Bride of a Distant Isle (21 page)

“And?” Marco leaned forward.

“The men said, ‘Oh, wise sirs, we're raking the ground to harvest the moonlight, don'cha know. We can use it instead of costly candles.' The king's men laughed at them for being simple country fools, but left them be. They then ‘harvested' their barrels and sold them as planned—so they could eat! 'Twas a time not too long ago when the poor had to help smuggle salt just so they could have some for themselves, to preserve meat and fish, or they'd eat neither for half the year.”

Marco smiled. “So thieves can do well by themselves and others.”

“Some thieves,” I said, glancing involuntarily at Edward, who had now made it to the beach and had a glass in hand. Marco followed my glance.

Then, hoping I had not said or implied too much about our family, or smuggling, I reached down and picked up an oyster.

“Perhaps there is a pearl within,” I said hopefully.

“You should not eat it, Bella.” He took the shell and tried to crack it open, but could not.

“I shan't eat it, don't worry,” I said with a laugh.

“It's tightly sealed.” Marco held it in his hand. “Which is as it should be. It protects what is inside it. Like my ship.” He reached his hand out expansively. “The hull is tight; nothing shall breach it. ‘Secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster,' as your Mr. Dickens has written.”

“
Our
Mr. Dickens,” I corrected. “Was that a confession, Captain? Are you secret and safely self-contained?”

He blushed, and tipped his head down, used, perhaps, to being in control of the banter. “Touché, Miss Ashton.” To soften the barb, I reached over and took the shell from him, brushing the sand from his hand as I did. At the touch of my finger on his palm, he half closed his eyes, and I forced myself to remove my fingers rather than impulsively entwine them in his.

“With your blond, English hair,” I teased, “your beard rather looks like sand.”

“Will you please brush that off, too, then?” He turned his jawline to me, and I looked toward the ground to regain control of my feelings. I wanted to. I wanted, most inappropriately, to reach out and caress his face.

“The heart is very like the hull of a ship, isn't it?” I fingered the rough, ridged shell, which held its soft treasure inside. “If it's tightly closed, like this”—I handed the shell back to him—“all is protected, but then you can never find if there is, or is not, a treasure within. Solitary is not a manner in which to live. Unless one is an oyster. And now”—I grinned—“Clemmy approaches.”

At that, he roared with laughter, startling Clementine, who was just upon us, looking stern and a decade older than she was.

“Pari Corajisima,”
Marco whispered in Italian.
She looks like Lent
.

I held back a smile.

“What amuses you so, Captain Dell'Acqua?” Clementine asked.

“Oh . . .” He looked at me and I pleaded with my eyes for him to use her proper name. “Mrs. Everedge, Miss Ashton was imploring me to be English, as I am half English. I said I shall, for the remainder of my time here, if she uses her teaching skills to instruct me as I visit with your husband at Highcliffe now and again. With your permission, of course,” he said. “I plan to spend some time in the next few weeks concluding the affairs Mr. Everedge, Lord Somerford, and I have arranged.”

And then you shall leave
, I thought, steadying myself and hiding, I hoped, my despair. A few months earlier I'd told Clementine that if I could, I'd marry a good man and have children. It had seemed theoretical then. Now I wished it to become a reality.

“Of course she may,” Clementine answered him. She glanced at Elizabeth, now sitting with Lord Leahy, but still chaperoning me. “My husband wishes to speak with you,” she said. “If you have time.”

“
Ecco
, I always have time for Mr. Everedge.”

Later that night Captain Dell'Acqua saw us to our carriages by starlight. He shook the men's hands and helped each woman into the carriage. Before he took my hand, I slipped, and he reached to catch me. His face drew close to mine, and as I turned one way, in modesty, he turned that same way. We each adjusted, but as we did, our faces turned in unison, close, nearly touching. By his intention? By happenstance? I cared not. His rough beard brushed against my soft skin, then his mouth hovered over mine as I regained my footing and pulled back. Before I did, I felt his lips on mine though they had not actually met. It was bliss.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I lost my footing.”

“It happens to many women,” he teased. “I catch them.” His eyes were soft, but I wondered if they were soft for all women.

“Good night, Bella,” he whispered. “I've not lost my footing, but perhaps I've lost my bearings.”

I held his gaze and the moment was caught in time. “Good night,” I finally responded, though I barely had breath enough to speak. He lifted me up to my seat. The carriage driver snapped his reins, and we lurched forward. As we drove away, I turned and looked out the window, and I saw him standing there, still, on the pier watching us leave.

Marco.

He caught my eye and lifted a hand, but from within the crowded carriage, I dared not lift one in return.

E
lizabeth had told me she had a promising lead for a governess position, and it had now been long enough for me to make a hopeful enquiry. So one morning, after Clementine had left for the day with Edward, to Winchester, I asked Lillian if she and Albert would like to accompany me to Lymington again. She wasn't exactly qualified to be a chaperone, but I wasn't exactly required to have one, and Albert added to the layer of social safety.

“I like my situation here, caring for Albert,” Lillian said tentatively.

“Clementine had said we may go, earlier. So why not now?” I answered.

She looked wary, but in the end, as I expected, she was delighted. When we met in the foyer, she had dressed in a light lawn dress the color of ivory piano keys that showed off her strawberry-blond hair to its finest advantage. Albert was cute as mice in a shorts suit, though he was beginning to look girlish in his long curls. Clementine was loath to cut them, I knew.

We took the second-best carriage and a footman drove us as Edward's driver was in use, of course. The season had tilted forward, the weight of the year behind us. The mid-September sun did not bear down quite so firmly, and the skies were the brilliant azure blue peculiar to autumn by the sea. The driver stopped in front of Mr. Galpine's, and I instructed him to return in perhaps a half hour's time.

Mr. Galpine finished assisting the woman ahead of him, a woman I recognized as a distant acquaintance of Clementine's. She had called on Clementine once since I'd been home, and I hoped she should not visit again and share news of seeing me and Lillian in town.

“Miss Ashton.” Mr. Galpine nodded and bowed toward me and then toward Lillian. “And Miss Miller.”

Her face brightened at the use of her proper name. I imagined few used it.

“How may I help?” he asked.

“I came to enquire if I have any letters,” I said. “I had been expecting some.”

“There were two last week,” he said, and I nodded. They had been from friends in Winchester; Watts had brought them to me.

“Any more since then?”

He stroked his beard. “Well, the one I sent to Highcliffe in the packet of other mail, when your young shepherdess came to collect the mail.”

Emmeline? Came to collect mail? I thought Oliver did, if not a footman or Edward himself. “You're certain there was one for me, then.”

“Not certain. But I believe so. So many pass through my hands . . .” He made a gesture of his busyness, and Lillian giggled rewardingly.

I had not seen any new letter. If it had existed, where had it gone? “Do you remember who the sender was?”

“No, Miss Ashton, I'm sorry. There are too many things going through the post for me to keep track.” His chest puffed out again, and he turned toward Lillian. “My father started this shop, and the library and post many years ago. Back in those days the recipient had to pay post, of course, so we kept better track of senders in case they needed to be returned.”

Lillian smiled obligingly, and I had a sudden burst of inspiration. Divine, as Lady Somerford would have said. “What year did you stop keeping track?”

He stroked his beard once more and focused his gaze on the ceiling for a moment. “Perhaps the late twenties. My father was keen to collect the postal markings, too, so he kept some of those when allowed. Would you care to see the record books? They are really quite extraordinary.”

I nodded. “I would like that very much.”

He went into the back and then brought out a large stack of leather-strapped books. “Have a look. Perhaps I could assist Miss Miller with some additional library loans, and for you”—he looked down at Albert—“perhaps a lollipop?”

“Yes, please, and thank you, sir,” Albert said. Mr. Galpine handed the boy a tinted, boiled sweet on a stick and the rest of us went about our business.

I quickly paged back through the first volume, looking for a year when my mother would have, could have, received mail. I found something.

1827. A letter addressed to Signora Alessandru . . . something . . . at Highcliffe Hall. The surname was blotted out.

Mrs. Alexander . . . something. My heart soared. Could that have been my mother? I looked at the signature next to the postmark,
Malte
. Someone had signed for it. Someone had paid for it.

Yes. I put my finger on the thin page, so thin that the light pressure from my fingertip almost tore it. It had been signed for by Judith.

Judith! Edward's mother. Had the mail been directed to my mother and Judith taken it, with or without my mother's knowledge? Or had the letter been directed to Judith? Whoever it had been directed to was assumed by the sender to be married.
Signora
. Mrs. If only the last name had not been blurred and blotted. Had Judith been married before she'd married Everedge?

I looked up, and Lillian caught my eye. We needed to return to Highcliffe. The footman idled with the carriage. I quickly flipped through the pages looking for
Malte
, and some years later, in 1831, there was another letter received, and this time, it had been noted that one had been sent as well.

My mother died that year. I'd always wished I'd known if she died in peace. Concern for her final loneliness and anguish haunted me.

“Thank you, Mr. Galpine.”

As we drove back to Highcliffe, Lillian and Albert chattered, his lips stained blue from the lollipop. In their mutual bliss, they did not notice my quiet introspection.

When we arrived, I saw that Edward and Clementine were home already.

Early.

Lillian and Albert crept up the stairs, but Edward caught me by the arm. There were quite a few people in the hallway as he directed me forward. Clementine looked up at me; she had been going over the menu with Mrs. Watts. Watts himself was tending to paperwork and Maud had an armful of Clementine's gowns in her hand. Edward brought me to the library but left the door open for all to hear us.

“You were out? With my son?”

I nodded and smiled cheerfully. “He so enjoys his carriage rides and visits to town. I know how you favor him, and I do, too.”

Edward knew this to be true; I did favor Albert, as did everyone.

“Where did you go?”

“To the yacht club,” I said. “Lady Somerford said I might call by as she is often there. And to the lending library for books. I thought I might check and see if we had anything in the post.” Edward looked above and up, over my head. Apparently someone was signaling to him, as he nodded slightly.

“It would be best if you arranged future outings with Clementine before leaving Highcliffe,” he said. “Morgan will arrive tomorrow. He's keen to spend time with you. I gave my permission.”

The trap was closing. I decided to gamble because I had little to lose.

“Of course.” I pretended to acquiesce meekly. “This may interest you, as it did me. Mr. Galpine showed me his postmark collection. Knowing our Maltese connection”—I emphasized the word
our
—“I paged through looking for letters posted to and from Malta. Surprisingly, I found some had been received, and then mailed out, around the time of my mother's death. I think your mother signed for them. Had she ever mentioned it?”

He glanced up at the portrait of his revered mother. “No, Annabel, of course she would have responded to correspondence. Grandfather had interests in Malta, but Malta was not discussed, to my knowledge, for years.” He did not ask if I'd been enquiring about letters mailed to me. Did he not know of the missing letters? Or did they not even exist?

I returned to my room to consider my next move, and to apply some glycerin and rosewater cream in an attempt to fade my freckles and make me less exotic, and therefore less appealing, to Mr. Morgan.