Bride of a Distant Isle by Sandra Byrd Page A

that case, I feared for myself, for my mind.
    I let the heavy curtain fall and stealthily walked back to the door. I heard a noise behind it. Shoes, footsteps. I heard breathing on the other side and held my own. The breathing accelerated to panting and my limbs iced.
    If I made noise enough to jar the door open, I was certain to wake staff or family—or fall into the grasp of whoever was just outside. But I had to escape. After ten frantic seconds looking about, I remembered a concealed door hidden behind a portrait of some long-dead relation so that staff could come and serve and then leave unobtrusively. Edward and I had eavesdropped on social doings from behind that door, on one of the rare occasions when we were partners, and friends. Now I tiptoed over to it and then jiggled the clasp that held it shut, pushed the door, and turned into a hallway that led to the back stairs, closing the concealed door to the ballroom, and not a moment too soon. As I did, I heard the door I’d first come through, which had just been blocked, open.
    I quickly and quietly fled to my rooms and, after having arrived, closed and bolted the door behind me before collapsing onto my bed. My palm bled; I’d pressed the teeth of the comb too firmly into it as I fled.
    Someone had been bracing the ballroom door against me. I could not imagine who it could have been, who even might have known that I’d gone downstairs unless they had been observing me in secret. The thought sent a scared chill through me.
    Could I have imagined that scenario? Had darkness and fear gotten a hold of me, grasping me as that rough fabric had the smooth? I turned my mind away from the temptation of those ruminations and back to the hair combs. If I wore them, Edward would be sure to notice. Who had put them in my India box? There had been an opportunity for any servant or any family member, except for Clementine and me. Even Clementine could have given them to, perhaps, Maud, to place in my room as we took Lady Somerford’s call. Maud would do whatever she asked.
    I got up out of my bed and stared out across the dark lawn. Even through the panes of glass I could hear the ocean churning, wearing down the land by means of gentle persistence. Why should Clementine have secretly offered the combs to me? Pity, perhaps. Maybe she had inherited them from Judith’s things. She had no love for her former mother-in-law—that was certain.
    Perhaps Lady Somerford had brought them and left instructions with one of the staff. I should like to wear them Sunday next. I would ask Lady Somerford about them then, and all might become clear.

    N ext morning, I was shocked to find Mr. Nigel Morgan at the slightly worn breakfast table, dining with Edward.
    â€œMr. Morgan. I . . . I had not expected to see you,” I said. “I was not aware that you had returned.”
    â€œIs that delight in your eyes?” Morgan asked. I do not know if he jested or if he had completely duped himself over the state of my feelings. I looked at Edward, who continued to read his papers. I pushed away my egg and sipped my tea, hoping those choices would settle my stomach.
    â€œI’m glad you met with no harm on your journey.” I could say that, at least, with sincerity.
    â€œYou look lovely this morning,” Morgan spoke up. “Those jeweled combs in your hair are exquisite.”
    â€œWhere did you come by those?” Edward tossed his paper down and looked intently at my hair.
    â€œThey were my mother’s.” I sipped my tea and willed my hand not to shake. “Surely you remember that.”
    â€œI do not recall ever seeing them on you,” he replied.
    â€œYou do not?” I opened my eyes wide like others did when they were politely questioning my mental well-being.
    â€œOh, but I think they are her mother’s,” Mr. Morgan spoke up, coming to my rescue. My mouth was agape. How could he have known this?
    â€œYou