Tilly took a swig. It burned the back of her throat and made her eyes water. She coughed.
“But I didn’t mean to rest only your wrist,” Dr. Hunt continued, pulling out a bandage roll and beginning to wrap her wrist very firmly. She winced. “I demand that you rest completely. In your bed. For at least one week. I will come and visit next week to see how you are. Your husband told me how you acquired this injury. I have seen it before. Women aren’t prepared for the isolation here on the island, and you are recovering from the shock of your grandfather’s death. Now, more brandy.”
Tilly gingerly sipped it again. Dr. Hunt put a gentle finger under the flask and tipped it up so the fiery liquid filled her mouth. She swallowed, nearly choking. The heat spread down into her belly.
“Come on, and another.”
She bravely swigged again. Her head began to swim.
He took it from her and screwed the lid back on. “You’ll feel better soon,” he said, placing the flask on the bedside table. “Have a belt of that every so often. That will keep you calm. I’ll make sure Mr. Dellafore refills it for you.”
Dr. Hunt moved to get up, but she caught his wrist with her good hand. “Please,” she said. “Jasper locks me in. I can’t bear it.”
He frowned. Unhappy Father Christmas. “I’ll talk to him.”
“I’m afraid . . .” she said, her voice trailing off to a whisper.
“Of what?”
“He’s not the man . . . I don’t know if he’s the man I thought he was.”
“Nonsense,” he said, buckling up his case. “You see, this is the reason you need to rest. In a week’s time you’ll feel better. Mark my words.”
Then he was gone, leaving the door open behind him. She heard him creak down the stairs and went to the threshold to listen, very unsteady on her feet. He was right; all her pains dulled with the brandy.
“Complete rest for a week. Make sure her meals are brought to her. And for heaven’s sake, man, don’t lock the girl’s door. She’s anxious enough as it is.”
“Of course,” Jasper answered smoothly. “I’ll take good care of her.”
Then the door opened and closed, leaving her alone in the house with Jasper.
•
Days passed and fog moved in outside her window. Tilly lay in her bed and spent long hours of every day crying for the life she had left behind, for the loss of her grandfather, and for the nerve-loosening uncertainty of her new world. Jasper, still angry with her outburst, came to see her only once a day, to bring her evening brandy. He treated her the same, silent way the last time she had upset him. She grew used to the fiery liquid and it helped her to sleep every night; but she could not grow used to his stony refusal to speak or answer her questions. Tears and rages achieved nothing, except to give her a hot, flushed face and a sobbing heart.
Apart from Jasper, she only saw Mrs. Rivard when she brought her meals, also wordlessly. But the judgment was all over her face: she thought Tilly hysterical, a troublesome burden. Tilly was always glad to hear her leave at the end of the evening—with a cheerful good-bye that was always returned by Jasper. Every night, she and Jasper were alone in the dark house. She was confined to bed on Dr. Hunt’s orders and Jasper saw no reason to call on her. It was as though the house was an island, and they plotted different courses around it, navigating around one another.
So it was a surprise one morning when Jasper burst into her room, without knocking, and stood there beside the door glowering at her. His knuckles were white around a letter.
His expression frightened the curiosity out of her. She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but he threw the letter on her bed. It had already been opened.
“You have received something in the post,” he spat.
She was too baffled in that instant to ask precisely why he had opened her mail. The return address was her old address: it was from Godfrey. She unfolded it to read it. The paper whispered against itself. Meanwhile, Jasper had thrown open her wardrobe and was pulling out dresses and flinging them onto the end of the bed.
“What are you doing?” she asked, fearful and indignant all at once.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
Her pulse thudded guiltily in her throat. “Where is what?”
He began to scoop items off the top shelf of the cupboard. Boxes full of old cards and letters and even a few photographs she kept to remember Grandpa by. They spilled out of their boxes and onto the floor. Tilly scrambled out of bed and began to gather them up with her good hand, but now he was into her chest of drawers, pulling out stockings and corsets and brushes and hairpins.
“Stop it!” she cried.
“Read the letter,” he returned, gruffly, continuing his ransacking of her things.
So she read the letter:
Cousin Matilda, do not think me a fool. Pamela and I spent many hours in the old man’s house, cataloguing everything within. The number of items missing astonishes me. Did you really think I would not notice?
And here, he listed all of the items Grandpa had put in the trunk, the ones that she and Jasper had already sold. She felt no guilt: they were gifts, when they were still Grandpa’s to give freely and she would write and tell him that. But then why was Jasper still jumbling through her things? She returned to the letter.
There is also the matter of two hundred and thirty-three pounds in banknotes, which Pamela saw in a cigar box on the old man’s mantelpiece last time we were there. You can imagine how she felt when she saw you had stolen this too.
Tilly’s mind reeled. Pamela knew how much money was in the box; Tilly had never even bothered to count it. What kind of people were they, to comb through an old man’s belongings in the weeks before he died?
Now, at least, she understood why Jasper was pillaging her room.
“Jasper, stop,” she said, in a quiet but firm voice. “I presume you are searching for the money?”
“Of course I’m searching for the money. We are a partnership. I have debts, you have money. You cannot keep it from me.”
“It isn’t here,” she said. Then more forcefully, “He gave me no money. Everything he gave me we have already received and sold.”
Jasper stopped, turned to her with a shoe in one hand. “Then why does Godfrey think you have it?”
“Because that is the kind of man he is. And he is married to that awful woman . . .” Tilly could have choked on her anger, that they were living in Grandpa’s old house, making paths over her old familiar ones, along the corridors, through the rooms. “If Grandpa had banknotes, perhaps he intended to spend them. Or give them to somebody else like poor Granger, who Godfrey no doubt has turned out on her ear already.”
Jasper dropped the shoe and, without a word of apology, turned to leave.
“Jasper,” she said, climbing out of bed. “I can’t pick all this up. I’m supposed to rest my wrist. You must help me.”
But the silence had returned. He left her, closing the door behind him.
Tilly surveyed the mess, then decided to return to bed as the doctor had said. She took a swig of brandy. She was growing used to it now. Godfrey’s letter lay on the bed and she picked it up to read the rest of it.
In short, we both feel your dishonesty a terrible betrayal of us, and a terrible ingratitude shown to our grandfather, who had already paid twelve hundred pounds to Dellafore as a wedding gift. Pamela has been urging me to call the constabulary, but the solicitor has advised against it. So I suppose you may feel proud of yourself that you got away with it; but know this: you are never welcome back in this house ever again.
Tilly folded the letter. She hadn’t known Grandpa had paid Jasper such a large sum, though she knew, of course, he had given her new husband something. What had happened to the twelve hundred pounds? She got out of bed, intending to go to Jasper and ask him, then changed her mind. He wouldn’t answer. She would have to wait until he was speaking with her again.
As she surveyed her belongings, all over the room, she e
ntertained the idea of simply packing them all back in her trunk and leaving. Walking away from this mess. But no, she had made marriage vows in the eyes of God, and she took them seriously.
Tilly lay on her back. She was heartily sick of the view of the inside of her bed canopy, and yet this was where she fixed her eyes as she thought it all through. Grandpa had confessed he had found Jasper for her, but made it appear as though they had met by chance. What negotiations had taken place? Had Grandpa offered Jasper money to marry her? Surely not; surely Grandpa would know that was a recipe for misery. Or had Jasper charmed Grandpa with his smooth ways, his well-turned outfits, and made himself appear a much more suitable husband than he actually was?
She sighed. None of this was material at the moment. She simply needed to get her husband to speak to her again, to be kind and warm enough towards her that she could talk to him about her doubts. And at the moment, kindness and warmth from him did not seem remotely possible.
•
It took Jasper six days to start talking to her again. Out of nowhere, as far as she could see. He brought her an evening brandy and said, “Dr. Hunt’s very pleased with how your injury is mending.”
Tilly tried not to express astonishment. Instead, she rotated her wrist. “So am I.”
“We’ve been asked to the Morningtons’ for dinner this evening, but I have already made apologies for you. Until you are well again, you should stay precisely where you are. I shall go, though.”
“I’m well enough to go,” she said. “Please let me go. I’m so tired of being here in my room.”
“I note that since you’ve been in your room, you’ve had no more hysterical fits and imagined no more nonsense,” he said archly, the corners of his mouth turning down beneath his mustache. “This suggests to me that it would be better that you stay here.”
Tilly sipped her brandy. The liquid over her tongue burned away the angry retort that was always waiting there.
“Now your wrist is getting better, I’m going to have to let Mrs. Rivard go. We’ve run out of money to pay her,” he said. “You’ll have to take over the household chores and meals for a while.”
“Run out of . . . but your trip to Ireland?”
“I’m still waiting on that payment. It won’t be long.”
She studied his face, wished she could tell if he were lying or not.
“Why do you look at me so?” he said.
She forced a smile. “Cannot a wife look upon the beloved face of her husband?”
His mouth actually twitched as though he might smile in return. For a few hopeful moments, her heart lifted. She remembered their courtship, his kindness, his loving face. Was that man still there, inside her increasingly angry and desperate husband? Or had he always been angry and desperate, but knew how to smooth over those feelings to trick an old man into paying for his granddaughter to be married off?
Surely there wasn’t a man alive capable of such an ambitious deception.
“Jasper,” she said, “tell me truly. The day you and I met: was it really by chance? I often suspected Grandpa had arranged it somehow. He knew how resistant I was to the potential husbands he touted.”
“Of course it was by chance,” he said, face all open and honest and sincere.
My, what a good liar.
“And we fell in love and married quickly. Too quickly. Like a couple of fools.” His eyes darted away. “If you want to know why my affection is dimmed, you need only look to your behavior of the last few weeks.”
Tilly bit her tongue.
“But we must make the best of it,” he continued, “and that means getting by without servants for a little while.”
Tilly thought about the money in the garden shed. If she gave it to him, how long would it last?
“But for now, rest.” He indicated the glass of brandy he’d brought. “And don’t forget your medicine. I’ll give Mrs. Rivard notice.”
Tilly gulped the brandy as he left, then went to sit at the window and watch the myrtle trees along the side fence sway in the wind. Dr. Hunt had been quite clear with her on all his visits: she was given to hysterics and she needed to stop imagining terrible things or her health would continue to suffer. To believe her husband had married her for money while all the time carrying on an affair was the kind of hysterical imagining he would discourage in her.
And yet, Tilly suspected strongly that it was true.
•
Late in the night, Tilly woke. Her head thudded. Too much brandy. She no longer needed it for the pain in her wrist, but had found it a good medicine for the pain in her heart and Jasper was happy to supply her with a little every night. He never drank it. He was completely sober. Perhaps if he was a rough drunk she might find it easier to believe him a liar and a womanizer. But Jasper was nothing if not clinically, almost cruelly, rational.
She heard a light thump outside her door, as though somebody were trying to walk very quietly past. It was probably Jasper, tiptoeing by and hoping she didn’t wake and start shrieking at him like a harpy again. But the thump was followed by the sound of something being softly dragged across the carpet runner. She sat up and listened. Her doorhandle rattled, there was a scrape and a thud, and then the footsteps retreated.
Her heart fell. She went to the door. The handle wouldn’t budge. He had barred her in again.
But why?
She crouched down, hands flat on the ground, and looked under the door. All was in darkness. She stayed there a little while, straining her ears. Heard Jasper’s voice, muffled by the wooden walls. So he had company. Now all her senses and skin were alert.
She waited.
Then the confirmation. The light, high laugh of a woman.
Jasper’s lover, in the house with him. While his wife was barred in her room.
The rage that began to seethe and simmer in her stomach terrified her. Before, she had been able to doubt herself, she could argue away her worst fears, believe Jasper’s lies. But this . . . this was confirmation.
Every nerve and sinew in her body struggled to hold in the rage that threatened to split her apart. She wanted to punch holes in walls, tear up her bedding, pull the door off its hinges, scream at him in one long, hot, deafening shriek until he fell down dead. Instead, she lowered herself completely to the floor, facedown, and clenched her teeth so they wouldn’t hear her sob.
NINE
The Sable-trimmed Coat
Tilly had spent too much time inside. She had rested enough. She had drunk enough brandy. She had lived enough in the confines of her head. After a fitful night’s sleep, she found the door to her bedroom unbarred and wondered when he had come to move the chair. When had the woman gone home?
She washed her hands and face, dressed, and went downstairs. Jasper was nowhere in sight. Mrs. Rivard had put out her breakfast, but she ignored it, going for the front door instead.
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Rivard asked.
“I don’t know,” Tilly said.
“Mr. Dellafore was clear that you were to stay in your room.”
Tilly ignored her, slamming the door shut behind her.
She walked. Down the front path, through the gate, down the little gravelly slope, and into the wood. She walked and felt her body move, her blood pumping, and it eased her troubled mind a little. One foot, the other foot, moving through the world, down to the granite cliffs of St. Peter Port where there were other human beings and noise and activity in the gully-like winding streets. She found herself on Le Paradis, the corner block where the Morningtons’ house stood, and she stopped for a moment and thought.
Ralph and Laura had been so kind and welcoming of her. Laura had said Tilly could always call on her. And at this moment, she needed very badly to speak to somebody about what to do.
She hesitated. If word got back to Jasper . . .
She didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Jasper had let her down so very badly. The love inside her had curdled, turned into sour resentment. She no longer knew what
the future held, she no longer knew what Jasper wanted from her or expected of their life together. Except that she should take over the unending list of household chores and be barred in her room when she was inconvenient. That wasn’t a marriage: it was a terrible fairy story. All that was missing was a locked room full of dead wives.
Tilly headed towards the Morningtons’ house, climbed the shallow stone steps, then knocked hard.
A maid answered. They had staff. Tilly remembered having staff. “Yes, madame?” the woman said.
“I’m here to call upon Mrs. Mornington. Is she available? It’s Matilda Dellafore.”
The maid nodded, recognized the name. “One moment, madame.”
Tilly waited, straightening the cuffs of her gloves and glancing around her. The Morningtons’ house was in good repair. This was supposed to be how her life looked. This was what she had always known, what she had been bred for. Not the grim existence she had been plunged into.
Laura Mornington emerged a few moments later, sliding her hand under Tilly’s elbow. “Tilly! I’m so pleased to see you, but so surprised. Jasper said you were still very ill.”
“I am not ill. I was not ill. I had a sprained wrist. I am tired of being inside.” Tilly realized the words were spilling out without her consent. “I am desperate. I . . .” Her breath hitched.
Laura’s face crumpled. She pulled Tilly close, and called out over her shoulder, “Myra, lemonade in the garden. As quickly as you can, please.” She leaned back, looked in Tilly’s eyes. “We will sit in the sunshine, and we will have some fresh air, and I will listen to your heart.”
Tilly was so grateful that her knees became weak. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Laura led her around through the house and outside onto a broad stretch of grass, bordered by hedges and a high fence. A tall iron gate stood in the corner of the fence, between veronica and lavender bushes. Through its bars, Tilly could see another narrow street with high granite walls overgrown with vines. It was barely wide enough for more than one person to walk at a time. Laura sat Tilly down at a wrought iron table-and-chair set, then sat opposite. The sun was white and bright on Laura’s face and hair, picking up snowy highlights. “You must tell me all, my dear,” she said.
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