Ember Island (12 page)

And did it matter if she was right anyway? They couldn’t go on not speaking to each other.

She slept a little, just before dawn, then knocked on Jasper’s door when the birds were singing in the garden.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” she said softly, kneeling next to his bed and touching his warm forehead. “But I admit it. I admit to everything. Just please, please can we go back to how we were? Back in Dorset? You never wanted to leave my side.” Here came the tears. “I felt so loved then, and now I feel empty and cold.”

Jasper sat up, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. This small show of favor and fondness flooded her with gratitude. “Go back to bed, Tilly,” he said. “It’s too early to be up.”

She nearly asked to sleep next to him, but feared another rebuff. Instead, she returned to her room and, at last, slept.

•

Jasper was like a completely different person then. For a week, another week, he was kind, considerate, held her hand, visited her as she worked in the garden, made promises of things he would buy her as soon as he had money. Still, there was no invitation for her to share his bed and she began to grow used to it. What did Tilly know about married life, really? Perhaps this was how everyone did it, and Jasper was right: a baby when their financial lot was precarious was a bad idea.

So she slept in her own bed every night, window open an inch to let in the sound of the sea, even on cooler nights, and she came to feel at home at Lumière sur la Mer.

It was approaching autumn when Tilly was roused from her sleep late. She wasn’t sure how late, as she couldn’t see her clock in the dark, but it felt past midnight. There was a creeping cold in the air that belonged only to the early morning.

She heard a sound. A soft thump. A low laugh. Voices—a man and a woman—talking outside. She went to the window and opened it, strained her ears. But there were no more voices. From here, she looked down on the conservatorium. Was somebody walking past? Taking a shortcut through their grounds?

Then the thump again, and for a moment it sounded as though it came from in the house. Frowning in the dark, she went to the door of her bedroom and tried to open it, intending to listen into the hallway for other noises.

But it wouldn’t open. The handle wouldn’t turn. She tried again, harder. Rattled it softly.

Then realized: she had been locked in.

The laughter and voices again. This time definitely from near the conservatory. She returned to the window, heard the voices
recede into the distance. Nothing to worry about. Far more concerning was who had locked her in and why? Mrs. Rivard? Jasper? Please, not Jasper. She thought of banging on the door and calling for him, but it was so late and he would be asleep; and things had been so good between them. Perhaps Mrs. Rivard had locked her in. It was time she asked Jasper to let the woman go; Tilly was growing afraid of her.

Though she had to admit, it was more likely Jasper had locked her in. He had shown himself capable of jealousy, the will to control her.

She slipped back between the covers, telling herself that all would be well but sliding into a sleep full of dreams about long sunless corridors, locked doors, and great distances between her and comfort.

•

In the morning she tried the door and it opened without effort. In her head she chose her words carefully, so that they were ready for Jasper at breakfast. But he had already gone out for the morning, according to Miss Broussard.

“You might catch him at the post office,” she said.

Tilly had not been to town often. Jasper wasn’t keen for her to venture beyond the wood by herself, but today she needed to prove to herself she was free. So she put on her walking shoes and a light coat and headed down the front path and into the woods.

The leaves looked tired, skittered down and scattered across the path. The first chill of autumn was in the sea air and she longed for her sable-trimmed coat. She wondered who wore it now? And who wore her necklace of jet or her pearls? The lack of leaves let more light into the wood, a chill pale light that silvered the fallen
leaves. She heard footsteps in the wood and looked up to see Jasper approaching.

“Tilly? What are you doing?”

“Coming to look for you. To ask you about something important,” she said, forcing her voice to be easy. She ought not always be afraid of trouble; but Jasper’s unpredictable moods made her so.

“Well, I am returned. With good news.” He took her hand. “But first . . . What is your something important?”

She considered him in the morning light. He looked older than when she’d met him. His brow was furrowed, and lines ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth. And she almost said nothing, not wanting to trouble him more.

“Go on,” he said.

“Did you lock me in my room last night?”

His mouth turned down in disdain. “Why do you ask me such a ridiculous question?”

Fool. You should have said nothing.
“Because I tried to open my bedroom door late last night and it was locked. If it wasn’t you, it was Mrs. Rivard. I know she doesn’t like me and—”

“Mrs. Rivard? The servant who is in our employ? Matilda, have you been reading too many fanciful novels?” He pulled her hand. “Come, I want to show you something.”

She allowed herself to be pulled back up the path, all the while half apologies and rationalizations fell from her lips.
Sorry. I felt trapped. I was frightened. Don’t be cross.
But he simply pulled her along, at speed into the house, up the stairs and stood her outside her bedroom. The door was closed.

“Now look,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He pointed at the door. “Look.”

She looked.

“Do you see a keyhole?” he asked.

And she had to admit she didn’t.

“Do you see any kind of lock?”

“No,” she managed, her mind whirling. “But I tried the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. As though locked.”

“And yet, as you see, it is unlockable.”

The ground fell away from beneath her feet. Where she was once so certain, now cobwebs drifted.

Jasper turned her to face him, his eyes serious. “This is not the first time you have imagined something, Tilly.”

“I would have sworn . . .”

“What kind of a man do you think I am?” he asked. He lifted her hand and pressed it against his heart. “What kind of a
husband
do you think I am?”

Shame flushed her face. “Oh, Jasper. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

He dropped her hand, stood back. “You are lucky. Today I am full of good news and not in a mood to hold a grudge. I have a letter from a man in Dublin who wants to meet with me. A fellow there wants to buy the paving stones I’ve ordered on the cheap. As soon as the samples are ready, I’ll be off to see him and then I will return a wealthy man.” He smiled, that smile she remembered so well from their courtship. All charm and sparkling dark eyes. “And then, my dear Tilly, we can start the life we were meant to start. You have been patient. Apart from a few wild imaginings.” He chuckled merrily and she threw herself into his arms and tried to take comfort from his warm, male body.

“You’ll never forgive my foolishness,” she said. “I can barely forgive it myself.”

“All I advise you is to stay in the house and rest. You are clearly still not finished grieving for your grandfather and our financial troubles have caused you anxiety. That is why your mind is
making up stories. Stay in bed. Relax. I can send the physician if you think it would help. I believe we can afford it now.”

“No, no,” she said. “I will be fine.”

That night, she woke late again. No voices or thuds. Woken by curiosity. Was the door unmovable again? She rose, made it halfway across the room, and changed her mind. This was madness. The door had no lock. She was not locked in. Her husband was a trustworthy man.

Instead, she went to the window and opened it. Evening cold gushed in, but she didn’t mind. A clear night; so many stars. The roar of the wind in the redwoods, the distant crash of the sea. Below her window was the conservatory and if she needed to . . . if she had to escape and the door wasn’t able to be opened . . . she could plot a course down from ledge, to tree branch, to ledge, to the roof of the conservatory and then to the ground.

If she needed to.

T
illy and Jasper shared a calm few days. They ate their meals together, then he went off to wrestle with numbers at his desk and she returned to either of her projects. The garden if it was fine, the library if it rained. Tilly worked hard to infer love and warmth from Jasper’s words and actions:
my dear, Tilly my love,
a soft touch on her shoulder or hair. She also worked hard not to overwhelm him with her own love and warmth. She understood now that such displays of passion unsettled him. So she learned to be judicious with her smiles, temperate with her expressions of regard, and to keep her hands to herself. Only at nighttime, as they parted at the top of the stairs, did she insist on offering up her lips for a kiss. On every occasion, she longed for passion, his arms crushing her, his mouth hot and open to hers. On every occasion, he pressed his mouth against hers coolly, lips firmly drawn together, then said, “Good night, Tilly.”

And each retired to their own room, their own cold, empty bed.

Sometimes Tilly cried hot tears, pounded the pillow, screamed silently about how unfair it was that this marriage was such an enormous disappointment. But sometimes she managed to compress all those wild feelings into a hard kernel inside her and let her brain take charge. He did not want children yet. His financial difficulties probably shook him to the very core of his sense of himself as a man. Their long separation between the wedding and her arrival had filled him with doubts, which he was slowly and patiently working through. Just because Tilly could not be slow and patient didn’t mean Jasper could not also.

But it wasn’t that Tilly was madly keen for sex: she was curious about it certainly, and she desired Jasper. It was that she needed comfort, physical comfort. She and Grandpa hadn’t lived a day together that didn’t involve a long hug, a stroke of the hair, a walk holding hands. Losing him was one kind of pain, but losing human touch was another, keener pain. She needed Jasper to hold her, not because she was an intemperate woman whose virginity irked her; but because she felt isolated and surrounded by cold. An island. A place in between.

Tilly was in the garden, wondering if it were the last day of the year warm enough to be outside all day. The sea wind was rough this morning, and the sun had not yet lain upon the grass long enough to lift the dew. She knelt on her old tablecloth, tidying the lavender beds. The sky was a great blue arch above her, pale and barely warmed by the sun. She tried not to think about how they would stay warm this autumn, this winter. Jasper hadn’t earned a penny in months. All rested on his sale of granite pavers to the Dublin merchant, and the quarrier who had promised him such a good deal had been out of contact for a week.

“Tilly! Tilly!” This was Jasper, calling from the house. She rose,
peeled off her gardening gloves and waited. He ran towards her, excited happiness in his face.

A weight lifted off her heart. “They are here?” she asked.

“They are here! Four granite pavers, beveled, cleaned, and ready to be waxed, finally offered up by that wretched man at the quarry,” he said. “The price was low and I had nothing to buy them with. But I am not averse to risk. I took a beating from the Spaniard and I took your jewels from you, and I am ashamed of both. But it is all worth it. My man in Dublin will pay three times what I did for them. I leave this afternoon to take him the samples, to sign paperwork.” He shook his head sadly. “And to take the down payment that will let us breathe again. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

“I seem to remember vowing to stand by you for better and for worse,” Tilly said. “Well done, my love. My husband.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead with such tenderness that her heart lurched. She closed her eyes and leaned in to him. A wild wind whirled around them and then was gone. She turned her face up to him.

And saw it. An expression between expressions, something he felt before he covered what he really felt. The same expression she had seen at the wedding—she had forgotten about it in the chaos after Grandpa’s collapse. But now she had seen it again. An expression of pity and . . . condescension? Disdain? Surely not . . . contempt?

“Jasper?”

“The wind,” he said. “It’s too cold out here.”

Should she admit it? That her heart thumped with uncertainty? That she had seen an expression cross his brow—a tenth of a moment in length—that made her fear he didn’t love her? She could not admit it. He already thought her prone to fits of wild
imagination, and she was already doubting herself. Yes, the wind was cold. He didn’t like being outside, at his own admission. Why should she assume that the look of scorn was for her and not the weather?

Simply because she’d seen it before.

Tilly wondered if Jasper was right. Grief over Grandpa’s death, the move to this strange new place, the anxiety over money . . . perhaps they had weighed upon her thoughts until the point that those thoughts had started to warp and crook.

Back inside the house she made a vow to herself never to mention these thoughts to Jasper. To rest and keep her heart calm, and to call the physician if they continued. It wasn’t right to be so fearful of her husband. That was not how marriage was meant to be.

•

Jasper left as a cold front moved in, bringing leaden skies and chill rain. Tilly was all but trapped inside. The one time she tried to walk down to St. Peter Port, her umbrella blew inside out and she was sodden in seconds. Her dealings with Mrs. Rivard were monosyllabic, and Jasper had sent Miss Broussard on leave while he was away. Two servants were too much for one person, he explained. So for days, she spoke to nobody. The house was silent and grim. The leaden clouds made the dark come earlier and it felt as though she lived her whole life by candlelight.