by Sandra Byrd
“You’re wondering why I keep my rooms so far up in the house,” she said.
I grinned. I had been wondering that very thing, but I would never ask.
“I’m an old woman,” she teased. “I know what everyone is thinking. There, go over there.” She pointed to the window. It opened upon a stunning view of the grounds, the sea, and the drive from the main road to the house.
“It’s lovely,” I said.
“Some years ago, when my father was young, we held Eucharist in this room. Not only for the beauty”—she wagged her finger at me—“because our minds were not upon that. But the view allowed us to see if the King’s men were coming and if so, we could hide the priest before he was apprehended. This room brings me comfort. Highcliffe has such a room, too, you know.”
I was taken aback. “I did not know. I did not know that there was a need for such, either, at my home, as I had understood the family to be firmly rooted in the Church of England.”
“They are all Church of England now,” Lady Somerford said. “It’s expedient. But it has not always been so. Remember, for most of England’s history, Roman Catholicism was the established church.”
I had not thought about that. “So you kept a priest anyway, in spite of the risks?”
She laughed, and when she did, she seemed well and young again. “Of course! There is no gain without risk, my dear, and it made rather good sport to outfox the authorities. Our priest, Father Antoine, was also our chef. One moment, chef’s cap. The next hour, vestments. All of the priests had occupations as well as callings. Should the king’s men appear we could simply say, ‘But he is only our chef.’ ”
I smiled and laughed with her. “Much was risked, and everything gained.”
She nodded. “You understand.” Her face grew thoughtful again. “I suspect you’re the kind of young woman who would take those very risks if required—and perhaps enjoy them. Your mother was . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment. “The thought occurs to me that perhaps Father Antoine had known your mother.”
She brought up something I had wanted to ask, but hadn’t had the courage to do so. With the Somerfords I’d found, I thought, a place to belong, and didn’t now want to despoil the nest.
“Did you know my mother, Lady Somerford?” Please do not speak ill of her or look at me askance.
She spoke gently. “Not well. She returned from Malta a Catholic, but your grandfather was ill, and then Judith was married, and we were often in the north, as that is Lord Somerford’s preference. But she did celebrate Mass with us when she could. Father Antoine was here. Should we ask him?”
I stood up. “He is here?” Excitement flushed through me. “Now?” Perhaps he could verify that she’d been married!
She nodded. “He came when he heard I was ill.” She leaned back wearily into her pillows. “I’m becoming tired—I’m so sorry, my dear Miss Ashton. Thank you for calling, and for lightening Elizabeth’s day. I hope I shall see you again soon.”
I leaned over and took her frail hand in my own. “I shall pray for you each day until you are fully restored to health,” I said. She nodded at that, and I set her hand down upon the coverlet, gently, and followed Elizabeth from the room.
“I shall ask Father Antoine to meet you in the chapel,” she whispered to me. “You know the way there?”
I nodded and made my way down the stairs and toward the chapel, where I waited for Father Antoine to find me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When he arrived, I stood up, but he motioned that I should sit back down. “Hello, daughter.” He sat next to me, in a fatherly manner. “You are very much Julianna Ashton’s girl.”
An indescribable burst of emotion exploded at my center: love, fear, affection, wonder, trepidation, and yes, hope. Instead of offering the sophisticated response I’d wished to, I began to cry.
“There now, it is not unusual at all, is it? Difficult circumstances lead to tears.”
After a moment, and using Father’s clean but well-worn handkerchief, I finally said, “It’s just that I have never talked about my mother with anyone who had seen her in person. Aside from myself, that is.” Oh. Now he’d think I was often talking to myself.
He nodded and took the damp handkerchief back, not dissuaded at all by the moist touch of it. “I did not know her well, as I was the only priest hereabouts for some time, n’est-ce pas?”
I nodded, and he continued.
“I did know her some.”
“She was Catholic.” I seemed to be stating the obvious, but that, too, had never been confirmed by someone who’d known her.
“Oui,” he agreed. “Devoted. It would have been much easier for her to deny the faith once she returned to England, pregnant with you, and her family opposing her religion. But she did not. Some who are born into Catholic families, well”—he shrugged—“it seems as though the choice was made for them. But Julianna was not only baptized, she was truly converted. She’d had you baptized, too, you understand, secretly.”
I smiled at that. Then I closed my eyes, relishing each drop of new knowledge of my mother, whom I had held at arm’s length even in my own mind for fear of . . . what, exactly? Being tainted by her memory? I swallowed my shame. Perhaps. I whispered the one question I had wanted to ask since Lady Somerford told me he might be here. “Was she . . . married?”
Father Antoine looked at me steadily. “I was, of course, not there. But she was devout, and I confessed her. She would never have lied to her confessor and thereby lie to God.” He took my hand in his again. “I believed her.”
I held my breath. It was true. I knew it. It was true! But could anything be proved, and be proved before Edward had me married to Morgan, as threatened, in a few weeks’ time?
“I do not believe she was mentally unwell,” Father finished. “In fact, she’d come to me because she was considering marrying again.”
I shook my head in wonder. “Her sister . . .”
“Yes,” he answered. “Her sister.” But he was a priest, and he speculated no more. I did, however. If my mother had married again and borne a child within wedlock, that child, and not Edward, would have inherited all.
I made my way back down the hall, and Elizabeth accompanied me for the carriage ride back to Highcliffe, which was splendid of her. Since she’d been so good to me, I divulged a secret.
“I’ve been thinking if I did not undertake the sacrament of marriage, or become a governess, I would consider taking holy vows.” Better that than marry Morgan! And yet, my conscience would not let me lie about having a sacred call.
Elizabeth’s eyes enlarged to reflect her surprise, but she did not dissuade me.
“God will show you what to do,” she said just as we arrived. I did not know if I believed her. I should, I knew. But I’d been asking Him, and nothing had become clear except Mr. Morgan’s insistence and the quick slippage of time toward the bottom of summer’s hourglass.
Later that evening, when the household was quiet, I asked Mrs. Watts, the housekeeper, if I might speak with her privately for a moment. She looked wary but agreed.
“Lady Somerford has told me that there is a room at Highcliffe in which Catholic services were once held,” I said. “Do you know of such a room?”
She nodded. “Yes . . . the quarantine room, I believe. Not only used for scouting those coming after the priests, but looking for revenue men, in more recent times.”
I had not heard of this room. “Where would I find it?”
“At the top of the back stairs,” she said. “Near the attic storage rooms.”
Far from the family. Yes! I remembered seeing it, from the outside, from the lawn. The stained-glass window. I had never been in the room, of course. We children were not allowed up the back stairs, and I’d had no cause to visit when I’d returned now and then to Highcliffe as an adult. But I’d seen the stained-glass window from the lawn, and had wondered at it.
Mrs. Watts turned to leave and then turned back to me once mo
re. “I believe it was the last room where your mother stayed before she was . . . taken away. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I nodded, shocked by yet another revelation about my mother.
She’d been quarantined. But why? Her supposed insanity could not have been transmitted to anyone else.
I waited until near midnight, and then I lifted a taper from my drawer and a brass holder, and lit the candle. It threw off little light compared to the lamps, and I wanted to remain undetected. The wick sputtered as I made my way up the vestibule and then quietly opened the door to the back hallway, the one staff used. I walked past the first floor and then past the second, where the maids used to sleep, when they’d lived at Highcliffe. Those rooms were all empty now, and the hallway held the eerie silence of that which had once bustled with activity but had been evacuated, impressions and silent expressions of lives that had passed through.
It seemed I could sense them. I shivered.
Wait. I thought I heard a low whine, a quiet voice, and stopped.
Highcliffe creaked and moaned at night, like an old woman, as the evenings grew cool and caused the boards to contract. That must have been what I’d heard. After some moments of near silence, I moved up the stairwell again.
The floorboards were finely filmed with dust; it was quite clear that no one had trod upon them for some time. Why would anyone? Highcliffe had been mostly abandoned for London, and there was no one ill enough to be detained. A person could be trapped up here and never be found. Who would think to look for her?
I shook the fancies of my entrapment from my mind and climbed the final stairs, cupping my right hand around the candle to concentrate the wan light. The air was stale and still and I was enveloped by darkness and, in fact, a smothering sort of fear that squeezed me tighter than any corset. The silence hurt my ears and accentuated the only sound present—that of my heart pounding in my ears. The situation reminded me, in the entirety of its sensory deprivation, of the time fifteen years gone by that Edward had locked me in the linen closet so he could eat my pudding and then forgot me there.
I put my hand upon the brass doorknob, and it slipped as though it had been greased. I looked down and saw it was the sweat of my own palm that had slicked it, so I wiped my hand on my dressing gown and tried again. And again! But it would not open. I hoped to find something, some clue, about my mother’s disappearance in there.
Another noise. Another quiet call. Feet falling on the risers. I did not imagine it this time. Someone was coming!
I wedged myself close to the door and pushed back my damp hair. The footsteps came closer, and closer. Finally a voice.
“Who’s there?” I called out.
“It is I, Lillian, Miss Ashton,” came a harsh whisper. I sighed, and my shoulders fell in relief.
Lillian came round the corner, lamp in hand, peering at me curiously. “What are you doing, miss?”
She did not come too close. And she had that look . . . the look that indicated she was, inwardly, at least, questioning my stability.
“Looking for a room I’d just learned about.”
“It’s midnight, miss.” She remained at the bottom of the stairs. “A most peculiar time for people to be wandering about. Regular people, that is.”
“Yes, it is. Why are you up and about?” I tried a turnaround tactic. But Lillian was too savvy.
“I was wakened by young Albert and heard a noise, miss. I followed it to you. It’s not always wise to let him wander to his mother’s room.”
I wondered why not. Green fairies, perhaps. “Lillian,” I began. It was important that she not tell anyone about my midnight wanderings. “I would like to keep this a secret between us, if we may.”
She nodded tentatively. “I’ll help you, miss.”
“Thank you, Lillian.” I hoped my voice conveyed my true gratitude. I would need all the assistance I could find.
The next evening, dinner was to be held en famille plus the Maltese and Mr. Morgan. It would be the last time for a week or two that we’d all eat together, as the men were returning to London for a brief visit followed by, I worried, Mr. Morgan’s proposal of marriage. Maud came to help me dress and I slipped into a deep red gown that, by rights, would have been better suited to autumn, but I wanted to wear my mother’s hair combs and, in a way, send a message of thanks to Captain Dell’Acqua for his red roses.
Maud rolled my hair up and, unusually, after pulling out some loose tendrils, wound them round an iron she’d heated in the fireplace. The look was softer, subtler, and much more feminine. She smiled at me, and I smiled in return. “Let’s arrange it this way each day,” I said. “If we may?”
She nodded, and then reached into my jewelry box to extract the diamond necklace that Mr. Morgan had gifted me. Slightly large and vulgar, I thought, echoing Clementine’s sentiments over my red rose wreath. Then I repented of the unkind thought.
“I should prefer to wear something plainer, tonight.”
She shook her head at me. “Mr. Everedge told Mrs. Everedge to ensure that you wore this.” Without waiting for a response, she reached round me; I humbly tilted my neck forward like a calf to the slaughter. What choice did I have?
When we made our way downstairs, the men awaited in the smoking room and as Clementine and I arrived, they joined us. Edward took Clementine’s arm and Captain Dell’Acqua stepped in a lively manner to take mine. Mr. Morgan was not pleased with that, but he was pleased when he saw the trinket round my neck.
“You look ravishing, Miss Ashton, not that it would be unexpected. And you’re wearing my gift, the necklace, which is so fitting.” He sat directly across from me. “I’m honored.”
The room grew quiet. His intimate comments were quite out of place. Gentlemen did not speak of ravishing and everyone knew that such a necklace was a sign of an approved claim.
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” I said. I left unsaid, I had no choice. Even Edward appeared a bit uncomfortable at the familiarity with which Mr. Morgan spoke.
Captain Dell’Acqua, whom Clementine had thoughtfully seated to my right, looked at the enormously expensive bauble encased in gold and lying flat at the base of my collarbone. He then looked at me and I back at him but, of course, I could say nothing. What was there to say? It was the kind of gift a man gave to his wife . . . or fiancée. I wondered if Dell’Acqua was thinking back to our conversation about the Maltese marriage cap and necklace.
“You’re beautiful,” the captain said simply, and I tilted my head down in acknowledgment, not trusting myself to speak. It meant more to me than the florid, gin-fueled compliments Mr. Morgan had paid.
Dinner was brought out, and the conversation flowed superficially and quickly. I glanced at Edward, so young to be sitting at the head of the table, and did not envy him the task of saving the family fortune. His father had not done well by him, but perhaps would have been able to turn the tides for us had illness not taken his life early.
Be careful not to misplace sympathy on Edward, I told myself. It made me vulnerable to unexpected malice.
Perhaps the tides would be turned anyway. Lord Somerford was to meet them in London, as was Elizabeth’s husband, Lord Leahy. Investments were being discussed and stitched together. Edward summoned Watts, at least twice his age, and seemed to relish doing so.
“Chef has prepared a surprise for us.” Clementine sipped her water before continuing. “We’d decided upon a menu, and then at the last moment, he sent word that there would be a change. I’m sure it will be splendid.”
I turned my face away from her but toward the back of the room, where footmen emerged with silver serving platters. Behind them, nearly hidden, stood Chef. He caught my eye and I his, in return, offering but the smallest smile.
The lids were lifted, and a delightful aroma filled the room—rich, savory chicken, velvety red wine, and the fresh green of thyme. “Coq au vin!” Clementine said. “It has been too long. Why had I not thought of this?”
It was served, and as it w
as, I felt Captain Dell’Acqua’s hand on my elbow to the side of the table. The touch of his hand sent a frisson of excitement through me. He leaned over.
“Did you like the roses?” he spoke softly.
“I did. I sent a note round to your ship. Did it not arrive?”
He nodded. “I saved it. But I wanted to hear it from your lips. The dress . . .”
“Rose red,” I said. I could feel Mr. Morgan’s stare from across the table but I did not care. I was completely engrossed with the heady mixture of the brandy in the dish, Captain Dell’Acqua’s musky cologne, and the enchanting feeling of him being so near.
“You asked Chef to make coq au vin, did you not?” he asked. “Rooster in wine?”
“As an honor, yes.” I sipped my water to cool off and looked at him sideways, from under my lashes, speaking sweetly. “By your gift of the rosarium, I understood that you appreciated the subtlety of unspoken sentiments, Captain Dell’Acqua.”
“I do indeed.” He let his hand caress my arm ever so slightly as he released my elbow; my skin rippled beneath his touch. Morgan glared at us. The captain nodded, tipped his glass to him, and switched to Italian, a fine tenor in his voice. “Alla fine andrà tutto bene se non andrà bene, non e le fine.”
All will be well in the end; if it’s not well, then it’s not the end.
“I hope you are right, Captain Dell’Acqua,” I said shakily before turning my head back to my plate, but I could still hear him whisper, a teasing playfulness in his voice that tangled in my heart.
“I am always right, Miss Ashton.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AUGUST, 1851
The next morning, Clementine was still abed at a late hour. I knew she would be; Edward had left for London and after an evening’s entertaining, she rarely dislodged herself before noon. I sent Maud to her, with a question.
