Ember Island Page 8

  The evening deepened, and she and Jasper were once again alone in the house. He didn’t call for her; most likely he didn’t need her at all. But she longed to spend the night lying next to his warm body again. She longed to make their marriage real and not a translucent wish or memory.

  So she took her time, unpinning her red curls and brushing them loose around her shoulders. Wiping down her milky white shoulders and arms with rose-scented water. Sliding into a loose cotton, sleeveless chemise. Then taking a deep breath and padding barefoot down the hallway to his bedroom.

  Tilly knocked lightly.

  “Come in.”

  She opened the door. Jasper lay where she had last seen him, the covers pushed to one side. His knee was bandaged and elevated on a pile of pillows. He had a wooden dinner tray across his lap, but instead of food on it there was an ink well and an accounts ledger.

  “Is it not time for sleep now, my love?” she said.

  Jasper sighed and indicated she could take away the tray. “You are probably right. The numbers are swimming before my eyes. But by my reckoning, I am now out of debt. The payment due to me when my next shipment of paving stones is ready from the quarry will mean we can spend some money again.”

  Tilly’s heart felt light. “And are you happy, my dear?”

  “I would be, were my poor knee not quite so sore. But it will be fine in a few days, if I rest it.” He smiled up at her. “It has been a tumultuous time since your arrival. Perhaps if you’d come a week later.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have been able to give you my jewels. The trunk of goods.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, the first thing I shall buy with my next sum of money will be a string of pearls to recompense you for the ones you sacrificed.” He couldn’t quite meet her eye.

  “Now, you’re not to feel guilty,” she said, moving to the bed and sitting beside him. “We are husband and wife now. We share . . . all things.” She tried to hold his gaze, to let the full meaning of her words sink in. A moment passed, another.

  Then he said, “You should go to bed now.”

  “I would lie with you again, my husband.”

  “No. You will disturb my sleep. You will bump my knee.”

  “Jasper, we are married. When will we—”

  His hand went to her mouth, two fingers blocking it firmly. “Do not speak to me of these things. I am recovering from an injury and a humiliation. Let not these base appetites of yours control you, Tilly. It is so unbecoming in a woman.”

  “But I—”

  His voice rode over the top of hers. “When I am well again. When I am rich again, for it is nothing but folly to bring a child into a household that can barely support the two of us. When I know you again, for you insisted on staying in England and letting in this sea of estrangement between us. But above all, Tilly, when I allow it. Not when you desire it. You speak of how a marriage should be: then you will see that you must follow my command. Now go. You have embarrassed both of us and brought us low.”

  Complex feelings traversed her. Shame, sadness, but above all, anger. Tilly’s fuse had been lit and she had to smother it fast.

  “I apologize,” she mumbled and hurried from the room as quickly as she could. She took to her own bedroom and paced furiously, squeezing her palms tight against each other. She must not—must not—return to Jasper’s room and open her mouth and let out the stream of words and accusations that were stopping up her throat. I have brought us low? When you presented yourself as a wealthy man to my grandfather and married me with promises of a grand house full of grand things? When you have sold my jewelery and returned to the house after a common brawl? When you did not write to me for six weeks?

  Gradually, slowly, the fire burned lower. Lower. But didn’t extinguish altogether. That was the problem with Tilly’s anger; a little always remained, an ember that, kindled carelessly, might rage into life again.

  •

  Jasper was up and about within five days. He was kindly, as though he had never admonished her so hotly. But also remote, as though he was fending off any warmth from her before she expressed it.

  At breakfast they sat across the table from each other, over boiled eggs and toast, while Mrs. Rivard cheerlessly refilled their teacups. Jasper suddenly looked up from his food and said, “Mrs. Rivard, is it Saturday?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  He turned his attention to Tilly. “Ralph and Laura Mornington are hosting a party tonight, down in St. Peter Port. We have to go.”

  “We do?”

  “Ralph is one of my most reliable business contacts, and my closest friend. Do you have something to wear?”

  “Yes, I have a number of good gowns.”

  “Mrs. Rivard,” he called back towards the kitchen, “find me my cashmere trousers and gold-brocade waistcoat and have them pressed and ready for seven.”

  She responded with a grunt of assent and Tilly ventured, “Mrs. Rivard isn’t a pleasant woman.”

  “She certainly isn’t. But she is cheap.”

  Tilly said nothing more about Mrs. Rivard’s rudeness. She didn’t want to gainsay him. “It will be nice, Jasper, don’t you think?” she ventured. “Dinner with friends. The two of us dressed in our best. Rather like our courtship. Perhaps it will give us a chance to become familiar again.”

  He gave her a noncommittal smile. “I will be very busy in my room today, Tilly. Don’t disturb me. And be ready for seven.”

  He pushed his chair back and walked away, still limping slightly. Tilly finished her breakfast. What would she do with her day? Back home with Grandpa she would have spent her time reading with him, cutting flowers, stitching on her embroidery ring, walking to the village, working in the garden . . . anything she pleased, really. At Grandpa’s she felt settled and free. Here, she felt restless and circumscribed by the dim wood-paneled walls, and beyond that by the gray sea that bounded the island. Perhaps that was the reason she felt so hemmed in. Islands were places in between; places neither here nor there, but rather places on the way somewhere. That was how she felt. Not settled.

  Where was she on her way to?

  Tilly decided the best thing for her restlessness was some time outdoors. She found the gardening gloves, clean and scented of lemon soap, in her drawer where Miss Broussard had put them. She tied on an apron. It was time to tackle the garden.

  Outside, the sun was high and clear in the sky, but a cool breeze lifted her hair and rustled in the tops of the bristlewood pines. She laid down an old tablecloth, folded over once, in front of the garden bed she meant to attack first. Then she went to the garden shed, unlocked it, and gathered a pail, a trowel, and a pair of secateurs.

  Tilly went to work. She pulled weeds and cut the deadheads from rosebushes. She turned over soil and straightened border stones. Rather than finding the work tiring—it certainly wasn’t what she was bred to do—she found it exhilarating. It wasn’t the joy of seeing the garden bed transformed from overgrown chaos into tidy serenity; it was the joy of proximity to the natural world of seasons and growth. She sat back and carefully removed her muddy gloves, and looked up at the sky, smiling. Now all she needed was some rain. She had let in light and air, so all would grow well next spring.

  She tried to imagine what life would be like next spring. By then, Jasper’s finances would be right again, he would find that doe-eyed love for her she’d seen back in England, perhaps they would even be with child. There was much to look forward to when these roses bloomed.

  But first she had to get through this evening.

  She opened up the old tablecloth and threw the garden rubbish onto it, then dragged it down to a grassless area near the garden shed to make a bonfire.

  Tilly sat by the light of the fire, arms around her knees. Her dress and hands were dirty and her arms ached from the physical labor. She watched the flames flicker and shiver in the lengthening afternoon. The blue smoke stung her eyes, but it smelled warm and woody. She thought about Grandpa, about what he would say to he
r about her growing despondence. To be patient, to be sensible, to expect a little less out of life.

  He might also remind her she was dirty and needed to clean up before going out for dinner.

  She left the bonfire to burn itself down and put away her gardening things. Surreptitiously, she ensured that the cigar box was still hidden, then locked the shed and returned to the house to wash and dress.

  At seven, she waited at the bottom of the stairs, in her pale blue silk chiffon gown with the scooped neck and the navy-blue satin ribbons. Opera toe slippers, long white gloves, beads in the high-piled hairstyle Mrs. Rivard had grudgingly helped her with, a ribboned fan. But no dangling earrings, no turquoise necklace. All her jewels were gone.

  She waited. Half an hour passed. Mrs. Rivard walked past her on her way out.

  “Have you seen Mr. Dellafore?” Tilly asked her.

  “No,” the older woman replied. “But the clothes I prepared for him are no longer hanging in his room.”

  A little dart of shock to her heart. “Might he have left without me?”

  “How am I to know?” Mrs. Rivard closed the door behind her.

  Tilly ascended the stairs to the third floor and opened the door to Jasper’s room. It had been tidied, all his clothes folded and hung. But he was nowhere to be seen. She went to the window, looked down through the warped glass that filled every window frame on the third floor. She could see out to the front path and the road. And there was Jasper, walking up the path with determination, in his waistcoat and wingtip collar. Returning from somewhere.

  Tilly opened his wardrobe and removed the tailcoat he would need, and met him halfway up the stairs.

  “Where have you been?”

  “On business,” he said.

  “In your party clothes?” She handed him his coat.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t go into my room without my permission,” he said. “And how I dress to do my business is not your concern.”

  Tilly swallowed hard, tried to keep the mood light. “I meant no harm, my love. Come, let us have a good evening.”

  He slipped into his tailcoat and she put her hand over his arm. It was a lovely evening for the walk down through the wood to town, and Jasper found it in him to relax and be forgiving.

  “I am sorry I snapped, dear,” he said, at length, as the trees thinned and the path widened into a road. “Only I would prefer you to stay out of my room simply because that is where I do my journal keeping and correspondence. I once had a study on the second floor, but when I sold all but my desk it made me so depressed sitting in an empty room that I could barely add up my figures.”

  And there it was . . . an opportunity to ask him about the letters. To have it all in the clear. Perhaps unwisely, she said, “I did see you have a lot of correspondence in your drawers.”

  “Hm,” he said, not really listening, kicking a stone off the path.

  “I saw one of my own letters.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I understand if you didn’t want to alarm me by writing in response. I know times were difficult for you.”

  “I received none of your letters, Tilly. What are you talking about?”

  “But I saw . . .” She trailed off.

  He was regarding her kindly, with a puzzled expression. This was not an angry denial. “Tilly, my dear. If I had received your letters, I would tell you. Just as, I hope, you would not lie about receiving none of mine.”

  And the self-doubt crept in. Perhaps she had imagined it. She’d been tired that day, the light had been dim. Perhaps she had mistaken somebody else’s handwriting for her own.

  The roofscape of chimney pots, the winding streets, the bristling masts in the harbor came into view.

  “I’ll show you if you like,” he said. “When we go home, I will show you everything that’s in my desk.”

  “No, no. I wouldn’t presume . . .” She forced a smile. “I feel a bit of a fool.”

  “Put it out of your mind,” he said.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “I’ll put it out of my mind.”

  •

  The Morningtons’ house on Le Paradis was as grand as Jasper’s, but with well-lit stairs, fresh paint, and brilliantly clean tiles. Le Paradis was where the richest of the English lived on the island, a steep street where the watercolored houses faced each other across the worn cobbles. Tilly and Jasper walked up the broad white stairs and knocked on the front door, then waited under the light of the lantern for somebody to answer. A brisk westerly and the smell of damp chrysanthemums.

  Then Jasper leaned close to Tilly and said in a harsh whisper, “Do not mention our financial troubles to anyone, least of all Ralph and Laura.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Tilly said.

  He glanced around, a bitter frown pulling down the corners of his mouth as he took in the brass door knocker, the stained fanlight. “My house looked like this once.”

  “And it will again.” She squeezed his hand. “I trust you.”

  Then a stout man with a thick mustache and slick black hair was there, pumping Jasper’s hand in a greeting and laughing merrily.

  “Dellafore! You made it! After that bout with the Spaniard we thought you might stay in a little longer to lick your wounds.”

  Jasper smiled. “Perhaps he will think twice before insulting my honor again. I always pay my debts on time, Ralph. I hope you didn’t listen to his nonsense.”

  Ralph chuckled, gesturing them inside. “I rather think you walked away the worse of the two of you, but no matter. At least you walked away and he has returned to Spain, and you’ll know better than to do business with him again.” His attention turned to Tilly. “And this is the lovely Matilda?” he said, taking Tilly’s hand and kissing the air two inches above it.

  “Tilly,” she said. “Nobody ever calls me anything else. Unless I’m in some kind of trouble.”

  The man smiled a smile that reached all the way to his eyes and made them sparkle kindly. “And is that often?”

  “Less often as I grow older, sir.”

  He took their coats and handed them to a butler. “Welcome to my home, Tilly, and welcome to the island. Come and let me introduce you to my wife.” He turned, and Jasper took Tilly’s arm to follow him.

  “He’s lovely,” she said softly to Jasper.

  “If he drinks too much he gets silly. Do not take all he says as serious, my dear.”

  Ralph led them into a parlor where a dozen or so people sat on sofas or in windowsills or stood leaning on the mantel or spilled out onto the terrace beyond the French doors to smoke cigars. The good lighting showed up the fine velvet brocade on the sofas, the gold flocking in the wallpaper, the spotless brass lamps, giving the impression of a room that glowed like precious jewels; and Tilly fought a pang of envy. This was the life she thought she had been coming to, not the dim and empty Lumière sur la Mer. Light on the sea? It barely cast a light on their garden at night.

  But then she admonished herself for being petty. She was alive, she was well, she was with the man she loved. They were at the start of their life together and things would improve. Besides, living a simple life was no less noble or worthy than living a life surrounded by fine things. She would get used to it if she had to.

  She met a whirl of people, including the soft-voiced, pink-cheeked Laura and the Morningtons’ visiting eldest daughter, Maria. Maria had the nurse bring her baby daughter down, a little girl just starting to walk, and all the ladies cooed over her chubby-armed beauty while the men smiled indulgently. Tilly thought about a little girl of her own, and the thought infused her with warmth and light, so that she smiled at Jasper more fondly all evening—not that he noticed.

  “Are you happy here?” Laura asked Tilly, when the child had returned to her room and they had a moment alone.

  “I am still settling,” Tilly said honestly. “But I do believe I will be happy.”

  An expression crossed Laura’s brow that Tilly couldn’t read. But it was followe
d by a quick smile. “You may always call on me,” she said. “Ralph and Jasper are good friends. I hope to see more of you.”

  A meal was served, and Tilly found herself sitting between Ralph and another, much older man who was not interested in her at all and spent the entire meal with his shoulder turned away from her, talking to his other neighbor. Ralph took it upon himself to make her feel welcome, chatting to her, asking questions about her grandfather, touching her shoulder lightly when her eyes grew teary describing his last days. He was a friend to her, a good friend, and she found herself warming to him very easily.

  The food was a menu of traditional Guernsey fare—floured ormers with pork belly, whiting pie, Gâche Mêlée—created for the evening by Ralph and Laura’s cook whom they introduced at the behest of their delighted dinner guests. Tilly was surprised when the cook who emerged was a woman perhaps only of twenty-five, with thick strawberry blonde hair piled up loosely, and a sloe-eyed beauty about her that belied her hours working in a steaming kitchen.

  “May I introduce Chantelle Lejeune,” Laura said, elbow-prompting Chantelle to curtsy. “Her English isn’t very good, but we have been so glad to have her in our employ this last year.” Laura smiled kindly.

  Chantelle nodded, her eyes found each woman at the table one by one. When her gaze came to rest on Tilly, she assessed her with a proud flare of her nostrils, then looked away. What open arrogance. Between her and Mrs. Rivard, Tilly was starting to wonder why any good English folk would press the French into service if they couldn’t keep their manners. She pushed her plate away. The spicy apples in her dessert didn’t taste so good anymore. She looked around for Jasper, who was deep in conversation with a man near the end of the table. Laughter and talking started again, as plates were cleared away. Ralph had turned to talk to his other neighbor, so Tilly found herself in the middle of it but all alone. She folded her hands in her lap and tried to look as though she was enjoying her own company. People were moving about now, chairs scraping back, men speaking of retiring to the library with brandy.