Free Ember Island by Kimberley Freeman Page A

clasping and unclasping in front of him.
    “You’re home, my dear,” she said. “Did business go well?” Tilly knew the answer to this without asking. Every muscle in his body flexed against some imagined adversary.
    “I . . . uh . . . no. But you’re not to worry. I have to go out again.”
    “But supper?”
    “I haven’t an appetite. Mrs. Rivard will look after you. Please . . . I wasn’t expecting you today and I haven’t quite sorted out all my . . .”
    He seemed distressed, so Tilly went to him and grasped his hands. “You need explain nothing to me. If you must go to work, then go to work. I will be here, waiting for you when you return. As your wife should be.” She squeezed his hands.
    Jasper nodded. “Just a few more days of this, and then all will be well. I promise, Tilly.” He dropped her hands, ran a hand through his hair to smooth it. “But you are not to wait up for me. You’ve been traveling all day and you are tired. Sleep well and tomorrow morning we will dine together, I promise you.”
    Tilly stood back and he brushed past, out of the dining room. She heard his footsteps in the corridor and then the rustle of him pulling on his coat. Her disappointment was acute. She had longed to be with him, to press herself against him and take comfort in his embrace, to explore the special pleasures she understood a husband and wife would share. But she had spent perhaps an hour in his company since her arrival.
    “You should have said you were coming.” This was Mrs. Rivard, standing in the threshold between kitchen and dining room with a wooden tray. She spoke in a thick French accent.
    Tilly had never had a servant speak to her so plainly. Perhaps this was a French custom. “I sent him several letters,” Tilly said, then wondered why she was saying it. She didn’t answer to this woman.
    Mrs. Rivard set the tray down. “Perhaps you should have sent a telegram.”
    “I sent four.”
    “Then where are they?” She raised her shoulders theatrically, palms out.
    Tilly’s blood heated. Was the servant accusing her of lying? It was beneath her dignity to get into an argument with the woman. “Thank you for the food,” she said instead, as sharply as she could manage. “I will call you when it’s time to clean away.”
    “I will be gone, madame,” Mrs. Rivard said. “My wage covers only a few hours a day. You may clean away after yourself.” With that, she untied her apron and left the room.
    Tilly sat heavily at the table. The soup was watery and the chicken leg skinny. She ate, alone, as she had so many times at Grandpa’s. But this time she was in a big, dark, echoing house on a windy island, with hostile staff and a husband in terrifying financial difficulties.
    This wasn’t how it was meant to be, but Tilly stopped herself from remembering how she imagined this new life because the comparison would make her ache. She was starving, so she wolfed down the food. She heard Mrs. Rivard leave and realized she was all alone in the house.
    Tilly finished her food and left the tray on the dining table for the morning. It was too dark to see properly in the kitchen anyway, and she was worried she would trip or slip. Instead, she picked up her candle and moved into the parlor, shining the dim light around. The only furniture was one small settee, whose stuffing was emerging from the arms. Piles of papers were stacked in the corners of the room. A quick glance told her they were purchase orders and invoices for Jasper’s business. Filed horizontally on the floor. Perhaps he had sold the filing cabinets. She sat on the settee for a moment, listening to the panes rattling in the wind. The emptiness in here crawled inside her. She shivered.
    Upstairs, then. Tilly had unpacked her things in her bedroom, so it might feel safer and not so strange and hollow. She carefully ascended the staircase, the flickering candlelight reflecting off the austere wood paneling.
    Then she paused on the