Ember Island Page 21

  Tilly reached out to touch Nell’s cheek, but Sterling stayed her hand with his own warm fingers, placing her wrist gently back on the table.

  “No,” he said, but gently. “She is stronger than that.”

  Tilly felt embarrassed, chastened. She ate her meal, awkward and anxious, while Sterling and Nell put the chastisement behind them and got on with talking about a ship they had seen pass through the bay that day and where its cargo might be headed.

  When they were done, Sterling sent Nell to fetch a servant to clear the table as he always did, and then nodded at Tilly. “Come,” he said.

  Tilly stood, her chair grinding behind her too loudly. Her temples thudded lightly as she followed Sterling into the parlor.

  “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” he said, indicating the plain but plump sofa. “We don’t have many comforts on Ember Island, but this parlor is one place I like to retreat and indulge myself.” He went to the window and slid it open, and the sea wind tumbled in, bringing damp cool with it. “I have a glass of brandy or a glass of sherry every night—just the one—and I let the day slip off my shoulders. It is something of an evening ritual.”

  “It sounds like a very clever thing to do.”

  “Sherry for you?”

  “That would be lovely.” She watched his back. He wore no jacket or vest, and she could imagine his musculature through his thin shirt. “I had thought to ask you . . . did Mr. Burton, the chaplain, say anything to you about me?”

  “He did.”

  Tilly flushed, cursed that she was flushing. Perhaps the dim lamplight wouldn’t reveal it.

  Sterling turned, offered her the tiny glass of sherry. “Do you believe in God, Tilly?”

  She took a gulp, swallowed down hard so she didn’t splutter. “Yes. Of course I do.”

  “So do I. So do I.” He sipped his sherry thoughtfully, and she waited, tense. “I have always felt very strongly that there is something beyond us, some great good machine that drives the cosmos. I cannot say confidently what form He takes, nor what particularly He wants from us. Nonetheless, I do believe in God. But the God I believe in wouldn’t say the sorts of things that Mr. Burton says.”

  “No?”

  “Our chaplain is a man who judges. I run a prison. I work with people who have been found guilty in a court of law, but Tilly, I do not judge. I’ll leave that to God.”

  She smiled at him. “So he hasn’t lowered your opinion of me?”

  “He has only lowered my opinion of himself.” He smiled and added, “It was already quite low. I stayed behind to ask him to be careful what he says in front of Nell.” He sat down across from her, stretched out his legs, and crossed his ankles. “Before I had a daughter I had not once thought about the relative positions of men and women in the world. I thought the ‘new woman’ a bit of a joke, the idea of women’s suffrage a curiosity. But then Nell came along and . . . is it paternal pride or is she very clever?”

  “Spectacularly so.”

  “And I hear the nonsense that some men say around women and I can’t bear it. My daughter is easily more clever than Burton. As are you. He is a dullard who spent a year in an Anglican Bible college before finding it all too hard and coming here to preach to prisoners, people he can be certain he is superior to. Why should he sit in judgment of you or Nell?” He laughed lightly. “Did you really break a mirror with a hairbrush?”

  Tilly shook her head vehemently. “No. I lied because I didn’t want to tell him what I was really thinking because those thoughts were private. I made something up. I promise you I am not the kind of woman who breaks things in a temper.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Another sherry?”

  Tilly looked at her empty glass. Had she really drunk it that quickly? “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I was rather anxious coming in here. I thought I may be in trouble.”

  He rose and brought the sherry back with him, topped up her glass. “Please do not be anxious, my dear. I simply wanted to include you in my evening ritual, and give you some space from my daughter who cannot bear to let you out of her sight.”

  “She’s very sweet.”

  “Yes, but she is a child, and you are a woman. You need adult conversation.” He rested the sherry decanter carefully on the tea table between them.

  “It is such a long time since I made conversation with anyone. My grandfather and I were very close, and since his death . . .” She couldn’t say more without saying too much. “I left a world behind me, and I feel I haven’t arrived in a new one yet. I have often thought an island is the perfect place for me. It’s neither here nor there, it’s somewhere in between other places.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Though I don’t know if Ember Island is on the way to anywhere else particularly. It’s more as though it’s outside of everywhere.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Six or seven years.”

  “That’s a long time to live outside of everywhere.”

  “I don’t know that I can leave now. Rebecca, my wife, she’s buried here . . .” He trailed off and Tilly could see the sadness on his brow.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It will come to all of us, I suppose. The clouds will roll apart and that last mystery will be revealed. It was a relief in many ways when she died. She was not herself towards the end. The pain made her crooked. Poor Nell was terrified of her.”

  “Was your wife . . . Rebecca . . . was she a learned woman?”

  “Not particularly. She was the daughter of my father’s closest friend. I’d known her since I was four; she was a dear friend to me. There was never a time when I didn’t know I would marry her. I do sometimes wonder whether, had I met her as an adult, I would have fallen in love with her and asked for her hand myself.”

  “So you married her because your father wanted it?”

  “Everyone wanted it. Even Rebecca. Even me. We were good companions. But there was never . . .” Again he trailed off, and his cheeks reddened. “You must forgive me, Tilly. Life on a prison island has made me forget my manners. You are a young woman and I shouldn’t speak to you so personally, I imagine.”

  “I don’t mind,” Tilly said, but she knew what he had been going to say. Passion. There was never any passion. “And I think I know what you mean, in any case. I turned down all of Grandpa’s suggestions for potential husbands. No . . . spark. No light. Some of them were wonderfully pleasant men, with gentle laughs and clean fingernails. I could have made a good life with one of them, perhaps.” That was why she had married Jasper. The spark had been there, though only on her side and it had extinguished soon after she’d arrived on Guernsey.

  When Jasper was still alive.

  She gulped her sherry and slid the empty glass onto the tea table. “As for manners,” she said, “I have drunk far too quickly and you mustn’t give me any more.”

  “As you wish.” He shook his head. “You must think me a villain to speak ill of my dead wife. Of Nell’s mother.”

  “You spoke no ill of her. You spoke of her being a dear friend and companion, of not wanting to leave her grave here alone. All of your bearing was sad and respectful.”

  “I must say, you have a reassuring way about you,” he said. “You make me realize I have missed company.”

  “I feel the same,” she said. They fell silent. She could hear the rattle of the palms in the distance, the faint sound of the sea.

  “Have you had a chance to see your garden plot?” he asked, before the silence became awkward.

  “I have. Thank you so much. And I have met Hettie.”

  “Hettie! That’s her name. It always escapes me. Do you want me to send a prison team up there to clear the plot? I understand there is some rubbish on it.”

  “No, I rather want to do it myself. I thrive on outdoor work, especially gardens.” She hesitated, then pushed on. “Is it true Hettie killed her husband?”

  “Did Nell tell you that?”

  Tilly realized
the sherry had skewed her judgment, and she’d unwittingly put Nell in trouble.

  “It’s no matter. I can see on your face that Nell was the one. I do wish she’d stay out of my paperwork. We have rapists here, men who have done unspeakable things to children. I don’t want her to read about such business. I must get the smith to make a proper lock for my office.” He shook his head. “For I am not going to be able to stop Nell snooping where she oughtn’t.”

  “Curiosity is a sign of intelligence.”

  “Yes, yes. It’s also a sign of disrespect. In any case, to answer your question, yes, Hettie was convicted of killing her husband, four years ago. The crime was ill considered, but not particularly violent, nor cruel, and I have the highest hopes that over the next fifteen years or so, however long her sentence may be, she will atone for that crime and she will not find herself in trouble with the law again.”

  “Can one atone for such a crime? A man’s life, snuffed out forever. All the potential, all he might have become . . .”

  “As I said earlier,” he replied, “it is not for me to judge. A force far greater and more intelligent and wise than me knows Hettie Maythorpe’s soul.” Sterling finished his drink. “Ah, there now. I feel refreshed. I will sleep well and get on with my work tomorrow. As for you, don’t let Nell take over your life.”

  Tilly put her hand to her temple. The sherry had made her headache worse. “I shall do my best. You must forgive me. My head is throbbing.”

  “Of course. Good night, Tilly.”

  “Good night, Sterling.”

  •

  Tilly’s headache was still throbbing at her temples the next morning, but she dressed and went down to the dining room for breakfast anyway. Nell was waiting, and distracted her with bright-eyed enthusiasm for the new school week. They went straight from the dining room to the library for lessons, but as the day wore on Tilly’s throat grew dry and constricted and the headache migrated into her joints.

  “It is so warm,” she said to Nell, as she tried to concentrate on sums that swam in front of her aching eyes.

  “You look pale,” Nell said. “Perhaps you need some fresh air.”

  Yes, that was it. Cooped up in the library all day. She needed to be outside in the sea air. As soon as lessons were over, she stepped outside into the fresh breeze, which cooled the sweat on her skin to ice. She made her way down to her garden plot and stood a moment, considering the mountain of old hedge trimmings that covered it. A wheelbarrow: that’s what she needed. Tilly glanced around, looking for Hettie, but believed herself alone amongst the hedges and flowers.

  But then Hettie’s dark head popped up from behind a hydrangea bush. Tilly hurried over.

  “Hettie?” she said tenatively.

  Hettie turned. There was that small smile again.

  “I thought I might make a start on clearing the plot. Is there a wheelbarrow? And can you show me where I can dump all that rubbish?”

  She nodded respectfully. “Certainly. Please, miss, if you wait down near your plot I will join you in a few minutes.”

  Tilly did as she was told, trying to enjoy the afternoon breeze. But her face and head felt terribly warm and she sat on the grass with her forehead against her knees, listening to her own breathing.

  “Miss Lejeune?”

  Tilly looked up. Hettie stood there with an old wooden wheelbarrow. “Thank you,” Tilly said, climbing to her feet.

  “I had wondered if you were coming back,” Hettie said. “I haven’t seen you for a few days.”

  “It’s been rather too hot to work. But I have lots of ideas about what I might do here.”

  “I’m almost envious. A brand-new plot to turn into a garden. I remember a number of years ago, back home on the mainland, turning over soil for the first time in the little garden behind my home. The children playing at my feet . . .” She trailed off sadly.

  Tilly couldn’t speak. Hettie had children. She’d once had a life on the mainland, with a house and garden and children. Where were her children now? Who was looking after them?

  “Let me help you with this task,” Hettie said, recovering herself. “I understand you want to plant this garden by yourself, but clearing all this rubbish is a big task and you look a little pale this afternoon. We can fill the wheelbarrow together and then I can take it down to the dumping place for you in loads.”

  Ordinarily, Tilly would have refused, but it was a hard and tedious task and she wasn’t feeling well.

  “Yes. Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

  “You need not thank me. It’s my job.”

  “As a human being to another human being,” Tilly said forcefully, “thank you. I am not quite myself today and can’t manage on my own.”

  Hettie nodded and together they started throwing garden rubbish into the wheelbarrow.

  The sea breeze cooled the perspiration off Tilly’s skin and she enjoyed seeing the pile of rubbish diminish. In her mind’s eye she imagined beds of lavender and rose, jasmine and magnolias. A garden she could sit in on balmy evenings and be surrounded by sweet mingled scents. Perhaps Hettie could help her find an old garden seat that she could paint.

  “Only a few more loads now,” Hettie said, returning again with the empty wheelbarrow.

  Tilly whirled around, and when she stopped her brain kept whirling. Stars spangled on the periphery of her vision and a low ringing sound blocked her ears. Darkness descended slowly as she dropped to the ground. She felt warm hands on her arms, heard her name repeated three times.

  “Miss Lejeune?”

  She tried to speak but the dark crushed over her. Just as she passed out, she thought she heard Hettie saying, “Weakling,” as Jasper had that night, before she burned him alive.

  •

  The dreams that came with the fever were the horrors she deserved. In and out of days, she fluttered on the edge of consciousness, the heat in her body mutated into fire in her nightmares. She was running and running from a crushing black monster with hands of charcoal and breath of flame; stuck hard and heavy in her body. Or she was back at Lumière sur la Mer, standing outside the parlor window watching Jasper as he stood unmoving with his mouth open in a silent scream, fire billowing behind him. Or she shivered in the garden shed, flattened against the cold, soft dirt, while Hettie Maythorpe, sitting like a rag doll in the corner, moldered away to brown bones. “Trade places with me,” she said, “you belong here as much as I do.” She woke periodically to drink a little water, but could hold down no food. Nell was there sometimes, pale-lipped with anxiety in the chair. Sometimes Dr. Groom was there, offering her foul-smelling medicine. But mostly she was alone with her delirium and her guilt, flickering into febrile nightmares and then back to the real world, where her body ached as though she had been punched from crown to toes.

  On the fourth night, she woke very late, her sheets and nightgown soaked. The fever had broken. She was weak, but managed to get up and change her linen and clothes, then slept restfully for the first time since she had fallen in the garden. By the time the dawn came, she even had an appetite.

  A quiet knock and Nell’s little face.

  Tilly sat up, tried to smile. “Hello, dear.”

  “You look better.”

  “I feel much better.”

  Nell’s face split into a grin. “I’m so relieved.” She ran into the room and squashed Tilly into a hug.

  Tilly gently pushed her away. “I’m starving, but far too weak to rise.”

  “I will wake up the cook and get you some breakfast. Lord, I’ve been so worried. So worried.” She stood up and raced to the door. “Papa! Papa, Tilly is better!”

  Tilly sank back into the bed and closed her eyes again. No nightmare images pressed themselves into her brain now, but she was alarmed at what the fever dreams had brought in, like a rough tide dredging up the ugliest debris of the ocean. Those images were her story, how she would be defined forever after. She would never be able to put them behind her. She thought of Sterling, what
he might say or do if he knew. Even he would find her beyond forgiveness, surely. This thought made her sad. She hadn’t realized how important his good opinion of her was.

  Nell returned and slid into the bed next to her. She had her wooden cat in her arms, and Tilly could see the underside. Her name, Nell Holt, painted in thick, uneven letters on Pangur Ban’s bottom.

  Tilly stroked Nell’s hair softly and said, “Have you been keeping up with your lessons?”

  “No, I’ve been working on a new story. About a girl whose mother gets lost in a magical wilderness—like the Wirral in Gawain—and her daughter has to go on a quest to save her.”

  “It sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to read it.”

  “The mother character is based a little on you. And a little on my own mother.” Nell hesitated a moment, then said, “I got the idea when you were sick.”

  “Really?”

  “You seemed lost in a wilderness. I sat with you sometimes and you must have been having terrible dreams because you . . . you said some strange things.”

  Tilly’s skin prickled coldly. “I did?”

  “You kept calling for somebody named Jasper. And you said over and over that you were sorry.”

  Tilly swallowed hard. Nausea rose.

  “Who is Jasper?” Nell asked.

  “A man I used to know.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  Tilly forced a smile. “That’s the nonsense people talk when they’re sick and lost in a fever. I dreamed about all kinds of things.”

  “Was Jasper a suitor?”

  “Jasper was a man my grandfather wanted me to marry, but he wasn’t very kind to me.”

  “So you didn’t marry him?”

  “As you see,” Tilly said, showing Nell her left hand. “I am not married.”

  Nell considered Tilly in the morning light, and Tilly had the distinct feeling the girl didn’t believe her. In fact, Nell’s expression was, for a few moments, devoid of its usual love and joy. All that remained was the curiosity, and it looked cold and detached. But then Nell gathered her thoughts, kissed Tilly’s forehead, and said, “It’s no matter. You are well, and as soon as ever we can, we will start lessons again.”