Bride of a Distant Isle (26 page)

I could hope.

But he would not want me to marry anyone else, then, either.

The other guests rejoined us and we listened to a few, final songs on the pianoforte. Clementine and Edward exchanged worried glances all evening as the multitude of domestics swirled about in silent pirouettes of service.

I stood with Edward and Clementine and said good-bye to our guests.

After Edward had closed the door on the last of them, he turned to me.

“Did you have something to do with that portrait in the attic?”

“By my faith,” I said honestly, “I had no idea such a thing existed until you showed it to us all.”

Clementine did not look at either of us; instead, she turned to leave instructions with the servants. Edward ran his fingers through his hair and dismissed me.

I went to my rooms, hurriedly undressed, draping my clothing across the dressing table chair, and climbed into my bed. A fire had been thoughtfully prepared for me, and it forestalled, somewhat, the early autumn cool.

It was true. I knew it was true, and so did, with all probability, everyone present in that room. My mother
had
been married unless my father had deceived her. She was a clever woman; could she have been tricked?

Perhaps.

If she'd been married, and the even more weighty consideration, if I could somehow prove that, Highcliffe and everything else would be mine and she would have been momentously wronged. Edward knew what was at stake now, too, and he, more even than Lady Somerford, was too clever by half.

I awoke the next morning aware that something felt different. Was it my circumstances? Dark premonition and presentiment closed around me like the curtains tightly drawn around my bed.

I sat up in bed, threw those curtains aside, and looked toward my dressing table. Somehow, in the night, my clothing had been rearranged.

I picked up my garters and to my dismay found that the Maltese wedding bonnet was no longer clipped to them. It had disappeared.

T
he others were up early, too, odd for a morning after late entertainment. Clementine and Edward had served themselves breakfast from the sideboard and were at the table. Maud, Watts, and Mrs. Watts bustled about in the background. Jack Watts passed me, going out as I was going in, and nodded.

I took a slice of toast and some marmalade and sat down.

A minute or two ticked by, then Clementine spoke up. “You had mentioned a bonnet, or cap, some time ago, hadn't you, Annabel?”

I nodded. “Yes, I had.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

I had nothing to lose by being honest at this point. “I found one in my rooms.”

Clementine finished her cup. “May I see it?”

I looked at her directly. “I'm afraid not. As of this morning, it seems to have disappeared.”

Edward folded his paper. “Really, Annabel. You expect us to believe that? The night after we see an odd sort of portrait of someone, wearing something, this mysterious cap disappears.”

“Believe as you may,” I said, “but that is what has happened.”

“Has anyone other than you seen this cap?” he asked. “Not a sketch of it, but the actual cap itself?”

I put down my toast, the reality of what he was insinuating crumbling in my mouth. Was he helping me find that which had gone missing, or, more likely, questioning whether or not such a thing may have existed?

“No. Not that I am aware of,” I said.

“So perhaps . . . you had seen a portrait of this kind of cap somewhere, and then fancied a drawing of yourself with it on your head. Imitating the first portrait. Might that be true?”

“No, it is not. I did not imagine the cap; I've touched and held it. And I told you, I had not seen that portrait of my mother, wearing a cap, until last night.”

“Perhaps after remembering the painting from somewhere you wanted to imagine yourself married to someone Maltese and sketched it in some hope . . .” Clementine offered me an exit, quietly.

I shook my head. “This is not true. I'm very sorry, but it's not. I held the cap; I saw it repeatedly, many times. It is now missing.”

“All right,” Edward said soothingly. “All right. It's gone now, so we shan't worry about it any longer. I've some accounts to tend to; then, later this afternoon, I would like to see you in my study if I may. You'll be here?”

Where else would I be? “Of course,” I answered. “I'm at your command.”

As I left the room, I heard Watts mention the name Lillywhite to him.

Edward was planning to visit Grandfather's solicitor. To see if there was further evidence of my mother's marriage?

I spent the morning reading in my room and thinking. Had I really seen and touched the cap? Had I placed it on my garter, each day, as I clearly remembered doing? And had I never really viewed that portrait of my mother—and perhaps my father—before? Maybe my mother had had it in her rooms, and I had remembered it so deeply that it came to my unconscious mind but no farther. The implications frightened me. Was I, truly, a lunatic? Or was someone trying to help me by placing some of my mother's things where I must see them and take heart . . . and action?

I wanted nothing so much as to visit the quarantine room to see if my mother's sketchbook was still in place, but I could not risk drawing attention to myself just then. Edward called me down to his study later on that afternoon and to my surprise he had rather good news.

I sat across from him, just he and I, while one of the day maids served us tea and small cakes, lavender scented and lightly iced, one of Chef's specialties.

“Mr. Morgan will not be joining us for a month or so,” Edward began. “He had been planning to speak with you on a singular, personal matter today—”

“Marriage,” I interjected.

Edward nodded. “But given the state of your health I suggested that a month of rest might be a good idea. It will allow him to tend to his other concerns, and for you to recuperate. Matrimonial matters can still be settled well before Christmas if we wish that to be so.”

I did not wish that to be so, and he knew it. I took a moment and looked at Edward, who appeared to be truly befuddled. He was a shrewd card player, though; I'd partnered him at whist many times. Deep down, I knew that he was not giving me time to “recover.” He was going to try to see if he could sort out whether I was legitimate, and if so, if it could be proven.

For if it could be he would not want me to marry Mr. Morgan, because then his “friend” and investment partner would, in many ways, own Edward. Should I prove legitimate, I, and not Edward, would own all. Should I marry Morgan and have children, they, not Albert, would inherit all. Mr. Morgan would control the family interests in any case. This, then, was why my engagement and subsequent marriage to Morgan had been delayed.

For now.

My relief was temporary, and replaced with a new fear. Ten minutes later, as I returned to my rooms, I started up the stairs but found that I had a hard time placing my foot down just right. My feet felt heavy, as though I had sat upon one of them, and now it tingled and did not work properly. I became aware that the day maid was watching me, and I tried to smile at her but felt that only one half of my mouth worked properly.

I was about to say something to reassure her, but the words would not form correctly. What was her name? Was she wearing my mother's Maltese cap? I think that she was. How had this happened?

“Are you quite all right, miss?” she asked.

I nodded but did not answer.

It was happening again, only stronger this time, and quite different. But I'd not taken any absinthe!

I steadied myself and reached my room, where I lay down on my bed. My lips tingled now, too, as well as my feet. I looked at the window, and then quickly closed my eyes. The rays of sunlight had turned into swirling vortexes; then they resembled ship's masts, rushing toward me, waiting to impale me.

A knock on the door. I opened my eyes, and the masts had blessedly disappeared. “Yes?”

“It's me, Maud,” came a voice. “May I come in?”

“Not fine, now. I, er, not now. I'm fine.” I could barely force the words out in a sensible order. My mouth felt as though it were filled with toast crumbs once more. “I have not eaten any sugar cubes!” Why had I shouted that? I'd thought it, I knew why I'd thought it, but it needn't have been said.

“Yes, miss,” she answered, her voice quietly alarmed. I heard her quick steps down the hallway.

An hour later, another knock. “Miss Ashton, Annabel. It is Father Gregory.”

My confessor! I sat up, and blessedly, felt a little better. I checked my reflection in the looking glass; my eyes were rimmed with dark circles, as though I'd been hit. Perhaps it was just the dusk that made them appear so. I opened the door, and Father Gregory came in. Mrs. Watts lit the lamps in the room and then left us.

“Your cousin's wife sent for me,” he said, sitting near me on one of the chairs near my fireplace, which was cold.

“I'm sorry,” I said, my mouth sticky and dry. “She needn't have.”

“She said you were unwell, overwrought. It's most unusual for anyone at Highcliffe to send for me.”

“Perhaps because I am the only Catholic here,” I said.

“I'm sorry you were troubled.”

“It is no trouble, daughter. No matter what anyone has ever said or implied to you, you are no trouble, anywhere, at any time.” He took my hand in his, and I sensed how icy mine was only when enfolded in his warmth.

“Is there anything you'd like to discuss?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, Father.”

“No more thoughts of taking vows?” he finally asked. Had he remembered that on his own or had Clementine suggested that again? It would make a neat solution to their current tribulations.

Oh dear. Now I was questioning a priest!

“No, Father. I will speak to you first about anything of import.”

He patted my hand and said nothing further about it. “
This
is of import and I'm happy I came. You look tired, daughter,” Father said. “Would you like me to hear your confession? And then bless and anoint you?”

“Am I ill?” That would be the reason for anointing.

“I don't know,” he said. “But it cannot hurt.”

I nodded. “Yes, Father, I would like that. I truly would.”

Later, Clementine thoughtfully sent a servant to start a fire for me; a cold dinner tray of buttered macaroni—child's food, not too excitable—was sent to my room; for this I was happy. I had no desire to face the family or the domestic staff until I was fully recovered.

When would that be? I had no idea what had overcome me. It was very like the earlier event, but also different, stronger, more confusing. I had hallucinated, or had I begun to tip into the insanity that had beset my mother at nearly my age?

A wisp of the memory of us in the quarantine room came back.

“I'm like you!” I pointed to the sketch.

Her eyes grew sad. “In some ways,” she answered. “In only the best ways, I hope.”

I hoped so, too.

That one memory seemed to pry loose another, this one less welcome. That sense of foreboding, like curtains closing, drew tight around me again. I could not breathe.
“Edward. I'm cold! Edward, let me out.” I banged my little fist against the door of the cold pantry. The handle was too high up for me to reach.

“Edward!” There was no answer. I turned a crate upside down and sat on it, and let tears roll down my face, their hot trails the only warmth to be found. I stood up and jumped up and down, and then I opened a box of berries from the shelf and ate a few before sitting down again.

After what seemed a long time, Chef opened the door.

“Qu'est-ce que c'est?”
he asked, picking me up and taking me into his arms. “What is this?”

“I got locked in,” I said.

“By whom?” His voice rose. I did not tell. I could not tell. If I told, it would be worse next time.

“Come, I will create for you a warm custard,
non
?”

“Oui!”
I said, and he laughed. I sat in the kitchen and let the others fuss over me. The next time I visited the kitchen, the handle had been lowered.

It struck me now, in the deep darkness of my rooms, that no adult from the family had come to look for me: not my aunt nor uncle, nor Edward's governess, who was to look after me, too, when we were home on holiday. It was time to admit, and face head on, the truth. No matter how much I wished otherwise, I truly had no family. No, not even Edward. Then, as now, I had to care for myself.

And I would.

At midnight, I pulled my robe on but left my feet bare and determined to do without a candle. I needed to reach the quarantine room and return to my rooms without being detected.