Bride of a Distant Isle

by Sandra Byrd

  My coffin first, it was now Edward’s.

  Clementine sat weeping softly in her chair, and we let her weep for about ten minutes. Mrs. Watts brought her a second handkerchief to dry her eyes.

  “I’ll see to the stable boys, who will then see Mr. Everedge brought into the study for the night,” Watts said. He looked discomfited and sad, too. “Then I’ll call the vicar.” He turned to me. “We’ve sent for someone to gather as many of your belongings as possible from the spilt trunk.”

  I nodded.

  “I shall want him buried quickly,” Clementine finally spoke. “A small funeral, as we have so little family, and we cannot remain long at Highcliffe.”

  She turned and looked at me, her eyes dry and hard now, her mouth firmed into a slash, before speaking to the constable. “I believe Miss Ashton is responsible for his death.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I shrank from her as I would have from a black beetle scuttling toward me. “I’ve already said I had nothing to do with this.”

  The constable asked me some questions. I told him exactly what had happened, and he seemed satisfied that the facts as presented lined up with what he had observed.

  “Did you see the face of the person in the boat?”

  I shook my head. “There were two people. I could not see exactly who they were. I thought one of them might have been Mr. Nigel Morgan, but I cannot be certain.”

  He wrote that down. “I shall call upon him, but if you cannot identify him without a doubt . . .”

  In truth, I could not. Edward had not even said it was Morgan himself who was coming to pick me up.

  “Perhaps she should be escorted to the asylum from which she has escaped?”

  For a grieving widow, Clementine seemed rather insistent upon ridding herself of me.

  “What is this, then?” The constable turned back to me; his face looked both bewildered—how could he have expected both a death and an escaped lunatic in one evening?—and at the same time, stern. He was a man of responsibility, of course. “An escape from a madhouse?”

  Could he return me to Medstone? I explained that my paperwork had not been completed and that most around me had not found me to be insane. “I have, however, been acting strangely,” I admitted. “The cause of which was I’d been poisoned, I believe, with foreign honey.”

  “Poisoned?” The men stepped closer to me. “Are you certain?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Poisoned and then accused of lunacy, both in this very house.”

  The officer turned to Clementine. “Do you mind if we search the estate?”

  She shrugged, but a tremor of dread quivered across her face. “Not at all.” She’d never expected me to return. She’d not have thought to remove the evidence.

  We waited in the drawing room and within ten minutes one of the constable’s men appeared with a jar he said he’d found concealed in a corner underneath the breakfast sideboard.

  It was a jar of honey with what looked to be Turkish writing upon it.

  “Have you seen this before?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. “But that could have been what was used.”

  “Have you seen this?” He held it out to Clementine.

  “Never,” she said firmly.

  He turned to Mrs. Watts. “You?”

  “No,” she responded. “Which is most irregular, because as housekeeper I would have overseen all inventory. It was not purchased by me and it must have been well hidden.”

  At that moment, Emmeline entered the room from where she’d waited, listening, one thought, from the hallway. She smiled at me, and then looked at the officer’s notepad and indicated she’d like to take it. He gave her the pad and his writing implement. She turned the page and started drawing, quickly. We each looked to one another in the room, and I wondered, as I’m sure the others did, what she was drawing while her father stood protectively close behind her.

  Clementine sobbed quietly into her handkerchief, mumbling Edward’s name, but pulled herself together when Emmeline handed the notepad back to the constable.

  He stared at it for a moment before questioning her. “You picked up the post from Mr. Galpine’s and amongst the letters there was a box?”

  She nodded.

  “And you saw this box opened, and this jar of honey pulled from it?”

  She nodded again.

  “Who opened the box?”

  She backed into her father for safety and then pointed at Clementine.

  “Mrs. Everedge pulled the jar from the box?”

  She nodded again, confirming. The constable turned to Clementine. “Is this true?”

  “May I see the jar close up?” she asked quietly. “My vision is blurred, you understand, from weeping.”

  The jar was brought to her. “Yes . . . yes, now I remember. You understand, in the stress of the evening, I did not recall it right away. I did open it with the rest of the post, as I always do. But the box was addressed to my late husband, Edward.”

  The constable turned back to Emmeline. “Young lass, do you remember who the box was addressed to? Was it addressed to Mr. Everedge?”

  Emmeline closed her eyes for a moment and then she nodded her agreement. The constable closed his notebook.

  Each of us in the room knew it was entirely possible, and I believed probable, that Clementine had ordered that honey in Edward’s name. If it were to come from his importing partners, and Clementine always took the post, she could order as she may with impunity. I knew she had ordered the Turkish honey and had dosed me to send me mad. I think the others knew it, too.

  “I’ll investigate,” the constable said. I believed we all knew it would be found to be hallucinogenic. “Until then, Miss Ashton will remain here. Under my care.”

  Clementine turned to me. “Annabel, I am so sorry. I had no idea Edward had planned anything of this sort, or I would have intervened. Goodness me! His mind had grown unsteady—I’d noticed things. More and more things, actually. Strange behavior. Odd thoughts and the inability to control them. But I thought, well, things do run in families. Don’t they?”

  She locked eyes with me and then I knew.

  She’d been poisoning Edward, too.

  He had had symptoms, and was frightened because of it. I remembered his stumble on the stair after teatime, seeing Lady Somerford out. And his fear when I suggested that he, too, might be prone to insanity. After having me put away, Clementine had intended to have him committed to a madhouse as well. It was perhaps why she hadn’t disposed of the honey. She still had need of it. Edward knew it, too, in the end. He died knowing his wife was sending him off next. Commit me to the lunatic asylum, show it was a family trait, commit Edward for life, then death.

  Clementine’s eyes did not soften though her voice did, and she turned toward the constable. “It may have been a terrible accident in every sense. I don’t take honey in my tea, of course. Annabel must stay with me for a short visit until another situation can be found for her.”

  “I assure you a solution will be found, and it will not be to your liking,” I said.

  She held my gaze, contemptuously, and then she turned back to the constable, wringing her hands as a grieving widow would. “I have so much to understand about my late husband. I love him. Loved him. But if he tried to send her off tonight via the Keyhole, well, then, one must believe he was capable of such a thing as poisoning her as well. Perhaps his mind was unwell. Perhaps that runs in the family.”

  Her feminine, pity-inducing plea worked. Men could be so malleable. The constable muttered some kind words about not always knowing those we thought we knew best and closed his notebook.

  It’s very easy for all to assign blame to a dead man. Especially a dead man with many visible faults.

  The constable offered his regrets again and asked if a telegram should be sent to anyone; Clementine mentioned her mother and then sent them off for the night.

  Mrs. Watts turned to me and spoke quietly. “I’ll put Mrs. Everedge to
bed with a sleeping draught and then I’ll be around to see you. While we were waiting, I prepared your old rooms. I have something to share with you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll await your arrival.”

  Clementine turned toward me, eyes red, as she left the room. She spoke softly. “This hasn’t altered your situation, Annabel. Edward’s estate will, of course, come to Albert, to be managed by me. We shall discuss your options once Edward’s had a decent Christian burial.”

  Her voice was hard. All pretense of friendship had fled.

  I returned to my rooms, which had fresh linens and a fire, to wait for Mrs. Watts, and, in truth, to mourn Edward. Not the one who had died this very night, but the one who might have been, had he so chosen.

  A knock on the door. “Come in,” I called.

  Mrs. Watts entered the room. “You must be very tired. Mr. Watts and I have agreed to be domiciled here once more until the funeral has passed and Mrs. Everedge and Albert return to London. So we can speak tomorrow if you’d prefer.”

  I shook my head. “No. Please, take a seat.”

  She joined me by the fire. The dragon clock still presided over the hearth and I found its familiar presence comforting.

  “I don’t think you remember, but my Christian name is Gabrielle, and I was your mother’s lady’s maid.”

  I looked at her face, which somehow transformed itself in my mind into the face of a younger woman. A memory came back.

  Mummy sat on the dressing stool, where Gabrielle brushed and rolled her hair.

  “Do you want a turn next, Annabel?” she asked me. She caught Gabrielle’s glance in the mirror, and the young woman nodded.

  I sat on the stool, and Gabrielle brushed my hair. It felt so good; it prickled all the way over my head and down to my toes.

  I looked at Mrs. Watts. “I do remember, just a little. I was so young . . . so much has happened in the decades since.”

  She nodded kindly. “I know. When your mother was sent to Medstone, I thought it terribly unfair. But there was nothing I could do. Judith had her way, and her husband was a most intimidating and insistent man. I had not been her lady’s maid for long; she’d had another woman, earlier, who had just married. But I found your mother to be a lovely woman and of sound mind. And, of course, I’m French.”

  French lady’s maids were preferred, I knew. That explained the melodic lilt in her voice. The one time she’d ended a sentence with non. I poked the fire in the grate for a moment and then sat down. “I found my mother’s grave marker at Medstone.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said.

  “I’m not. I have little left of her, so the bits I can collect and keep are precious to me. The few memories. The sites and the knowledge of where she rests. Her necklace.” I looked up at her. “You put that into my box, didn’t you?”

  She nodded. “I wanted to do for you what I hoped someone might do for Jack. It was for Jack’s sake, you see, that I could not speak up. He works”—her voice caught a little—“worked for Mr. Everedge in London. He was so proud, and truth be told, Mr. Everedge was good to him. There are few opportunities around here for a young man. I did not know if the items I’d saved would help you in any way, or just bring you comfort. We had no cause to cross paths in the years you lived at home and you were but a child, of course, till you left for schooling and then Winchester. I would have had to give the items to one of the Mrs. Everedges, first or last, to pass along to you.

  “Watts no longer served here, of course. And, in the end, they proved nothing about your . . . your . . . circumstances of birth, and I could not risk my son’s future for sentiments, treasured as they may be.”

  I nodded. “I truly understand. The cap?”

  “I took the necklace from your things when they were packing her bags. I found the cap after she’d left the house for the institution. Her sister Judith took the combs, of course; they were of great value. I took them back and kept them with me when I left, hoping to return them to you someday. Mrs. Everedge—Judith, that is—never learnt of it. I made sure the cap was in your trunk when it was packed for you. I thought you were returning to the institution and wanted you to have it. I was going to speak with you last night . . . I heard you call through the tube.”

  Ah. The light footsteps I’d heard.

  “But the door was locked. There was nothing I could do once Mr. Everedge had decided. To be clear, we weren’t sure of your mental state. None of us knew about the honey. And, of course, we servants have our own sweeteners downstairs.”

  I leaned forward. “Thank you,” I said. “For all you have done.”

  “I believe that Maud was asked to procure the cap from your room under a pretense, and she kept it. When Mrs. Everedge next asked her to remove the combs from your rooms, Maud refused. Perhaps that was when she decided to leave service; she gave the cap, quietly, to me. Perhaps she knew something about the honey. She was very particular about sweeteners for Mrs. Everedge.”

  I did not reveal Clementine’s absinthe addiction; no doubt Mrs. Watts already knew about it, as I recalled the housekeeper and Maud arguing near the sugar cubes at the breakfast sideboard.

  “Maud’s gone?”

  Mrs. Watts nodded. “Moved to London last week. Mrs. Everedge accused her of conspiring with you, and Maud did not want to tarry and be accused by the mister and missus of heaven knows what . . . as you were. Mr. Everedge had been acting odd as well. She thought, we all thought, really, that perhaps it was floating in the miasma and any one of us might be next.”

  It did not do to sympathize or socialize with the mad; others thought you might be mad, too.

  “Mrs. Everedge will miss her. Good lady’s maids are hard to find. Maud’s mother was a scullery maid, and she worked hard to raise herself above that station.”

  I sat back in my chair. “Maud told me about clipping things to my crinoline, things I wanted to keep private.”

  Mrs. Watts grinned and wrung her hands a little. “An old lady’s maid trick. ’Twas good she shared it with you, but that’s most likely how she knew how to help Clementine procure your cap.”

  “Do you have my ruby hair combs?”

  She looked surprised. “No. Are they missing? Perhaps they were removed when you were taken to Medstone.”

  I shook my head. “No, they went missing before I left.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know. The cap I know about, and the portrait of your parents . . . I believe it was burnt. Mr. Watts saw someone from the stables lighting the burn barrels shortly after the portrait was discovered, something that gave off a greasy odor when set alight. He couldn’t be sure. Neither of us could, miss. We did what we could. It was he that left the slip of paper with Mr. Lillywhite’s name.”

  “I am most grateful for all that you both have done on my behalf.”

  She stood. “What will you do now, miss?”

  I took a deep breath and walked to the window, looking out. Where could I go? What could I do? I exhaled, fogging the window, which had lacy frost webs in each corner, before turning back to her. “I’m not certain what I shall do.”

  “Mr. Everedge has answered rather sharply for his role in this matter,” she said. “It does not appear Mrs. Everedge will answer for hers . . . whatever part she may have played.”

  “None,” I said, “according to her account.” I sighed again and remembered her last words to me. Nothing had changed. “With Edward dead, I need not marry Mr. Morgan. Nor be returned to the madhouse. Perhaps I’ll end up in the poorhouse.” I tried to keep a jesting tone, but that was not a thing to jest about.

  “If I may suggest, you’d make a fine lady’s maid,” she said. “With some training. Maybe Lady Leahy could help.”

  Yes, that was just the person with whom I needed to speak—Lady Leahy. In spite of Mrs. Watts’s kind encouragement, a lady’s maid position was not for me, but perhaps Elizabeth’s friends had contacted her about a governess position. It would not be w
hat I would have chosen, but would be a respectable way in which to settle.

  “Would you be able to bring some writing papers to me?” I asked. “And then post letters for me? I’m very sorry, but at the moment I do not even have enough money to pay for a post.”

  She nodded. “Certainly. I’ll do better than post them. I’ll ask Lillian to give them to Mr. Galpine, so they’ll be sent off with all speed. She’s back at her father’s house now. How many sheets of paper will there be?”

  I allowed myself a smile. So Lillian still held sway over Mr. Galpine.

  “Two,” I said. One to be sent to Elizabeth in London. One to be posted to Malta. To Marco.

  Edward’s funeral was held shortly after that; we all wore mourning attire, myself and little Albert included. I wore it as a matter of form, and to respect the past he and I shared, but I should not wear it long; after all, he had tried, in effect, to murder me, or at least my spirit. I thought it unlikely anyone would dare to reprove me.

  Clementine had purchased a fine coffin for Edward, which was installed in the family mausoleum overlooking the sheep fields. She’d made a point of telling me she’d had the other coffin burned, even though she would have to pay Medstone for it.

  The afternoon after he was buried she called me to his study, which she had taken over. She perched on the edge of a leather chair; I sat across from her. She was close enough that the licorice spirit from her breath traveled across the space and further embittered the air between us.

  “I’ve decided to make you a generous offer,” she began. “I shall have the proceeds from the sale of Highcliffe very shortly and I will fund the, er, installation fee or whatever it’s called for you to take sacred vows. To become a nun, as you said you wanted to.”

  “It’s a dowry.” I looked her in the eye. “I did not tell you that I wanted to become a nun. Someone at Pennington overheard me considering it and told you, which is why you raised the subject.”

  “Yes, well, you’re not the only one with friends at Pennington,” she neatly volleyed. I knew her implication was that Elizabeth was her friend and had told her.