Ember Island (16 page)

And finally she was on the last roof beam, looking down at the hawthorn hedge in the dark. It had once been carefully kept, so had thick, stiff branches that would support her weight. But it was also overgrown, with long, wild, scratching stems reaching out of it. She braced herself, pressed her injured wrist hard against her body, and jumped.

Only it wasn’t so much a jump as a controlled fall. The hawthorn caught her weight a little and then collapsed. Thorns tore at her clothes and skin.

But then she was down, on the grass. She panted. The rain intensified. Tilly ran around to the kitchen entrance and pushed the door open.

It was as she thought. A woman’s wet clothes hung in front of the fireplace. But there was no sable-trimmed coat. And they were not upstairs in Jasper’s room. Almost immediately, she realized their voices were coming from the parlor.

Tilly looked down at herself by firelight. Torn wet clothes, blood seeping from thorn scratches on her arm and thigh. Her hair, too, was loose and errant around her shoulders. She did not want to confront Jasper’s lover like this.

But her curiosity was aroused. On the tips of her toes, she crossed the kitchen and into the corridor, slipped into the dining room and listened against the wall. Nothing. Somebody had once told her if she held a glass against the wall she could hear conversations in the next room. She took a glass down from the sideboard, but still could hear nothing.

So instead, she went back to the corridor and sat on the floor beside the closed sitting room door. Soft candlelight glowed underneath
it. Chantelle’s soft voice. Jasper’s hard breathing. They were saying no sentences. They simply moaned words such as, “yes” and “please”; and fragments such as, “just there” and “oh, my love.”

She wondered if Laura Mornington had ever had to listen to her husband betray her. She put her head on her knees and listened until the end. All of those things she had imagined learning with Jasper. Now the closest she would ever get was to hear him doing them with somebody else.

They turned to conversation. They laughed softly, made reference to things she didn’t understand: no doubt little pieces of intimate shared knowledge. Tilly thought about leaving. Her dress was wet and she was cold, but then Chantelle asked him, “How long now?”

Tilly wanted to know what the question meant, so she leaned a little closer to the door and listened sharply.

“The money will be in my hands at the end of the month. All my debtors have agreed to wait. The worst of this awful mess is over.”

Tilly was at once relieved to hear this news, and sad that he hadn’t chosen to tell her, his wife, the truth.

“You know I didn’t mean the money. How long?”

A silence. Tilly wished she understood them.

“You know how long. Two years. But if I can just crack her so she leaves me be . . .”

A hot chill over her skin. Were they talking about her?

“You don’t need to crack her. Just rid yourself of her somehow. She’s of no more use to you, you’ve said that yourself.”

“I didn’t realize her grandfather had told the wretched cousin about our agreement.”

Tilly’s skin prickled. Were they talking about Godfrey?

“You promised you would be with me. I don’t want to be your
lover forever. I want to be your wife.” Chantelle’s tone was petulant; Jasper’s much more measured.

“And I want to be your husband. But we must take things slowly.”

Tilly remembered what Laura had said, that their mistresses can never keep them but their wives always can. She believed it. Jasper would no more leave Tilly and marry a cook than he would give up this house and live in a mud hut. He had a place in society and he cared what people thought of him. But there was something about her questions that unsettled Tilly.

Yes, it was the word choice.
Rid yourself of her somehow
.

Was she in danger? What did he mean by “cracking” her? Making things so awful that she left of her own accord? Or . . . something worse?

“It’s too slow for my liking,” Chantelle said, but then she was quiet and Tilly realized Jasper had silenced her with kisses. The kisses Tilly had always longed for herself.

She was growing too cold, too sad. She climbed silently to her feet and crept up the stairs to her landing. Here was the chair, balanced on its back two legs against the door. She could see now why her door handle had appeared to be locked: it was one of their dining room chairs, which were carved with a deep U-shape on the back beam. He had positioned it so that the U-shape was jammed into place around the handle: it was almost a perfect fit. She moved the chair, turned it gently on its side so it would look as though it had fallen, and went inside to change into a warm nightgown.

Tomorrow she would leave him. That was the only solution.

•

In her bed, lying on her side, she watched the stars appear behind the clouds and cried all the tears she had to cry. For the loss of her grandfather, for the loss of her love, for the loss of her dreams. But the tears were hot, angry tears. It wasn’t fair; she had done nothing to invite this. She had simply been a woman. One who wasn’t bred to earn money or look after herself. One who had had to presume upon the generosity of a series of men—her grandfather, Godfrey, Jasper—who had each treated her unevenly. Yes, even Grandpa, who had lied about Jasper and left her exposed. She thought, not for the first time in her life, that if she only had control of her own fate, she would be so much better off. Now she was married, she was inextricably tied to lifelong problems. Divorces were expensive, impossible. She would have to prove Jasper’s adultery, spend money she didn’t have, endure the stigma. The path she had chosen, to run and pretend she had never married, was easier, but meant she could never fall in love and marry again. Her future was blighted.

So the angry tears poured out of her and eventually she slept, dreaming of stormy seas.

•

Tilly knew that she had to plan it carefully. The steamer to St. Malo in the north of France left early in the morning, before sunrise, but she may very well be barred in her room at that time. But if she left in the afternoon, Jasper may grow suspicious and come looking for her. So she decided she would leave directly after supper: make it look as though she was going up to her bedroom and instead head out the front door while Jasper was lighting the fire in the parlor.

This meant she needed to pack her trunk and stash it outside the house during the day. The garden shed was the obvious place to hide it, with the cigar box full of money that would get her from St. Malo to wherever she went next. She still had the only key to the shed. Her stomach felt hollow at the thought. She had no idea where she would go next, but it had to be far, far away. India. Africa. The other side of the world.

I am not afraid, I am not afraid.

She had breakfast with her husband. He didn’t speak to her. She told him she might spend some time in the garden today. He shrugged, and said nothing about the clouds and the weak sunlight and the cold wind.

He went upstairs, as he always did after breakfast, with the post. She went to her own bedroom. There was no way she could pack a trunk and take it fully laden downstairs. He might emerge at any moment and see her. She opened her wardrobe and chose the small, leather trunk she had brought with her. The large one would have to stay here. She pulled the sheets from her bed and wrapped them around the trunk. Her heart was beating so fast it made her feel mildly nauseated. She swallowed hard and went to the door. Crept along the corridor. If he caught her, she would simply say she was taking sheets to Mrs. Rivard to wash. But he didn’t emerge. She sneaked through the kitchen door and out into the garden, made it to the garden shed, left the trunk there, then returned to the house.

Mrs. Rivard caught her at the kitchen door with the ball of sheets in her arms.

She tried not to show she was startled. “Oh, there you are, Mrs. Rivard,” Tilly said. “I’ve been looking for you to give you these.” She dumped the sheets at the servant’s feet. “May I have fresh sheets, please?”

Mrs. Rivard narrowed her eyes, looked at the ball of sheets at her feet. “Mr. Dellafore doesn’t pay me enough to wash sheets.”

“Then I’ll do it. And in the meantime, I’ll get my own fresh ones from the linen cupboard.” Tilly turned on her heel, pulse thudding. Mrs. Rivard said nothing.

The next things to smuggle out were her clothes. This she achieved by undressing, putting on all her chemises at once, then a housedress over the top. In the garden shed, she peeled it all off, folding and packing the underwear by the dim light through the grimy window and cracks in the wood. Her body remained on high alert; she jumped at the slightest sound. Her dresses next. Back and forth between bedroom and garden, wearing a different dress under her housedress each time. She tried to walk confidently, not to tiptoe and draw attention to the fact she was doing something surreptitious.

Jasper emerged on one of her trips, frowning at her disapprovingly. This time, she was wearing two corsets under her clothes, both loosely fastened. She crossed her arms over her ribs so he wouldn’t see her odd shape. “You are moving around a lot today. I thought you were going to the garden.”

“It’s quite cold out there,” she said. “I’ve been up and back to get my scarf and gloves.”

“I’m trying to concentrate. Can you perhaps not do it with the feet of an elephant?”

“I apologize.”

His door slammed behind him. She breathed again.

Next, the few other possessions she had left. Hairbrush and hand mirror, her writing box. In small light loads she smuggled them out to the garden shed, hidden in clothes or in a folded coat. Now her trunk was full to overflowing. It only remained to slide the cigar box out of its hiding place and push it down on
top of the clothes, close and lock the trunk. She hid it under a low shelf, then placed empty pots all around it so it couldn’t be seen.

Tilly went out to the garden and took one last walk around it. She would never see these roses bloom, she would never live in that fantasy of love and children she had imagined.

I am not afraid.
She found that being angry made her less afraid, so she cultivated it. How dare Jasper treat her so cruelly? How dare Godfrey make it clear she wasn’t welcome? How dare Grandpa arrange such an idiotic marriage for her? There, that was better. The hollow fright turned to hard determination.

Perhaps her temper could be an asset after all.

•

Tilly descended the stairs for dinner, knowing she was leaving the bedroom behind her for the last time. Good. It had become like a prison. Every step she took, every movement she made, was laden with solemn purpose. Her shoulders felt heavy. She could hear her own blood and breath in her skull.

“Good evening, Jasper,” she said to him.

To her astonishment, he smiled. “Good evening, Tilly.”

Mrs. Rivard moved about, laying their food in front of them. Tilly had no appetite for the muddy-looking fish on her plate. She poked it with her fork, every ounce of her energy bent on seeming as normal as possible. Just because he was being nice to her didn’t mean she should forgive him.

“That is all, Mrs. Rivard,” he said.

This was new. Tilly’s heart hammered. Things weren’t meant to be different tonight. They were meant to be the same as always.

Hold your nerve, hold your nerve.

“How did you enjoy your gardening today?” he asked as he buttered his bread.

“I . . . ah.” She cleared her throat, reached for water. Admonished herself for appearing anything but natural and smoothly spoken. “I very much enjoy time in the outdoors.”

“You’d best be careful with your complexion,” he said, and it was kind concern. It wasn’t a cruel poke.

Deep down, something stirred. She wanted very much for this to be a new Jasper; or a renewed Jasper. He was speaking to her as he had spoken to her at the start. She tried to recollect the last few weeks of poor treatment to stop that stirring. But had she overreacted? She had always been too quick to anger. She was so busy adding up his sins in her head that she missed his next question.

“I’m sorry?” she said, then forced a smile. “I was away with the fairies.”

“I said that all the rest has clearly done you a world of good.”

And she reminded herself: at the start, he had treated her kindly because he wanted something from her. If he was being kind to her now, he wanted something. There could be no more self-doubt. The man sitting across from her was a charmer, a liar, an adulterer. Tilly Kirkland would not be taken in by him. She made her guts steely, but her voice smooth.

“I believe you are right. I feel quite differently now about many things. I am sorry if I troubled you.”

It was his turn now to look nervous. How had she not noticed his darting eyes when she sat down? Perhaps because she had been too busy protecting her own anxiety. She wondered what it was he was going to ask her to do. If he asked for dresses to sell, she would be exposed. There were only a few drab ones left in the back of her wardrobe.

But he asked for nothing. He continued to make small talk as
if the last days of stony silence had never happened. They would visit the Morningtons soon, he said. Money was coming in the next few weeks and she could help him choose new furniture for some of the empty rooms. She nodded and smiled and laughed where she should, aware that they were both playing a game. Only she hoped he didn’t know that she was playing too.

Dinner finished, he pushed back his chair. “Well,” he said. “Good night.” And he came around the corner of the table and he kissed her, full on the lips. She remembered the first time he had kissed her: how her body had responded with warm spreading sensations and giddy delight. But now, she no more wanted to be kissed by him than kissed by the undercooked fish on her plate. It was all she could do not to shudder. Instead, she infused her lips with warmth and, when he stood back, gave him her brightest smile.