Bride of a Distant Isle

by Sandra Byrd

  “This . . .” he said. His voice grew sharp. “What is this?”

  I turned back to him. He’d found the sketch I’d just drawn, of myself wearing the new cap.

  “A cap I found.”

  “It’s heartening how you’ve taken to Maltese customs!” He smiled, but his voice shook. “First the engagement necklace; now you’re wearing a marriage cap.” He looked skeptical. “You have plans to marry.”

  I was shocked, but I kept my voice down so as not to draw attention. “A marriage cap?”

  He looked at me, and, I guessed, ascertained that my bewilderment was real.

  “Yes, Miss Ashton. Where did you come by this if it does not belong to you?”

  He had entrusted me with his feelings about his father, so I decided to take a risk and tell him, on the condition that he kept it to himself.

  “I found it in my returned laundry. Tucked in, somehow.” I hoped he believed me. “How do you know it is a marriage cap?”

  “Maltese ladies wear a lace bonnet, such as this, when they are married. Widows wear one style, never-married ladies another. This is for a first-married woman. It is most unusual. I have never seen one in England, but they are common, and treasured, in Malta. Perhaps if it’s not yours . . .”—he looked at me for confirmation, and I nodded—“it was your mother’s? Is there someone you can ask?”

  He had not heard about my mother’s history. I had to tell him myself, lest he find out from someone else.

  “My mother died in a lunatic asylum, Captain Dell’Acqua, when I was four years old.” I distanced myself from him, physically and emotionally. I did not wish to be hurt by his inevitable recoil.

  He did not recoil. “I am sorry,” he said, and then he did reach to take my hand in his own. “The circumstances, perhaps . . .”

  I nodded, soothed by his acceptance, warmed through by his touch. “Yes. But no one speaks of her. She bore me in unusual circumstances, as you know.” I expected him to nod in agreement, but he did not.

  “Perhaps she was married after all,” he suggested, removing his hand from mine, then running his finger over the drawing of the marriage cap. And then he ran his finger over the outline of my face. He touched my face on the paper, but somehow I felt it on my skin. “And this was hers. Now it has made its way to you.”

  “Caps cannot just ‘make their way,’ ” I answered. But I allowed the possibility to bubble toward the surface, like a swimmer pushing hard from the murky bottom toward the light.

  “No, they cannot,” he said, troubled. “And yet . . .”

  As for me, I was completely shaken, as though I had fallen over the Edge of the World and found myself sucked into somewhere unknown. Perhaps my mother had been married after all. The necklace. The cap. Why were they appearing now?

  If she had been married, my mother had been wrongly maligned for many years. Why hadn’t my father come after her? She’d been maltreated by him, and perhaps others—who might they be?—who knew she was married but had hidden or ignored it.

  I could restore her honor.

  If this were true, then I must restore her honor—it would be my sacred duty, something I alone could do. She would not have died insane, of moral madness. My mind would no longer be suspected of being of like inclination.

  I would be heiress of Highcliffe.

  I took back my notebook and wrote Maltese Wedding Cap in tiny letters along the bottom of the sketch. “Would you be able to locate the maker of the cap?” I held out a slender hope. Perhaps he or she would remember to whom it had been sold.

  Dell’Acqua’s face grew somber. “I’m sorry, but no. It looks to be valuable and well made, but there are many crocheted each year. It may be”—he put forward the possibility gently—“that someone simply purchased this as a souvenir, not knowing what it was.”

  I nodded. My distress must have shown on my face, because he said, “I will take this sketch back to the ship this afternoon, and ask if anyone recognizes the particular style.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HIGHCLIFFE HALL, PENNINGTON PARK

  LATE JULY, 1851

  After some hours of rest, the household stirred again. There was to be Mr. Morgan’s entertainment—a surprise—followed by a light supper at midnight. Clementine herself came to knock on my door an hour before I was expected anywhere.

  “Mr. Morgan would like to see you ahead of the guests’ arrival.”

  “Is he not a guest?” I asked.

  She nodded. “This is different. I told him he might speak with you in the conservatory. Maud will be along shortly to help you finish dressing.” It was the end of July. Summer would end in a month, and the intimations had been that was when I would be given to Mr. Morgan.

  One month.

  “Will you accompany me to speak with him, then?” She was the only woman qualified, within the household, to chaperone me. There were times when I, not of the highest status, would not need a chaperone, but when a man wanted to meet with me alone, then, yes.

  “The conservatory is glass, and we’re all nearby,” she said.

  I agreed, for what choice did I have? It was clear, though, that I was not regarded as someone needing the same protection as other highly born ladies.

  Maud insisted I wear the lavender gown, and I did not mind, as it showed off my coloring well, and it was a beautiful gown of dusk for midsummer. “You’re a midsummer night’s dream,” she said, and I found the reference to the Shakespearean play touching.

  “You’ve unplumbed depths, I think,” I told her. “I thank you for the compliment. It gives me courage.”

  Neither of us spoke of why I would need courage. I suspected we both knew.

  I presented myself within the conservatory, one of Highcliffe’s largest rooms. Mr. Morgan waited, sitting on a large sofa that was amply padded and then buttoned down, as was Morgan himself.

  “Miss Ashton,” he said. I could see he’d taken pains with his grooming; there were no stains on his clothing and he’d slicked back his hair with tonic or grease. I chose a seat near him but did not sit on the sofa next to him.

  “Clementine said you wished to see me?”

  He nodded. “As you know, I’m here for a short while, then will return to London to attend to some affairs, and then be back again. While I am away, I would like to remain in your thoughts . . . and heart, if it were possible. As you remain firmly in mine.”

  “How kind.” I did not know what else to say. Other than some brief encounters we had shared during my and Edward’s childhood and the occasional social event, we had not known one another well. “I had no idea I remained firmly in your thoughts.”

  “To quote Madame Necker, I have ‘worshiped you from afar.’ I never stopped watching you, Miss Ashton, even when you were unaware.”

  I shivered. The evening was beginning to sour. “The rest of Madame Necker’s quote, Mr. Morgan, instructs that those whom we worship should remain distant from us lest the contact wither our affections.”

  “Not in this case, Miss Ashton.” He withdrew two cases. “My affections for you will never wither, I assure you.” He pressed on. “I have three gifts for you. If you’d be so kind.”

  I put up my hand to protest; a lady could not accept anything but the smallest token from a man she was not married or engaged to. He interrupted forcefully. “Everedge said you’d be pleased to accept them and gave permission.”

  Edward must have promised me to Morgan. Protocol would require it.

  Mr. Morgan continued. “The entertainment tonight is my first offering. I have hired a pantomime troupe to perform.”

  Well, that was delightful, in spite of my misgivings. “We’ll all enjoy that,” I responded. “Thank you.”

  “The story was chosen with you in mind,” he said, leaning forward. I could smell the pitched scent of his piney hair tonic. He took the larger of two wrapped boxes in hand and held it toward me. “Here is the second gift.”

  Reluctantly, I pulled the ribbon. It was a woo
den chest.

  “Open it,” he urged. I did.

  Inside I found large chunks of amber, yellow tree resin that had once been sticky and soft and had now hardened and smoothed. I pulled one out. Inside was trapped a mosquito. I worked hard to keep the disgust from my face. The second one held a spider and the third, a small frog, who seemed to have been encased mid-stroke.

  “Presumably these were trapped in the amber while still alive?” I asked, horrified.

  “Yes, yes!” He was enthusiastic. “I know you love honey—does the amber resemble nothing so much as solid honey?”

  I reluctantly admitted that it did.

  “When you visited my townhouse in London—and I hope you felt quite at home there, and would at my more distant properties as well—I saw that you, too, were taken with original and unusual curiosities. ‘Interesting’ is the word you used, which is precisely my sentiment. It was at that moment I knew I must find something interesting for you.”

  I set the amber down. “I am touched that you exerted such effort.” Regardless of the gruesome nature of his gifts, he had extended himself on my behalf. “Thank you.”

  He seemed to recognize the genuine note in my voice. He held out the final, third gift.

  “Please.”

  Reluctantly, I accepted it. I lifted the lid of the black velvet box. Within was a necklace on a long chain. At the end of it was a gold cage, and within the cage a large diamond.

  “A diamond . . . in a cage.” I worked to steady my voice.

  “Yes. A treasure placed where it could never be lost. Like the Koh-I-Noor we both so admired. Don’t you see?”

  I did see. Yes, indeed. “This is too costly, Mr. Morgan. I cannot accept it. It’s not done to accept such a gift from a man to whom one is not married.”

  “Precisely. And so you must.” He sat again and his voice turned insistent. “When you wear it, you’ll think of me when I’m away. Until I’m back. I’ve asked Everedge, and he’s agreed.”

  For what had Judas sold me?

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Should you put it on now?”

  “I’ll need my lady’s maid to assist me. But thank you so very much.”

  He agreed, then, as he was eager to see it on me. I knew I should purposely not “find” Maud that evening. But Mr. Morgan could not be avoided forever. It was nearly August, and even if investment arrangements were not concluded by summer’s end, as Edward had originally hoped, they would certainly be concluded by the Exhibition’s close in October.

  Within the hour, the other guests began to arrive. I stood near Clementine and Edward, and when Captain Dell’Acqua arrived he handed the notebook back to me, gently shaking his head no. He went to find a seat in the ballroom, and after he’d taken his leave Edward questioned me.

  “What was that exchange with the captain about?”

  “I’m sharing English ways with Captain Dell’Acqua, making him more comfortable here, as you’d intimated I should,” I said by way of nonanswer. “I do believe it is having the desired effect, as he asked me today if you were leaning toward resolving matters with him, and I assured him you were keen to complete mutually satisfactory arrangements.”

  Edward grinned and squeezed my shoulder, so happy with the fatted calf that was about to be slaughtered that he did not realize I’d neatly sidestepped his question. I should have to be circumspect in my dealings with the captain henceforth. I did not want to call Edward’s—or Mr. Morgan’s—attention to my growing affections for the blond Maltese, or to my plans to restore my mother’s reputation, if not her fortune.

  Clementine had seated me by Lady Leahy. “Do call me Elizabeth,” she said, and while I was pleased to have a real friend and happily surprised by her refreshing intimacy, reluctance overcame me.

  I did not want to make a true friend, a heart friend, which I felt she might become, only to lose her when I abruptly moved away, as I felt must be my future. I’d lost my Winchester friends so quickly. Highcliffe would soon be sold. I’d be off somewhere new, most probably with Mr. Morgan. I’d learnt at a young age that the heart did not easily mend after abrupt tearings away.

  But Elizabeth’s smile and cheerful conversation, her invitation to ride and to visit her mother, soon won me over, and I agreed to show her how to draw landscapes in the following month. She reached over and pressed my hand in affection, and I responded in like manner. My spirit soared until the pantomime started.

  Mr. Morgan looked at me and offered a personal smile. I waved back and as I did, saw Dell’Acqua catch the exchange from across the room. Pantomimes based on fairy tales were fashionable in London, and Mr. Morgan had chosen a rendition of Sleeping Beauty to be performed.

  The narrator began by recounting that a beautiful child was born, unattended by many as her parents were away, but given the gifts of beauty, grace, wit, intelligence, charm, and art. One fairy wished her ill, though, and through malice, wanted her to die. A last fairy amended that so only the kiss of the son of a king, a man who loved her in full, could waken her to life. Who could that man be?

  The actors then began the story, searching for her rescuer, her true love. I felt his eyes upon me, and though I willed myself not to look in his direction, after some time, I capitulated and turned my head.

  Mr. Morgan was staring at me, as I knew he would be. He grinned, and nodded, knowing I would understand, and I did.

  In the morning, a gift arrived for Clementine, a bouquet thanking her for the previous day and evening’s hospitality. Surprisingly, one was also sent to me.

  Mine was a beautiful wreath of red roses. Clementine wrinkled her nose. “Slightly large and vulgar,” she said. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Gifts after the event are not done, but a foreigner wouldn’t know that.”

  I treasured those roses up in my heart, though, which was filling with welcome, uncharted affections because I knew exactly what the sender, Captain Dell’Acqua, had meant though no card was attached. Rosarium, in Latin, a wreath of roses. A rosary. A gift only a Catholic man would think to send. He’d figured out why red roses were a favorite, and in so doing, had become highly favored. Both he and Mr. Morgan had conveyed unspoken sentiments; Mr. Morgan’s had been for his purposes, while Captain Dell’Acqua’s had me in mind.

  The following week, Maud helped me to dress in my riding outfit. The early August day was already beginning to sweat, and the thought of my velvet-lined outfit did not bring good cheer, but I could not arrive at Pennington less stylish. I packed my drawing things in a satchel and Edward’s driver brought me to Elizabeth’s home.

  Their footman opened the door, and Elizabeth stood just inside, waiting. A lesser woman would not have shown how eager she was to meet with me, but I appreciated that Elizabeth did without the artifice of cool reserve and took her by the hand as we made our way to the stables.

  “I’ve ordered the bays and light saddles,” she told me. “We’ll ride through the woods as a means to cool off, and then I thought perhaps might draw by the seaside paths?”

  I readily agreed, and we set out riding through the New Forest, past acres of golden fields, recently harvested; with left-behind stubble they looked like nothing so much as old rugs with stubborn nibs and nobs of pulled wool sticking out here and there after having been swept. There were then miles of sturdy English oak. The sun darted in and out of the shadows and though the hooves steadily pattered, I was able to hear the call and response of the few birds willing to bear the afternoon heat to peck those newly mown fields for insects. After a pleasant hour Elizabeth brought us round to the land that lay between her property and Highcliffe, facing the sea, lashed with sheep trails and those used by smugglers in times not long past.

  “Janes had someone bring out chairs and easels,” she said. “I trust that is all we require?”

  “Perfectly suitable.” I looked at the arrangement, and the land where it sloped down to the sea, thinking there could not have been a more ideal setting to begin with. I showed her h
ow to begin with the large set pieces, and as she sketched, and I guided her, we talked as young women do. She was quite good. Without a doubt, a lady in her position would have had instruction in art previously, but it was something she’d known we could share.

  “Do you like being married?” I finally brought the conversation round to something more personal, to her, and for me.

  “Very much so,” she said. “I miss my husband, Paul, Viscount Leahy, but I shall return to him shortly after Mother is feeling better. I hope that someday you will come to see what I mean.”

  “About your mother?”

  She tilted her head. “It would cheer her to have a visitor before you take your leave. I meant, though, you’ll understand how it feels to miss one’s husband, and look forward to being reunited.” She set her charcoal stick down.

  I said nothing.

  “You do plan to marry?” She crumpled into the chair next to me; the day had grown even hotter.

  “Perhaps.” I leaned over again and showed her how to shade some margins. “For us marriage is not so simple, is it? Other girls I’ve known, why, if their fathers make an arrangement with a man from a good family who has prospects, then they’re told to capitulate and enjoy. But for us . . .”—I looked toward the sea—“marriage is a sacrament.”

  She leaned over and put her arm round me. “You are such a dear. The man who claims you will be fortunate indeed.”

  I blinked back a tear. I had never had such a friend. I would be sorry when she left.

  Eventually, though, they all left. Didn’t they?

  An hour later, after having ridden back and taken tea, Elizabeth asked if I’d like to visit her mother for a moment. “It will do her good,” she insisted. We made our way up the twisting staircase, and as we did, the house grew darker by increments; with each level we reached the shadows blackened, deepened, lengthened. When we reached Lady Somerford’s expansive rooms, quiet enveloped us and her daughter knocked. “Mama?”

  “Come in, my dear,” came a listless voice. A woman I presumed to be her lady’s maid opened the door, and Elizabeth led the way into the large room. Lady Somerford looked much older than the last time I’d visited with her. Her skin was white and taut, pulled across her cheekbones like thin linen across a wooden bed frame.