Bride of a Distant Isle (13 page)

Clementine turned to me. “Yes, it would, Annabel. I'm certain you could visit often.” She glanced at Edward, who shook his head, so she said no more of that, but the next words from her mouth betrayed what she'd been thinking. “Mr. Morgan arrives again tomorrow. He'll be here for St. James's.”

So the celebration was to be ruined, and maybe my life as well. But perhaps . . . perhaps there was hope. Nothing had been clearly spoken of, committed to, after all. If I should find a governess position, I was free to take it with or without Edward's permission. Watts and his men removed the final dishes, with the assistance of a housemaid who had replaced the disgruntled footman.

The maid wore a white cap. All maids did. Not lace caps, it was true, but still white caps. Could the cap I found have been one for servants? A laundress, perhaps? No, too costly.

“Whatever are you staring at?” Clementine asked me.

“Her cap,” I answered honestly and absentmindedly. “The maid's white cap.”

Edward glanced at Clementine, who looked worriedly back at him. “That's a rather unusual focal point.” I knew he was waiting for an explanation.

“Oh, it's only that I've been wondering about white caps,” I said. “Nothing to concern yourselves over.” Could I have forgotten that we'd had the bonnet since London? It may have been among my things, and now I just could not clearly remember. I was shaken. It was, after all, unlikely that things would keep turning up without account. But women of my station did not wear caps such as this. I simply could not puzzle it out.

Edward quickly excused us from dinner. It was clear by her surprise that Clementine had had nothing to do with the lace cap, in any case. It was also clear that Edward thought my mind was tainted.

Perhaps it was.

LATE JULY, 1851

T
he morning of the St. James's celebration, I quickly paged through the newspaper, licking my fingers in a most unladylike manner to keep the pages flipping quickly—nothing again! What could have transpired?—and then marched down the back stairs to the kitchen. Chef was huffing, and so were his stoves; Cook groaned as she freed pans from the ovens; a young girl carried in baskets of shells.

“Oysters?” I said. Chef smiled but was too busy to welcome me, I knew.

“Yes, miss,” the girl said. “And scallops.” Ah yes. I'd smelled the garlic-infused butter when I first came into the kitchens.

“Coquilles St. Jacques.” St. James's shells. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, Chef was nodding toward me.

“
Mais oui!
It would not be just to celebrate the feast of Saint James without his shells,
n'est-ce pas?
”

“Indeed not,” I said. I hurried on with my question, as I knew he had much to attend. “There are two young children I know . . . they work for Highcliffe. I was wondering, well, if perhaps you had made two extra ice creams?”

We typically enjoyed molded, frozen sweet creams on St. James's Day, often with the season's last strawberries, at least when we were all at Highcliffe. It had been a family tradition, and though I was not certain if Edward was keen to keep those traditions, I thought perhaps Chef was, as I understood my grandfather certainly had been.

“I am so sorry,” Chef said. “But if I give one to the children, there shall not be enough for you to enjoy one.”

“Oh.” I grew a little disconsolate, as I perhaps would not have another year here to enjoy them. “That is perfectly fine by me.”

He then let a grin break out across his face. “What? I make a feast for dozens of guests and would not have extra ice creams?”

I laughed. “Of course you would.” He motioned for me to follow him to the cold pantry, blocked with ice from the icehouse dug into the ground near the old abbey. I'd always felt vaguely uneasy entering the pantry but could not pinpoint why.

He moved some ice creams behind old butter churns. “I will place them here,
n'est-ce pas
? And after the guests leave, you can come back down and deliver them to the children.”

“Thank you.” My hands chilled as I touched the brass molds, seams lightly greased with lard so the treats would easily pop out, but my heart warmed throughout.

He did not answer me as he hurried back to the copper din of the kitchen shouting,
“Vite, vite!”
Hurry, hurry!

I must hurry, too.
Our guests would soon arrive.

Within the hour, I waited on the lawn with Clementine as her guests were dropped off in carriages, fine and not so fine. Highcliffe's front façade had been quickly repaired, though the new stones hastily installed to replace a dozen or two crumbling old ones rather made the old girl look as though she'd been overtaken with spots.

Mr. Morgan pulled up and around to the carriage house. His driver parked inside, as Morgan would be staying for a few days. A second, more tawdry carriage followed them, and a cart. Was he bringing additional guests? That would be most irregular. In any case, I did not wish to appear to be awaiting his arrival, so I turned and aimed for the green expanse in front of the estate, which Clementine had had beautifully prepared. I assisted as she greeted guests . . . including the Maltese sailors.

The long lawn leading toward the sea had been made to look rather like a seascape, though there was no beachhead accessible for a half mile or more. Sand had been hauled up, and the ruin of several skiffs had been reclaimed from somewhere on the property and repurposed to become serving tables. Rope coils served as stands that held the croquet mallets. A nice touch, as Edward was cultivating the ropewalk investments. It would certainly bring that to mind for all involved. I'd overheard him berating poor Clementine for her “jolly country ways” that could not keep up with the sophistication that his associates expected of him, his circle, and indeed, his family. I thought she'd done rather well.

Edward initiated the croquet matches, and I watched as Captain Dell'Acqua and his lieutenant were partnered with two lovely ladies. One, with thick-coiled auburn hair, seemed to hold the captain's rapt attention, and I found myself growing a little envious at the easy camaraderie and laughing rapport between them. The captain seemed solicitous; in fact, I had not seen him this solicitous since he was delivering the drum to Albert, and winning over Clementine in the process.

Who was this young woman? She had a bright smile, and her laugh was musical. I took the mallet that Clementine's brother Harry, who was visiting as well, held out to me and partnered with him. He was pleasant company and rather fond of puns, which I quite enjoyed. After our round I made my way, surreptitiously I hoped, toward the red-haired woman.

“Ah, Miss Ashton.” Captain Dell'Acqua held out his hand toward me. “I was wondering when you'd make your way over to say hello.”

I glared at him from under lowered eyelashes; he seemed to understand my displeasure at having been called out, and his smile told me he relished it. But that smile held no malice, and he introduced me to his companion.

“Miss Annabel Ashton, Elizabeth, Viscountess Leahy. Lady Leahy is the daughter of Lady Somerford.”

I nodded. “How do you do.” I smiled, and she smiled back, warmly, with real affection. “Ah yes!” I suddenly remembered. “You're recently married.”

She nodded. “Indeed, and have been in London with Lord Leahy. But my mother has been taken ill, and I've come back for a time to help attend to her.”

“Oh dear, I hope it's nothing serious.” I'd noticed that she was not in attendance, which was unusual.

“I hope that as well,” Lady Leahy said. “She's sent me in her stead. She's asked me to collect you on Sunday . . . I do hope that will be all right?”

“Certainly, and I thank you for taking time to think of me.” From the distance, her father motioned toward her; he was standing with Edward, who looked pleased.

“I look forward to reconvening with you later,” she said. “For now, Papa calls.” She turned toward Dell'Acqua. “I know he holds you in high esteem, and hopes you may arrange investments together. I shall tell him how I've enjoyed passing the hour with you.”

The captain bowed gallantly and flashed one more somewhat intimate smile. It troubled me, a little, but I was stuck on a word she'd said so casually.

Papa
. I could not envision calling anyone by that tender term of endearment, but that did not mean that I didn't mourn the lost opportunity and the security that it held.

“Come, Miss Ashton.” Captain Dell'Acqua took my arm. “Let's walk around the lovely grounds of Highcliffe, shall we?”

I nodded, cheerful again. Some still played croquet; some drank champagne that Watts's men circulated on polished silver trays. Many stood by the skiff filled with ice, and with shellfish.

“I've eaten too many oysters,” I admitted. “You know it's been said that whoever eats them on Saint James's Day shall never want. At this moment, I feel I shall never want of another oyster.”

He laughed and led me toward an arrangement of chairs near the Edge of the World, where we could best see the horizon, the cloud-pebbled sky as it married the bright water. I did not look down, though, where quicksand waited to catch whoever fell into its malevolent arms.

“You are so partial to oysters, then?”

“No,” I admitted. “Though I can better tolerate the ones doused in garlic and butter.”

“Why so many, then?” He waited for me to settle down, comfortably, on the best of the small group of seats assembled.

“Pearls, Captain Dell'Acqua. Chef has told me one must open at least one hundred oysters to find a pearl. Every year I try to find one.”

His beautifully lashed eyes opened wide and, against my will, drew me. He did not turn away but held my gaze with increasing intensity. The nature of the very air changed, as it does just before a storm approaches. It was thick and charged, heavy, and the world around us faded away.

“Did you find your pearl today, then?” he asked softly. “I've never found one, myself. Until, perhaps, today.”

He held my gaze and I knew what he meant. I felt it, too. Yes. Perhaps there was someone for me. Perhaps
this
could be the kind of man for me.
Maltese. English. Charming. Kind. Engaging.
I realized I'd been holding my breath, and exhaled so I might answer. “No. I could not eat more than ten, no matter how dedicated to the quest.”

He laughed again, which broke the spell but brought joy and intimacy of another kind. “We eat them raw, in Malta.”

“I would do that,” I said, “if I could be assured of a pearl.”

He smiled and drew his chair closer. “There are so few pearls in Malta.” His voice grew somber. “This is the very reason I am here. There is little for our people.”

By
our
, was he including me, or simply meaning the Maltese? I rather liked being included but did not wish to interrupt him.

“Malta is desperately poor, and my family's firm can help the people. We are deprived and barefoot; although everyone in the world uses us as a way station, we do not profit from it. If the business of the world is trade or war, then I will find a manner for our people to eat during both or either and not simply be used. I care deeply about their welfare. Now, I have discovered that perhaps there is a way to gain the investment of the English, arrange for investment for all concerned, and provide for my countrymen. I simply need to ensure I arrange the right partnership whilst here. At home, that might finally . . .” He stumbled a little and then lowered his voice: “Finally prove to everyone that I am Maltese, fully and completely one of them in spite of my father and”—he tugged his blond queue—“this.”

I touched the back of his hand. “I understand. Perhaps like no one else could.”

He nodded and looked uncharacteristically anxious. “Has your cousin . . . has he had any further dealings?”

Inwardly, I sighed. Of the three men triangularly rotating in my life, Edward and Captain Dell'Acqua seemed to be interested in me for what I could bring to their arrangements. Only dreadful Mr. Morgan was honest with his intentions. Could I blame Dell'Acqua, though, when I had set out with the same purpose, though bid by Edward? Perhaps the captain counted my affections as strictly family loyalty, and commercial as well.

Affections. 'Twas the first time I'd acknowledged it that way. “I believe he has made some progress with Lord Somerford,” I answered honestly. “But I am certain he is interested in Malta. Very certain indeed.”

Dell'Acqua nodded and relaxed. It was clear this situation was as important to him as it was to Edward, though neither would tip his hand. There was no harm in that. I wanted to help my family and my nation, and the captain, his.

“And then, once securing the arrangement for Malta, you will return home.” I stated it, but there was an implicit question left lying should he care to pick it up.