Free Ember Island by Kimberley Freeman Page B

third-floor landing, outside Jasper’s bedroom door.
    She was his wife, after all. And when things were settled, in the next few days, she would surely be sleeping in this room next to him. Wouldn’t she? Was that not how it worked?
    Her fingers were around the handle before she could think better of it, and she opened the door.
    Tilly placed the candleholder on the writing desk, and looked around. An unmade bed. Clothes strewn about. She had believed Jasper a neat man, a man in control of his belongings and environment. Who was this man who cast his clothes about and storedimportant paperwork in piles on the floor? In here, there were no decorations either. No clocks or pictures or mirrors or lamps or urns or washing bowls. She itched to tidy the room up, fold his shirts, hang his coat, but then he’d know she’d been in here and, she was loath to admit, she wasn’t sure how he might respond. Would he shrug it off? They were married after all. Or would he be angry with her?
    Perhaps it was that she hadn’t seen him for six weeks—the same length of time as their entire courtship—that made him now a stranger.
    Tilly turned to take her candle and leave, take refuge in sleep and then draw comfort from morning light. But she noticed the drawer of his desk was partly open, and overflowing with more papers. Why were these ones up here instead of downstairs in the pile?
    If she was very careful . . . There, the first paper was in her hand. What kind of debts did he have? And to whom?
    But in her hand was no unpaid invoice or demand notice. In her hand was one of her very own letters. Opened. And, she presumed, read.
     
Dearest Jasper, I still have not heard from you. Do put me out of my misery and send word that you are whole and well . . .
     
    Tilly’s mind was addled. Who had opened this letter, then, if not Jasper? Mrs. Rivard? Is that why she was so cruel about not sending a telegram? Was she trying to hurt Tilly for some reason?
    But the letter was here, in Jasper’s drawer, in Jasper’s desk, in Jasper’s room. She carefully eased the drawer open. Saw the edge of another envelope with her handwriting on it, and she also thought she saw a telegram, though it was dark and she didn’t want to disturb the papers any further.
    Tilly slid the letter back into the drawer, hand shaking. Jasper had lied to her. He had lied to her . Why? What reason did he have to pretend he hadn’t received the letters?
    She scooped up her candle and left Jasper’s room for her own. There, she snuffed the little flame and lay flat on her back on top of the covers. Her heartbeat choked her. For a few awful moments, nothing made sense. North was south and up was down.
    But then she realized. He had been unable to write from embarrassment. From shame about his reduced circumstances. Perhaps he had intended to write when the money he was expecting came in. Perhaps he would have seen it wrong to write to her, pretending all was well.
    Perhaps it wasn’t that Jasper was dishonest, but that he was too honest. That was it. That had to be it.
    Underneath her, remembered waves still rolled. She drifted off, fully dressed, and didn’t stir until morning.
    •
     
    In the morning light, the house looked quite different. Breakfast waited for her in the sunny conservatory, and she cheered a little. The morning staff was a pretty, oval-faced young woman named Miss Broussard who smiled at her warmly but spoke poor English.
    “Has Mr. Dellafore been down for breakfast?” Tilly asked her.
    “No, madame.”
    He must be sleeping late. Tilly remembered the letter in his bureau, and hoped he wouldn’t notice the papers had been disturbed. She fought against the feeling again that she didn’t know him. She was in a new place, in a new life, still grieving for her beloved grandfather: the only parent she had known. It was to be expected that she would feel displaced for a while.
    After breakfast, Tilly decided some fresh air would make her feel