Ember Island by Kimberley Freeman Page A

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 ofhis 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 outonto 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