Ember Island Page 9

  Laura was at Tilly’s elbow. “Come, Tilly. The other ladies and I will take the southern parlor for tea.”

  Tilly gratefully took her arm and the five ladies present took their places in the parlor. It had been a long time since she’d been in company and it was good to find herself chatting and laughing. How long since she had laughed? Really laughed? Certainly before Grandpa got sick. In fact, this was the first time since Grandpa’s death that the weight of all that had happened wasn’t sitting heavy across her shoulders. Perhaps that was the glass of wine she had drunk with dinner, but perhaps it was the company of other women.

  Talk turned to the cook.

  “I don’t know why you have her in the house, Laura,” sniffed one woman, a dowager in her fifties with an elaborate hairstyle of ringlets.

  “When we met her, she was being treated abominably by a family across on Alderney. She has such a way with food and we felt as though we were rescuing her. She’s an orphan, she has always worked for a living and she’s very good at what she does. Ralph and I have tried to be family to her.”

  The other opinions started to spill out. “She’s arrogant.”

  “I think that’s just her face. It’s a haughty face.”

  “There’s no haughty face without a haughty personality.”

  “She’s very pretty,” Tilly offered.

  One of the women smiled tightly. “Yes. But pretty isn’t everything.”

  “She has a lovely spirit, really,” Laura said emphatically.

  At that moment, Jasper appeared at the door. “Tilly, we are going home.”

  “So soon?” Laura asked, rising and standing between them. “I hope all is well, Mr. Dellafore. Your wife is delightful company.”

  Jasper nodded at Laura politely, but his gaze returned immediately to Tilly. He snapped his fingers. “Come along. My knee is causing me some pain and I need to rest it.”

  Tilly climbed to her feet, setting aside her teacup and bidding her new companions good evening.

  “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” she said to Jasper in the hall, as the servants helped them into their coats.

  He didn’t respond, but she thought nothing of it. They began the walk home in silence. Jasper hurrying a little too fast for Tilly to keep up.

  “Jasper,” she said, “may we go a little slower, please? These shoes aren’t meant for walking fast along country tracks.”

  He didn’t answer, nor did he slow. In fact, he gave no indication he had even heard her. Now a cold puzzlement set in. Why was he behaving this way? Had she said something to upset him? But they had been in separate rooms; he would have no knowledge of what silly chatter she had indulged in. Nonetheless, she sifted through her conversations in her memory. What could he have misheard from the other room? Or perhaps she had somehow insulted Ralph, their host, over dinner. That was it. Ralph had had words with Jasper about her behavior. Now she retraced her dealings with Ralph, but could remember nothing. He had turned away from her towards the end of dinner . . . maybe he’d inferred an insult. Her brain whirled as she tried to work backwards, to identify her failing.

  “Jasper,” she called, hurrying after him breathlessly, finally catching his arm at the start of the path up to the house. “Have I said something to upset Ralph? Because if I have, it was in no way intended. He is a lovely gentleman and—”

  He whirled around to glare at her. “You couldn’t even make it to our door without mentioning him, I see.”

  “I . . .” Tilly struggled with her bewilderment. “I merely mean that . . . You are angry with me and I couldn’t think of anything I’d done, so I assumed I’d said something . . .” But now Tilly wasn’t so sure.

  “Oh, heaven forfend that you should have said something that made Ralph dislike you.” His tone was unctuous with scorn, and Tilly’s frustration began to bubble and steam.

  “I can see I’ve upset you,” she said, her voice thick with distress, “so if you’ll please simply tell me what it is, then I will make amends.”

  “You know what you did,” he huffed.

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Then you are a liar.”

  “I’m not a . . .” She swallowed down her anger. Swallowed it down hard. His anger and offense were genuine. This must be somehow her fault and she mustn’t, mustn’t lose her temper now. “I promise you, Jasper . . .”

  But he was already walking away. “The promise of a liar is worth little. Of a woman with faithless eyes, even less.”

  Faithless eyes?

  He stormed up the path and opened the door, and she slid in behind him before he slammed it firmly and stalked up the stairs.

  “Jasper, please.”

  “Don’t speak to me.”

  She sat heavily on the bottom step, heard his door close firmly. Carefully, she went over every detail of the argument, examining them all one by one, then in groups and sequences, forcing her reason to override her passions. Jasper thought she had behaved inappropriately with Ralph, and somehow Jasper had cemented this opinion when in conversation with the men. For all her efforts, she could not remember a single thing she had done to invite this opinion, but she accepted nonetheless that this was why Jasper was angry.

  The only solution was to air it out with Jasper, but in the morning. When he had cooled off a little. She cheered herself with the thought. A silly tiff that would all blow over with love and openness.

  •

  But he wouldn’t speak to her in the morning. He wouldn’t meet her eye over breakfast and he behaved as if she wasn’t there, sitting across from him, begging with angry tears for him to answer her questions, believe her denials. And when she tried to grasp his arm and stop him leaving the house, he shook her off with enough force to frighten her but not hurt her.

  By the fourth day of Jasper’s silence, Tilly was mad with an angry misery she had never known before. She came down for supper, expecting more of his stony-faced silence. Instead, she found the table set for one.

  “Mrs. Rivard?” she asked, as the tray of oxtail soup, braised ham, and vegetables was put in front of her. “Has Mr. Dellafore gone out?”

  “He says he will eat in his room for all meals from now on,” Mrs. Rivard answered with a subdued delight that twisted her mouth into a faint smile.

  The cauldron inside her spat with heat and all at once boiled over. She sprang to her feet, flinging out her arm to send the soup bowl sailing across the room to smash against the wall and fall into sopping fragments on the floor.

  “Temper,” said Mrs. Rivard, very quietly but unmistakably.

  Tilly dashed away from the dining table and up the stairs, slamming open Jasper’s bedroom door before her fury dissipated and made her timid again. “I will not have this, I will not !” she shouted.

  Jasper, at his writing desk, sat back and regarded her mutely.

  “This must end. You are my husband and I am your wife. We cannot spend the rest of our lives this way. What will it take to make you talk to me?”

  Jasper put down his pen, adjusted it so it was parallel with his paper, and then returned his attention to her and said, “Admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “Admit that you desired Ralph Mornington, that you couldn’t keep that desire off your face or out of your fluttering eyes, and that the moment you thought it might draw his pity, you told him of our financial problems.”

  “I . . . I did none of that . . .”

  “Then why did Ralph take me aside in the library and say, ‘How are things, really, old boy? Those debts all cleared?’ ”

  “I don’t know. Because you had a fight with the Spaniard.”

  “Not about money. About honor. You know nothing of the world of men.”

  “Jasper, I said nothing to Ralph about our finances, and I certainly didn’t—”

  He held up his hand in a stop gesture. “Then I have nothing else to say to you. Ever.”

  The pressure of rage inside her made her ribs and muscles grind
. She wondered if holding it in would actually cause her injury. Her mouth opened and closed but no words came out.

  Finally she managed, “So if I admit to making eyes at Ralph, you will speak to me again?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “But will you not admonish me? Call me a flirt? A liar? A spiller of all your secrets? For I am not those things, Jasper Dellafore.”

  Again, no answer.

  Tilly slammed out of the room.

  •

  Sleep would not come. Regret, the gone-cold feeling that always followed her losing her temper, coiled sickly in her stomach. At midnight she was downstairs in the dining room, cleaning up the spilled soup and broken bowl by the light of a candle. At two in the morning she was crying softly into her pillow, her self-righteous rage now wilting into self-blame. There were always two sides to an argument, and perhaps she had been overly warm with Ralph Mornington for a first acquaintance. She hoped Laura didn’t think ill of her too. And had she perhaps said something that made Ralph think they weren’t doing well? A sad smile and a “we’ll get by” might have been all it took, and while she couldn’t remember saying such a thing, nor could she remember not saying it.

  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 t
o 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.

  EIGHT

  Figures in the Distance

  Tilly 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.”