Bride of a Distant Isle (15 page)

“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.

I
n 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.

T
he 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 how 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.

“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.”