best not brought up, even to oneself, because there were moments when I realized how different I was from the others around me and wondered, I, too?

  This thought inevitably provoked internal panic: Would I also be locked away in an insane asylum, listening to the shrieking, raving cries of those around me? My own shrieking, raving cries? Imprisoned. Frightened. Terrified and alone and forgotten. And then dead.

  I’d spent years imagining and then pushing away the dread thoughts I’d conjured up about my sweet mother’s last years. I’d carefully ensured that I did or said nothing that might lead to her terrifying fate, and I’d spend the rest of my life doing so, if need be.

  It was my greatest fear. I shivered in the sunlight.

  “Are you quite all right?” Clementine asked.

  I took my handkerchief out and dabbed my forehead, then nodded and continued. “In any case, I was, er, naturally born, which meant I was ineligible to inherit Highcliffe and Grandfather’s other interests and estates when my mother passed away. It all went to Judith, and then to Edward.”

  Clementine nodded.

  “Despite the circumstances, I wanted to learn something about my parents, so I began with what I knew, and that was their faith. Along the way, I discovered and committed myself to its truth.” I did not tell her that a kind elderly woman I met in church, whom I assumed to be a nun as she wore a habit and called herself Sister Rita, had taught me Maltese, carefully, patiently, week by week.

  Clementine said nothing further for a long moment until we rounded the corner to the block where our townhouse was.

&nbs
p; “I wish I had something to lean on, to cherish and bring comfort.”

  “Your faith?” I knew she attended an Anglican church each week with the rest of the family and staff. To not have done so would be to call her very decency into question.

  But no. She shook her head.

  “Then faith in Edward, and Albert?”

  “Albert. Yes, Albert,” she said, sounding weary. She looked me in the eye. “Do you want children, Annabel?”

  No one had ever asked me that, the kind of question a good friend might ask. Why the sudden interest in my life? I supposed it was a natural enough question, having just thought of Albert.

  “If it were possible,” I said, giving voice to a longing I’d quelled. “Marriage to a good man, and children. If not, then teaching brings me pleasure and satisfaction.”

  Second best is always less, my old governess used to say.

  Clementine held my gaze for a bit longer. “Marriage would do you good. It can certainly be arranged, and quickly.” As we rounded the steps to the townhouse, I thought, It hasn’t seemed to have done you good. Was the arranging, indeed, already underway?

  “Quickly does not seem wise to me,” I said.

  “Edward and I were married quickly,” she said.

  Yes, I remembered the circumstance, and a quote from Mr. Congreve came to mind. Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure: married in haste, we may repent at leisure.

  Jack Watts, Edward’s steward and the son of Mr. and Mrs. Watts at Highcliffe, opened the door. His face, so young, so eager, reflected his absolute contentment at having found a situation for himself in London, not easy for a young man from Lymington.

  “Welcome home, Mrs. Everedge, Miss Annabel,” he said.

  Clementine barely acknowledged him. “Packages will be delivered this afternoon,” she said. “Please let Maud know when they arrive.”

  Later, I sat on my bed, thinking about the day. It had been a kindness of Clementine to allow me to attend Mass, to take me to purchase clothing, to share Maud for a moment or two each day. I wanted to repay her favor.

  I had an idea and sat down to sketch Albert, in his curls still, from memory. I took it and tentatively knocked on her door. There was no answer, and I was just about to leave when she opened the door slightly.

  “Yes?”

  I faced the door’s crack. “I’ve drawn something for you. To thank you for your kindnesses.”

  She opened the door a bit more and took the paper from me; her hair was disheveled, and I smelt something strange, like licorice, or spirits, or both. The vacancy in her eyes alarmed me, as did the sorrow. She closed the door without a word.

  I then took afternoon tea in the drawing room, as was my habit, the particular Chinese blend that had been a family standard for years. When I returned to my room to prepare for the evening, I found all of my clothing had been removed and replaced by the new items Clementine and I had purchased. I sought out Maud to question her.

  “Did you remove my things?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Mrs. Everedge said it was for the best.”

  “Without asking me?” I felt naked, violated. She shrugged. We both knew whose whistle she must answer to. Later, as she dressed me in my new garments, it felt as though I were dressing for a part rather than enjoying the blessing of new and beautiful clothing.

  Perhaps I shall dress for a part, I suddenly thought. One of compliance, while I seek occasion to turn things my way. I shall find a way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There was not a bare inch of space in Nigel Morgan’s foyer. The very walls suffocated with objets d’art, most of them curious, frightening. The surfaces were papered in bloodred velvet, and though most homes had progressed to using lamps, gas or oil, Morgan’s home was ablaze with hundreds of ivory candles that seemed to wink malevolently. Clementine and I reluctantly yielded our wraps; perhaps she, too, felt the need to insulate herself from the oddities. Edward seemed more comfortable; I assumed he had been in Morgan’s home many times before.

  We were led into the drawing room, where crystal glasses rested on a silver tray with flasks of spirits, which I politely declined.

  “You’ll not join Mrs. Everedge in enjoying the green fairy?” Morgan pressed. He drew uncomfortably near and smelled of the Turkish hookah smoke that sometimes clung to Edward; hookah was fashionable at men’s clubs, and I knew it was part of our family’s imports.

  “I’m not familiar with green fairies,” I answered politely. And they suspect me of madness!

  “Absinthe, my dear,” Edward said. He looked disapprovingly as Morgan poured water through a sugar cube and into a small glass that held the verdant liquor. Immediately, the area filled with the sweet tang of licorice.

  “This particular blend is stronger than most—it’s the wormwood, you see. It will free your mind,” Mr. Morgan added.

  And the tongue and perhaps restraint, I thought. A pleasant boon to you, I’m certain. “Thank you, but no.” I could not afford to act in any way that was not completely self-composed. Clementine took hers immediately.

  “Tea with honey,” I said. “If you have it.”

  The drawing room was as strange as the foyer, perhaps even more so. A hundred or more busts of men had been placed on pillars and hearths around the room: lifeless, white, flat eyes everywhere, following us, plaster visages staring, silent, but listening. No matter which way I turned my head I was met with a dead gape. The only way to escape would be to close my own eyes, which, of course, I could not do. “This is an interesting collection,” I noted, politely.

  “Men I admire,” Morgan said. “Men of letters and music, commerce, industry, self-made men.”

  “I’m in debt to such as well,” Edward said casually.

  “You’re in debt to many, aren’t you, Everedge?” Morgan spoke too bluntly for polite company or even for a friend among gentlemen. “Including to me. Though we shall take care of that soon.” He turned to me and grinned. “Shan’t we?” The mordant stink of a hundred burning wicks mingled with the floral-scented candle wax, oversweet, like the stench of a decaying but not yet dried rose.

  I hard-swallowed.

  “And the cameos,” Clementine said. “They are . . . ?” She referred to a wall papered in deep pink silk, upon which were hung several dozen plaster cameos of women’s profiles, all framed in antique gold.

  “Conquests, of course,” Morgan said, and Clementine gasped while my eyes grew wide.

  “See here!” Edward interrupted indignantly.

  “I but jest,” Morgan stepped in. “My apologies, ladies. I spend far too much time in the cruder company of my own sex and I forget myself. They represent ladies I have known and admired—such as my mother, my nanny, a governess, my sister-in-law, and women throughout the ages whose beauty I appreciate and whose likenesses I have commissioned to be reproduced.”

  I quickly scanned the wall. I did not see a cameo that resembled the widowed Mrs. Wemberly.

  Morgan continued. “I appreciate fine art and, with no disrespect to the fairer members of my own nation, prefer something different from the typical bland English rose. You’ll notice the center of the wall, pride of place, remains empty.” He looked firmly in my direction. “For now.”

  I cast my gaze aside. Edward spoke up, changing the subject. “What time are Dell’Acqua and his company anticipated?”

  There was a longish pause before Morgan answered. “They will not be coming.”

  I hoped I hid my disappointment. I thought back to Mr. Morgan staring at the captain and me at the Great Exhibition. Had he subsequently disinvited them?

  Edward looked puzzled. “I thought the idea was to build on our common investment interests. We’re exhausting the other alternatives.”

  “He’ll rejoin us on the coast,” Morgan said as his butler came to announce dinner. “We’ve months to complete negotiations before summer ends.” Mr. Morgan then stood, offered his arm to me, and led the way into the dining room.

 
Clementine and Edward, Morgan and me. An awkward foursome. I wondered if Edward was truly surprised by this change in dinner guests; he seemed to be.

  We sat down at the table, also blazing with candles, and I looked around. There were pictures of exotic animals as well as some real animals, killed and stuffed, all gazing down upon us. As the turtle soup was served, I became aware, in particular, of a monkey on the wall, its face stretched into a permanent scream.

  “I grew fond of monkeys after seeing some at the Saint Bartholomew Faire,” Morgan said, following my interest.

  I murmured something about how interesting his collection was, which seemed to satisfy him, but I wondered if this was the manner in which he treated those of whom he was, temporarily at least, fond. I no longer had an appetite. He pressed a second helping on me anyway.

  “Cook can be instructed to prepare whatever you like to eat,” he said. “She’s versatile. You’ll get on quite well.”

  “I hardly think that will be required,” I responded.

  The dinner conversation revolved around the Exhibition and contacts made there, of which the most promising were the Maltese, as they were strategically located in the center of the Mediterranean Sea and, therefore, critical for victualing and restocking all sides. I couldn’t have been certain and they’d not admit to it, but the implication was that Edward and Morgan, along with their contemporaries, would be happy to supply and arm both Great Britain and whomever we might fight against, for profit.

  Horrifying. Did the Maltese also operate thusly?

  After dinner, the gentlemen retired to the library to smoke cigars and Clementine excused herself from the company to tend to personal needs. The men assumed I accompanied her. I did not.

  Instead, I quietly sought out the housekeeper I’d seen floating like an apparition around the edges of the house.

  “Excuse me,” I began, once I had trapped her in a corner. “I’m just wondering, is Mrs. Wemberly well? I knew she’d been taken ill a few days ago.”