Bride of a Distant Isle (44 page)

I drew near to him, not caring who might see. “You are the gift.”

He pulled me into his arms and embraced me for a moment. “You will see, Bella—patience. Where is the self-controlled English girl?” He held me at arm's length and squeezed both of my hands at once. Then he was gone.

Late that night, Oliver appeared at the door with a note from Marco. Watts made sure it was delivered to me. Clementine had not been seen since fleeing the study.

I went into my rooms and opened the letter.

Bella,

I sent a trusted man to the Benedictine sisters; they told him there had never been a Sister Rita who served with them, and as they were mostly Belgian and English, did not think a Maltese woman had lived among them. I sent the man to Medstone, too, to enquire after your Mrs. Strange. She has not been seen since you left, but this is not unusual. She serves as a private nurse and leaves when her charges do.

Due to some seasickness, my guest and I will not visit you until the day after next. Patience, my self-controlled English girl.

Marco

A guest? I wondered who that could be; I should learn soon enough, and should try to be patient for Marco's sake.

I took my sketchbook and quietly left for the quarantine room where I'd found it, to pray, as we had no chapel at Highcliffe.

DECEMBER, 1851

I
t was dark, of course, so I brought my lamp. There were so few servants, now, and no one who could contain me, and so I stepped heavily and with ease. It did not matter who heard me. I opened the door to the room and stepped inside.

The cot was still made up, as no one had likely visited in the days since Edward had trapped me in here. I looked at the drawers of the cabinet but found nothing else of my mother's.

Why had young Mrs. Strange given the sketchbook to Marco? Why hadn't she told me her intentions, or that she could speak Maltese? Where had old Sister Rita gone, and even more importantly, who had she been?

I said my prayers, and then after a few minutes, I stood and went to the window, picking up the old spyglass. The sea mists were thick; I could not see the
Poseidon
or, indeed, much of anything beyond the cold window. I put it down and looked once more at the stained glass.

The angels tending Jesus in his hour of need. And there, in a tiny corner, I spied something I had not seen before. Psalm 91 carefully etched on the glass.

I returned to the cot and picked up my Bible; it, too, remained from my brief and recent captivity. I turned to Psalm 91 and began to read.

Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation, there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.

A rush of understanding. The sudden light of knowledge. The sweetness of love. I looked up once more to the stained glass and spoke.

“You are not mute in the dark, Father, though I may not always be able to see Your hand or recognize Your servants, or who they are, at work. You've never left me. You've never forsaken nor forgotten me.”

Peace embraced me warmly, a faint incense filled the room once more, and I sensed the presence.

“Thank you,” I whispered. And then the presence and the smoky scent were gone.

T
he next morning, Albert knocked on the door to my rooms. “Come in, young man,” I said. “Why are you on your own?”

“Mama is crying,” he said. “Because of Papa. She said I'm to call you Auntie Annabel henceforth. Isn't that lovely?”

I kissed the top of his head. “Yes, it is.”

Auntie Annabel? Knitting the bonds of kinship ever more tightly after Mr. Lillywhite's visit. What had he said?

“Run along now and see if Chef has any sweets he does not know what to do with. Then I shall perhaps speak with your mama about finding a nurse. I saw Lillian, you know. She loves you so.”

“As I do her,” Albert said, skipping from my room.

I dressed myself and rolled my hair back, fastening it with silver hair clips. Within an hour I saw a carriage pull up; I did not recognize the driver. It was most probably a hired carriage. I peeked out through the window and saw Marco exit. Joy soared inside me, and then I watched as, curiously, he helped a man out of the carriage.

I could not be certain. The man was older and was dressed like a priest. But he looked like my father.

My stomach clenched. Surely Marco would not have kept this kind of secret from me. I was ill prepared for a reunion, and yet I knew Mrs. Watts would summon me downstairs momentarily.

I sat on my bed, caught my breath, and reapplied some lemon chalk powder and neroli oil.

A tick of the dragon clock. A knock on my doors. “Miss Ashton? Captain Dell'Acqua and another gentleman are here to see you.”

I stood and then walked down the stairs, where Marco and his guest waited for me.

Could it be . . . could it be my father? He looked just like the man in the portrait.

“Miss Annabel Ashton, I'd like to introduce you to Father Giovanni Bellini. Father Giovanni, Miss Ashton. I'm sorry we could not come more quickly, but Father was recovering from the rough sea journey.”

“How do you do.” I held my hand out to him, and he took it, shook it, and then did away with the pretense and embraced me. “Father?” I asked when he let go, and I caught my breath.

“Father,” he said softly, “
Si.
Father as in a priest, but uncle to you.”

I hoped my disappointment did not show on my face. He was not my papa.

“Shall we sit down?” Marco steered us toward a trio of chairs with a table in the center. Mrs. Watts soon appeared with a teapot and three cups.

“Honey?” Marco teased me to break the tension, and it did. I laughed and immediately was able to regain my confidence.

“You are my father's brother,” I said.

Father Giovanni nodded. “His older brother.”

“My father . . . ?”

“Sailed and fought the battles for Greek independence. He passed away a long time ago. In the Battle of Navarino, in 1827.”

The year I was born.

Father Giovanni thanked Mrs. Watts, who smiled at me and then left the room. “I assure you, if your father had been alive he would have tracked you down without hesitation. He—we—did not know you existed.”

“He died before I was born.”

“It seems so,” my uncle continued. “We wrote when your father died, and when the response came from your mother's sister, there was no mention of a child. We thought perhaps your mother was too grief-stricken to write herself, and then, perhaps, had immersed herself back into the English life.”

Any other mail my mother might have tried to send was most probably intercepted. Perhaps when my father never answered, she gave up.

Father Giovanni continued. “Later, Judith wrote to us, to the family, to tell us your mother was dead. We were all very sorry to hear that, of course. But we did not know this treasure, this Bella Bellini, existed.” He reached over and kissed my cheeks again.

Maltese
, Marco mouthed to me, and I smiled.

“When Sister Rita passed your sketchbook on to me, I could not imagine why,” Marco said. “I knew it must have been a treasure to you, and so cruel to keep it from you. I suspected that she thought it might be taken from you and perhaps gave it away for safekeeping. But why me? That is what I wondered.”

Clementine walked down the hall but did not call by the library for introductions.

Eavesdropping.

“Partway into my two-week journey home, I looked through the pages most carefully. Missing you,” he admitted openly, which brought a smile to my uncle's face. “And then I came to some pictures of houses in Valletta. There are only a few thousand people, so I know each area well. I recognized a house. There was a house number drawn on it, and bougainvillea cascading over the wrought-iron fence, which had been carefully crafted. ‘Bellini!' I said to myself. ‘She has been to the Palazzo Bellini.' I pushed my men and my ship to arrive with all haste. And when I did, I visited the Bellinis and,
ecco
, they knew of your mother. They did not know of you.”

“Mama was so happy,” my uncle said. “She is still crying, I expect. Tears of joy. We had to make her promise not to swim out after the
Poseidon
.”

I had an uncle. I had a grandmother, one who would swim the sea to reach me. A father who would not have stopped pursuing me. A mother who cherished me, who dubbed me her sweetness and light.

I looked up at Marco, who smiled hopefully, tentatively. He was strong and yet willing to be vulnerable to me, did not like England and yet had returned, had guarded his heart inside a rough shell and then opened it, and told me I was the missing pearl.

This was my man.

“Your parents met when your mother was on the Grand Tour,” Father Giovanni continued. “She wandered the cathedrals looking for art, good art, to draw and to paint, and
ecco
, she found it. But she also found faith, and she found love. My brother.”

“They loved each other,” I said. The winter wind squalled off the sea and battered the walls, chill seeping into the room, but I hardly noticed. I'd never felt warmer from the inside.

“Indeed they did,” he affirmed.

I held my breath, then let the question softly escape. “They were married . . .”

He nodded. “I married them myself. I filed the paperwork with the church. The witnesses are still alive. Have no fear! Your mother was a beautiful bride . . . the bride of a distant isle; for her, Malta. And from a distant isle to us, England.”

Something dropped and clattered in the hallway. I stood up and walked toward the window to gather myself and then returned to my seat and squeezed back the tears, speechless for a minute.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “It's just that . . .”

Father Giovanni . . . my uncle . . . reached over and took my hand. “No need to apologize. You've done well. You're a strong Maltese woman.”

I laughed. “We English are quite sturdy stock.”

“Your English mother was very strong, and beautiful, and talented,” he answered softly. “My brother adored her. Her sister, Judith, wanted him for herself, but he had nothing of it. It was Julianna and only Julianna for him.”

Judith had wanted my father! And ended up with Everedge. It was enough to make you pity her.

Almost.

I recalled the belladonna inscription my mother had written beneath her sister's picture. Poisonous, beautiful woman indeed.

“I . . . I am legitimate,” I said. And I was not insane. I need not become a lady's maid or a governess. I need not marry Mr. Morgan. Elizabeth and I could remain friends. I could not be returned to Medstone but I could use my newly found largesse, whatever it may be, to help my friends who could not leave.

“Yes,” Marco said. “And that is what Mr. Lillywhite shared with Mrs. Everedge the day I first returned. I asked him not to tell you until you could meet your uncle, first. Lillywhite asked Mrs. Everedge not to say anything, either. We wanted nothing to spoil that.”

“And she kept her word,” I said, though I better understood Albert's new title for me now. Clementine would want us all to be family . . . intimate. Obligated.

“He had to tell her that the sale of Highcliffe would be stopped,” he said. “Edward had not been the rightful owner and therefore could not legally convey it.”

“I am the rightful owner?” My voice sounded high and wondering even to my own ears. All the years of hiding in the pantry or being locked in the linen cupboard, the years of keeping out of Aunt Judith's way, and most recently, of having been placed in the quarantine room came back to me. The Christmases I had not been allowed to return for.

Highcliffe was no longer to be my prison in any sense of the word. It was my home. I was its mistress. All of my Christmases had come at once.