by Sandra Byrd
The ferret-like housekeeper looked confused. “Who, miss?”
“Mrs. Wemberly. Mr. Morgan’s sister.” I had a quick look around to make sure neither the men nor Clementine were coming to find me.
She shook her head. “Mr. Morgan does not have a sister, miss.”
“She is about my age, perhaps a few years younger, with reddish hair and a dimple”—I touched my chin—“here.”
At that, a veil dropped over her countenance, and I knew what she was going to say before she said it. My breath quickened.
“Never seen anyone like that,” she said, but her darting eyes betrayed her. “I must be about my duties, now. Good evening, Miss.”
I had suspected Mrs. Wemberly had not been his sister. More likely he had tipped his own hand earlier . . . she’d been a conquest, a woman held lightly.
This was the man Edward had, by all indications, destined for me.
The next day was to be our last at the Exhibition. Edward and Clementine, and Mr. Morgan and I, walked through the transept. I had always been fascinated by India and wanted to spend some time at their booth. I looked at the lovely lace, made by Indian hands but using British methods. Mr. Morgan was most eager that we visit the jewel, literally, of the Indian offerings.
He led us to the Koh-I-Noor, the great diamond, 186 carats uncut, and guarded in a cage that had been topped by a crown.
“No one can steal her, then,” he said. I thought it would be hard to lug such an item away, and while I murmured politely, as did Clementine, in truth I found it a bit vulgar.
“Do you like it, Miss Ashton?” he asked me, his voice pleading for any affection, which I could not give. The few times I’d met him as a child and young lady, he’d been likewise beseeching and clingy.
“It’s a lovely bit of colonial culture,” I replied. He took my arm in an overly familiar manner and grinned widely, the smile of a man who had been given permission.
Permission to me, of course.
CHAPTER SIX
HIGHCLIFFE HALL, PENNINGTON PARK
EARLY JUNE, 1851
We returned to Highcliffe, I still wondering when someone would speak aloud what was already eddying in the unspoken currents: what my future held. I, however, did not want to speak first and suggest something that might not yet be determined. The house was still being packed. Edward continued making arrangements. One morning, I repaired to the nursery with Lillian, Albert’s nanny, as the chambermaids made up our rooms.
“Mrs. Watts herself is preparing the guest rooms,” Lillian chattered freely to me as she wiped Albert’s face after his morning toast.
“Indeed! Unusual, is it?” I invited the conversation to continue.
She nodded. “If you can imagine that, though she’s not worked here for twenty years, I’ve heard. She’s come to help Watts, of course, and to keep them all happy with her son Jack, who is Mr. Everedge’s valet but remains in London to run the house this summer as the mister is more often there. The housemaids work hard. Six and a half days a week, one day off per month, blacking beneath their nails, out of work completely when the family moves, and for what, I ask you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered politely, and played patty-cake with Albert, who shouted in delight.
“I’m sure you don’t, not that I mean it unkindly,” Lillian answered forthrightly, which pleased me very much. She took my smile as permission to finish her thought.
“It’s working for the rich, married to a man they like or not, or the workhouse. Them’s the options for the likes of us. The house is meant to be sold by end of summer, and then they’ll all have to find new positions.”
My stomach clutched. End of summer. I had perhaps two months to find a situation that would allow me to escape Morgan. I knew Edward’s intentions, though they’d remained unstated.
Lillian spoke up again as I ran my hand affectionately over young Albert’s hair. “I love the boy, but I shan’t remain in service. I already raised my mum’s whole brood after she died giving birth to the last. I can read and do sums quite well. I intend to become a shopgirl.”
“A shopgirl?” I asked. “In Lymington?” I was not aware of any female shop help nearby.
“No, miss, in London,” Lillian said. “And if I cannot be a shopgirl then I shall marry a shop owner and be in charge that way.” She fastened a loose button on a pair of Albert’s trousers before setting them aside. “I will be mistress of my destiny.”
“Right after you put a stitch in Albert’s clothing,” I said. She looked at my face and saw I was teasing, and smiled herself.
“Yes, Miss Ashton, it may not be now. But it will come.”
“I’ve no doubt it will,” I said, taking courage from her own. I, too, had decided to take action of some sort this week. Several ideas had presented themselves and I would put my mind to them simultaneously and soon, very soon indeed . . . just after I greeted Captain Dell’Acqua, that was.
He was due to arrive that day.
By late afternoon, I heard a carriage drive up, and then soon enough a commotion of deep voices assembled in the foyer. I’d thought that perhaps at the last moment he would have his invitation withdrawn, as had happened at Mr. Morgan’s. But no. He had come.
Clementine and I were taking tea in the solarium, the one room of cheer in a dim home being shuttered and packed. Its glass allowed a flood of sun in year round, and while it was especially pleasant in the winter, it must have been too warm just then because I felt my face flush.
“My dear.” Edward held out his hand, and Clementine rose to meet him and greet their guests. Captain Dell’Acqua caught my eye but allowed his gaze to linger on me for only the briefest moment; it would not do to be inattentive to his host’s wife, and he warmly greeted Clementine. I was not called over, so I did not stand, but I could hear and watch them.
The captain smiled warmly at Clementine and took her hand in his own, kissing the back of it, never letting his eyes wander. I watched her soften and lean toward him in a way I had not noted before—not even with Edward.
He gently released her hand but did not move away from her. Nor did she from him. “I have something for the young Albert.” The captain held out a beautifully wrapped square box.
“How delightful, Captain Dell’Acqua. You shouldn’t have.”
Clementine then called for Lillian, who brought the young ruffian downstairs. The captain presented Albert with the box, which he tore open with great hunger and little decorum.
“A dwum, a dwum, a dwum!” Albert shouted and then banged the sticks against it, causing a glee-filled hullabaloo. His spaniel ran under one of the sofas and remained there. The men burst out laughing, and one of them pretended to reach for the drum that Albert firmly tucked under his arm.
I felt a pang of love for him, and then an unexpected pang of desire for a child of my own.
“Lillian shan’t thank you for that noise, but I do,” Clementine said softly. “How very kind of you to remember.”
“I saw, at the Exhibition, how important that drum was to you. At that moment, it became important to me. It is a pleasure to indulge the son of a . . . friend.” Very astute, Captain Dell’Acqua. You have at least one ally at Highcliffe now. To please Albert was to win Clementine. To please Clementine was to please Edward.
Could the captain find Clementine attractive? He certainly exuded charm toward her, and she had clearly responded. Maybe it was just convenient flirting to assist him in achieving his goals, as his friends had suggested he was given to.
Watts said that he would show the rest of the party to their quarters; the guest wing was a floor above the family’s rooms. “If I may speak with Miss Ashton for a moment,” Dell’Acqua said. Watts looked at Edward, who nodded.
“I shall be rearranging some volumes in the library,” Clementine said, smiling at me. She could see into the solarium from the library, chaperoning, though from a distance.
I sat on the sofa, trying to keep my face placid and wonder
ing, as I did, why this man even stirred my interest. Simply because he was different? For shame, Annabel. Hadn’t I rebelled against that peculiar kind of novelty when it had been directed toward me? Because he was Maltese? Maybe. Because he made me smile? I did smile, then. Yes, that.
“You’re smiling.” He sat on the chair across from the palm tree–fabric-lined sofa upon which I perched. I appreciated his manners; he did not sit next to me, which would have been uncomfortably forward.
“Am I?”
“You are,” he said, his tone playful. “Maybe because I have brought a gift for you. I hope that Everedge, or you, do not mind.”
I looked in his hand then and saw a much smaller package, also carefully wrapped, which must have been hidden behind Albert’s larger one.
“You needn’t have . . .” I began. What would Edward think? Probably little, if the familiarity brought him the arrangement he sought. I shan’t be as easily won over as Albert.
“I wanted to.” Dell’Acqua held the package out to me, and I took it and carefully pulled the ribbon wrapped around it, which dropped to the floor. I lifted the lid of the box, and nestled inside was a glass jar filled with amber liquid.
“Thyme honey. From Malta.” The captain’s face was suddenly boyish and seeking my approval. I offered it freely in response.
“I’m delighted! I believe this is the first time in my life that someone has purchased a gift for me, thinking and remembering something that would perfectly suit.”
“I was sorry I could not acquire it at the Exhibition, but I did not give up. If I’m not interested in something”—he snapped his fingers—“I forget about it immediately. But if there is something I truly want, I go after it until it’s mine.” His voice took on an arch tone, which I did not acknowledge.
“How industrious,” I said demurely while reaching over to pour a fresh cup of tea for myself. “Henceforth, I shall only sweeten my tea, which I drink without fail every afternoon, with Maltese honey, whilst the supply holds. Thank you kindly, Captain Dell’Acqua. I shall store it in the silver honey pot my grandfather treasured.”
“You’re most welcome,” he said. “And I shall replenish it as often as need be while I am still in England, having it delivered to your cook.” I offered to pour a cup of tea for him, and he accepted.
“Honey?” I held the new jar toward him.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I do not take a sweetener. But if I did, I know what I should choose. Your Mr. Fielding said that love and scandal are the best tea sweeteners of all.” His eyes twinkled, and I remembered what his friends had said about his being a flirt.
“You shan’t find much of either here, I’m afraid,” I parried, with a twinkle of my own, thinking of how little love was offered to anyone save Albert.
“No?” he said, not turning away, his voice lowered, and he held my gaze. “Are you certain?”
I caught my breath but did not look away before answering, “One can never be certain, Captain. Sometimes one leads to the other.” I set the teapot down. “Since you’ve quoted an Englishman, I’ll quote an Italian. ‘Non si può aver il miele senza la pecchie. Honey is sweet, but then the bees sting.’ Perhaps you’ll tell me that Maltese bees do not sting.” Nor their men, I left unsaid. I know firsthand, through my father, that they do.
He laughed aloud at that and with ease, and I maneuvered the conversation to appropriate small talk. He commented on our tea and I mentioned it had come from China, directly, through a family investment concern.
“I understand you intend to be in England for some months.” I sipped my tea, which did, indeed, taste herbal and divine with the addition of his honey.
“Until the Exhibition closes in October. I have no desire to sail upon winter waters if I am not required to. I have many things to attend to, but should be able to conclude my affairs by then, and my mother will worry if I’m home late.” He winked at me.
“Malta is home? With your mother?”
“I have my own palazzo, a small one,” he said. “But no true home.” He sounded wistful. “A port in any storm, as they say.”
“Do you have any other ambitions while you’re in England?” I pressed, thinking of what his companions in London had said. And then I worried that perhaps I was doing exactly what Edward hoped I’d do—probe for useful information. I did not wish to be a go-between, for either man. But I had no choice. And it might save Highcliffe.
“Perhaps to meet my father,” he admitted. “I have not yet decided.” Ah! So his shipmates had been telling the truth about that. And therefore, maybe, about everything else. Clementine signaled to me from the edge of the door.
“I look forward to seeing you at dinner this evening.” As I stood, my necklace disentangled itself from the buttons on the front of my dress and dropped heavily, calling attention to itself. Captain Dell’Acqua looked at it, and then at me, wonderingly. “Until dinner,” he said, then turned and left.
Chef had prepared a feast to impress, and we sat at the dining table that nearly spanned the length of the room. Our best silver and best artwork were still showcased in the dining room as that was where Edward was most likely to entertain, and therefore impress. Mr. Morgan, sadly, was in attendance, and he came round to pull out my chair, brazenly brushing against me as he did.
All along the length of the table the first spring peonies flaunted their round, ruffle-covered pink crinolines in tiny silver vases, set alongside cruets, saltcellars, and sweating bottles of water. Watts and his entourage poured and served; the pleasant hum of conversation married with the delightful tastes and smells brought forth by one dish after another. First we had hare soup and lobster patties, a family favorite. Then, the first remove and the table was cleared. Next came saddle of mutton and stewed sea kale. I noticed that Clementine had another glass of wine before the second remove. The third course was longer in coming, and as we waited, one of the Maltese men spoke up.
“You are engaged to be married, then, signorina?” He looked directly at me.
“No, I’m not engaged to be married, Lieutenant,” I said. Captain Dell’Acqua was looking at me intently as his friend pressed the point.
“But I was certain you were. The necklace, you see . . .” He pointed to my fish necklace. Suddenly, all eyes were on me. Watts hovered in the background with the Cherry Cabinet Pudding and Chef’s jaune mange, the yellow milky sweet that had been an especial favorite of mine when I was a child. The atmosphere was tense; no one moved until Edward indicated that the food should be served.
“The necklace, you say?” Edward’s voice grew pointed.
“Yes,” the man continued confidently. “In Malta, the parents, the brother, the man of the family will sometimes choose a woman’s husband.”
“That is our custom, too,” Morgan spoke up, smugly twirling a renegade mustache hair back into compliance.
“Sometimes,” I added. “Please, sir, continue.”
“When a girl’s father decides that the time is right for her to marry, he puts a pot of sweets out on the family’s porch to indicate young men may begin wooing. A loving father only chooses a man who will love and cherish his daughter.”
Dell’Acqua looked in my direction, but I kept my gaze steadily upon his junior officer. The pudding was set in front of me and I took a slice to convey that I felt all was normal.
I did not.
The room was heavy, and my uncomfortable feelings about the necklace began to surface again.
“If a suitor desires to marry the young woman, he finds an older man to act as a go-between, and if the lady and the father agree then a dowry is agreed upon. Once all parties have given consent the man delivers a fish—we are a seafaring nation, after all, much like England—to the girl’s family. In the fish’s mouth is a gold ring, signifying a marriage. Gold is expensive. It is only given upon a commitment to marriage. Whoever wears a necklace like yours indicates she’s married, or soon will be.”
“What a lovely story,” I said. “But
I am most certainly not married.”
“Yet,” Morgan said before digging into his sweet course, “perhaps this is an omen, a happy one at that. Let’s not allow the puddings to go unappreciated, shall we?”
Clementine carried the conversation along in another direction, cheerfully distracting from the emotional undertow, but I saw a moment’s bewildering fear crawl across Edward’s face before he banished it.
They continued to talk, but their voices grew distant and then ran together as I focused only on the thoughts gathering clarity and momentum in my head. It was unlikely the necklace would have come from outside the household. My memory then beckoned forth the hazy recollection of seeing it before, swinging in front of me as someone bent and took me in her arms. I flooded with momentary warmth.
A head bent low, near mine, blond hair, soft to the touch, brushing lightly against my cheek.
“What is it, Mama?” I took the chain in hand; at the end of it was a silver fish with a ring of gold in its mouth.
“It’s yours now, my sweetness and light.” She laughed, low, but behind the laugh I heard a quick catch in her throat, like trapping a sob before it escaped. Her hair was scented with herbed wash water, the scent of summer gardens, and I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. “I do not think they will let me keep it.” She clasped it on me, then tucked the necklace under my dress. “Keep it here, close to your heart, and I will keep you here,” she touched her chest, “close to mine.”
I wrapped my arms tightly about her neck. “Don’t leave, Mama.”
“I must,” she said. The sun streamed through a stained-glass window, lighting it up. Jesus. Angels.
“Come back soon, Mama,” I pleaded, tears coursing down my cheek. She didn’t answer, just buried her head in my hair, kissed my cheeks over and over again, and then let her own tears make their way, too.
I exhaled slowly, knowing that I’d been given a blessing, but a mixed one. A memory of my mother as she was to leave, to be taken away to the asylum. Anxiety rippled through me. It was, I believed, the last time I’d seen her.
