Ember Island by Kimberley Freeman

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 warmand woody. She thought about Grandpa, about what he would say to her 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