The Lighthouse Keeper's Daughter, page 14
Alone in her room, she starts to read, page after page, hour after hour, studying the tasks and routines until she can picture Miss Darling, busy in the lantern room as she cleans the lens with a feather brush to remove any soot and dust before wiping each part of the delicate apparatus with a linen cloth. Spirits of wine remove any spilled oil, and then she buffs everything until it gleams. When the job is complete, she places a linen cloth over the lens and draws the curtains around the lantern room to prevent any discoloration by sunlight.
As for how Miss Darling spends the rest of her day, Sarah must imagine, the instruction book lacking in information about how a lighthouse keeper might feel, or what they might think about during the long hours on watch. Perhaps Miss Darling places the locket beneath her pillow at night, remembering the events of that awful night. Perhaps she imagines a life beyond the island. Perhaps she longs to fall passionately in love with a student of art, or perhaps all she wants is to fade away from the public gaze and slip back into obscurity like a discarded fragment of sea glass washed from the beach. Whatever she desires, Miss Darling must learn to be the heroine everyone needs her to be. As a laborer’s daughter, Sarah has always understood that choice in one’s destiny is a luxury preserved for the upper classes. For a lighthouse keeper’s daughter, as for a sea merchant’s widow, there is only duty and expectation.
Sarah adds a few lines to her account of the Forfarshire disaster before climbing into bed. The darkness of the room envelops her as the distant singing grows gradually louder until she isn’t entirely sure where it ends, and she begins.
North Sunderland, England
That evening, by the light of a guttering candle flame in his room at the Olde Ship Inn, George Emmerson’s hands move quickly across the page. He doesn’t work especially well with charcoal but it is all he has with him. His mind is a whirl, turning over his sister’s words. “Eliza is a pleasant girl, but she is a breeze, George. A breeze. Your heart desires a storm.”
He blows the dust from the page in short puffs before holding his work at a distance to scrutinize his progress. He is a harsh critic, never happy with his work until it is just right. He is determined to capture her, to show that certain something that sets her apart. But how? How to re-create her on the page? Slightly below average in height, a slender figure, a gracefulness befitting her name. He sketches a wreath of gentle brown curls, a clear complexion, soft as buttermilk. And her eyes, so darkly expressive, revealing her emotions without disguise. How to capture that willful determination? The wistful smile at her lips?
He scrunches his page into a ball and tosses it to the floor. Starts again. And again, until, finally, she begins to emerge on the page, but the light of the candle fades and he cannot finish it tonight. He writes her name on the back, packs his materials away, and stands the sketch against the window, where the light will catch it at dawn.
As he falls into bed and closes his eyes, he remembers a favorite line from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
He will continue by daylight, already accepting he will possibly never capture her on the page as truly as he sees her in his mind; already accepting that it will have to be enough.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grace
Longstone Lighthouse. September 1838
THE SKIES TO the north are bruised in shades of violet and ochre as I extinguish the lamps the following morning. My telescope drifts repeatedly in the direction of North Sunderland, as if of its own compulsion. I presume it expects to catch a glimpse of Mr. Emmerson still standing at the harbor, indigo sea glass in hand. But of course he is not. He has far more pressing matters to attend to. Matters that weigh on my mind when they have no business whatsoever to do so.
The shock of learning that Sarah Dawson is Mr. Emmerson’s sister, not to mention the discovery that he is engaged to be married, kept me occupied through last night’s stint on watch. But even more than these revelations, it is the very real presence of him that I can’t forget. Like a spirit summoned to life, I had seen and heard him, touched him even as he helped me into the boat. It is this sensory experience that lingers most persistently, and somewhat maddeningly.
I had always dismissed as folly the dreamy distraction of my sisters as they’d fallen in love. I’d accused them of being overly dramatic, only imagining themselves to be light-headed and forgetful and not experiencing any physical symptoms at all. Now, I realize I was unkind to tease them. Now, I understand why we use the phrase falling in love; because the dizzying sensation I experience when I think about Mr. Emmerson is not unlike that of dropping into the steep trough of a swell, my stomach momentarily suspended above before swooping down in a sickening lurch to catch up.
“What absolute nonsense, Grace.” I scold myself as I stare at my reflection in the lens, pondering the miniature likenesses caught in its petal-like structure.
Fresh air will do it. Fresh air and a brisk walk will settle things.
Morning on the island has dawned bright and fresh. I am invigorated by the breeze as I walk among the rocks, taking advantage of the low tide to search for new shells to add to my collection. The mewling and barking of the seal pups is a familiar joy to my ears and I clamber higher to see them. There must be at least a hundred gathered on the beach around the bay. I watch them for a good while, observing the way the mothers care for their pups so diligently. I find myself wondering what it would be like to raise a child, to sustain another life. I’ve never felt the pull of the maternal urge like my sisters, or Mam, who brought nine children into the world in as many years (and has complained about it ever since). I think, perhaps, I am content to be an aunt, and leave the raising of children to those more suited to the task.
My mood restored to something more familiar than that of a giddy schoolgirl, I return to the lighthouse to help Father with the flotsam salvaged from the Forfarshire over the past weeks, some of which still arrives with each new tide. I remember my intention to write a strongly worded letter to Mr. Smeddle, still furious with him for printing my private responses to private letters, but I am delayed from the task. Father is waiting for me at the lighthouse door, taking me to one side before I even have a chance to remove my cloak and bonnet.
“There’s a gentleman come to see you, Grace.” Color flies to my cheeks. Could it be Mr. Emmerson? “A Mr. Sylvester, sent as an agent of Mr. Batty, the circus owner.”
Disappointment drains the color from my face as quickly as hope had put it there. “Does he say what he wants?”
“He said he would rather explain things to us together.”
Unexpected callers seem to be two-a-penny in recent days, so I’m not greatly surprised to learn of another. Longstone has seen a steady stream of spectators and newspaper reporters taking advantage of the good weather. The short sea crossing from North Sunderland can see them brought out to us and returned to the mainland within a morning or afternoon. I’ve grown mistrusting of the reporters’ questions and the scratch of their pencils. The less said the better as far as commenting on my “heroics.” The men in charge of the front pages will insert their own words regardless and make drama where there is none. But an agent of a circus owner is a new, and rather curious, development.
Mr. Sylvester is a stout man with an impressive handlebar mustache and muttonchops that obscure most of his face. He half bows when I enter the room, offering a small, simpering hand, which I take, glad to have not yet removed my gloves.
“Miss Darling. What an honor it is to have your acquaintance.” He speaks with a heavy Scottish accent and I don’t catch all his words. It isn’t entirely Mr. Sylvester’s failure to enunciate clearly, but my mind which dwells on Mr. Emmerson’s lyrical Scots burr.
“You are very welcome to Longstone, Mr. Sylvester,” I remark as I remove my bonnet. “I hope you had a pleasant crossing.”
“Very pleasant, thank you. The Tweeside brought me. The skipper tells me he takes three trips a week around the ‘Romantic Groups of the Farnes,’ as his posters state. He kindly permitted me to alight here before he proceeded to Berwick. It took all his authority to prevent a mob alighting with me.”
“We know the Tweeside well.” I smile, as graciously as I can as I reflect on the profiteering fishermen. “I am aware of the posters.”
“I expect you find the boat trips a little intrusive,” he remarks, clearly attempting to win my favor. “Although I suppose they will become fewer as the winter storms increase.”
“Yes. I expect so.” I have never wished more for winter storms.
“Mr. Sylvester has brought a sum of money, Grace,” my father explains. “From a recent performance of Mr. Batty’s Royal Circus in Edinburgh. Twenty pounds, indeed.”
“Twenty pounds? From a circus? I don’t understand.”
Father invites everyone to sit by the fire as Mr. Sylvester explains. “My employer, William Batty, held a recent performance of the circus in your honor, Miss Darling. He wished for you to have the net profits from the evening, which drew an impressive crowd. Your cause is a most worthy one, and our patrons were very keen to support it.”
“But I don’t have a cause, Mr. Sylvester.” I cast an urgent glance at my father who raises an eyebrow in reply, as confused as I am. “How did the people know the proceeds of the evening were devoted to this cause?”
Mr. Sylvester shuffles slightly in his chair. “Mr. Batty advertised the event as such. Perhaps you could think of the money as a gift from the good people of Edinburgh. They were very keen to donate.”
He places the twenty-pound note on the table where it sits as if it were one of Mary Anning’s rare fossils while we all stare at it.
“It is very generous of Mr. Batty, and the people of Edinburgh,” Father says. “You must send our sincere thanks.”
Mr. Sylvester takes an envelope from his coat pocket. “Mr. Batty would be greatly honored if you would visit the circus, Miss Darling.” He passes the envelope to me. “He wished to send on a few lines to ask if you would consider thanking the people of Edinburgh in person.”
I don’t especially care for the way Mr. Sylvester’s smile turns almost into a sneer, but I am too confused to think of any plausible excuse as to why I couldn’t possibly do such a thing and hear myself say I would be delighted.
“Very well then. It is agreed.” Sylvester sounds rather too pleased with himself. “Perhaps we can take a walk outside, Mr. Darling, while your daughter writes a reply to Mr. Batty?”
Left alone to write yet another letter, I struggle to find the right words. Why am I writing to a circus owner in Scotland? Why are people donating funds to a cause I know nothing about, at a performance being advertised in my name, without my knowledge? Everything feels horribly out of control. I hardly dare imagine what else is happening in the name of “the heroine, Grace Darling.” She has almost become a separate person to me. Someone I vaguely knew once, but can’t quite remember. Reluctantly, and not with good humor, I pen a few lines to assure Mr. Batty we will visit his arena in Edinburgh to oblige those who have shown concern for my welfare, and admiration for my part in the rescue. The force of my full stop almost punctures the page.
I am grateful when Father announces he will row Mr. Sylvester back to the Main. Mam is also pleased the visit is only brief, having taken an instant dislike to the man.
“I see we are to have circus folk traipsing sand onto my rugs now, are we?” she mutters, crossly. “I suppose Father will be rushing off to Scotland with you to this circus?”
“I can hardly go on my own, Mam.”
She grumbles about the lighthouse going to ruin and the wind causing havoc with her joints and that she doesn’t know what is to become of us all, honestly she doesn’t.
THAT EVENING, WITH Father returned from the Main, all is quiet at the lighthouse. Mam is at her wheel. Father and Brooks mend an old sail. I sit beside the fire with my darning needle. I take a moment to absorb the perfect normality of it all, an autumn evening spent safely inside the thick walls of the lighthouse while nature throws another tantrum beyond. I am happy and secure, and yet I know it won’t always be this way. I imagine the scene without my parents, Brooks with his wife and children sat around the fire while my chair is pushed out toward the cold edges of the room. An observer. No longer a participant. The thought unsettles me, as it often has of late.
As if reading my thoughts, Father suggests that I sleep through that night. “I will share the watch with Brooks tonight. You look tired, Grace. You should rest.”
Reluctantly I agree, but before I settle for the night, I climb the steps to the lantern room to check on the oil reserves. All is in order. My brother must have been up to carry out the inspection already.
The wind sighs at the windows as the lamps turn above, as reliable and steadfast as ever. As I lay my head on my pillow, I ask myself if I am needed here as much as I once was. Has the time finally come when I need the lighthouse more than it needs me?
Bamburgh, England
From the upstairs window of her cousin’s home, Sarah watches the distant flash of the Longstone light. This will be her final night in Bamburgh.
She keeps her silent vigil until dawn, when the lamps are extinguished. Another night navigated without mishap. Another night navigated without the haunting dreams that await her on the other side of sleep.
She dresses quietly and leaves by the back door where the coachman is waiting as arranged by the maid. As the hooves clatter over the streets, she says a private farewell to this peaceful little town and steels herself for the long journey home. In her hand she holds the piece of emerald sea glass for James and the light keeper’s instruction manual for Matilda, gifts from Miss Darling. Her deepest agony is the knowledge that she leaves her children’s graves behind, but their lives, their memories, she takes with her. Whatever lies ahead, she resolves that neither they, nor the name Grace Darling, will ever be forgotten. In her pocket, she keeps her account of the Forfarshire disaster, carefully wrapped in brown paper. She is glad to have written it down, glad to have emptied her distress onto the pages.
Eliza has looked after her well so that she almost feels sorry for having planted such a fertile seed of doubt in George’s mind about her. Had things been different, she doubts she would have meddled, but she feels so sure that George’s future happiness exists not in his cousin’s reedy embrace, but in the arms of another on a small island in the middle of the North Sea.
As the coach clatters on, she thinks of the letter she left with the maid, to send on to Miss Darling. She is pleased to have written with such honesty. What good does it do to keep thoughts and feelings hidden away? If she has learned anything from the past terrible weeks, it is that any chance of happiness must be grasped and held tight, not left to dangle and fall where it may. Whatever she can do to put things right, she will. What other reason can there be for having been spared when her children were taken so cruelly? She must matter, now. She must have a purpose.
The morning light strengthens as the coach leaves Bamburgh and heads south along the coast road, the glistening sea to her right, her future straight ahead. With each rotation of the wheels, Sarah feels a little brighter, a little more hopeful. She sings of lavenders blue and lavenders green and lets the rocking motion lull her to sleep where she dreams of a lighthouse at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and a new life waiting for her there.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Matilda
Newport, Rhode Island. June 1938
EARLY JUNE, AND my days in Newport slowly unravel beneath a generous sun and the fragrance of beach roses and juniper bushes. The early sunrises and late-setting suns are a gift to the tourists and honeymooners, but for me they offer too many hours to feel the strengthening flip and tumble of the secret I hide beneath ever-slackening waistbands and loose-fitting cardigans. A quickening, the doctor calls it as he places his stethoscope against my skin.
“Looks like you’ve a lively little thing in there,” he says as I flinch in response to the cold press of metal. “A real wriggler.”
He could be talking about a new puppy for all that his words affect me. I still can’t emotionally connect the motion I feel with the fact that it is made by a human life. My child. Only once have I wondered what it will look like before I pushed the thought quickly away, afraid to let it linger too long.
As I dress behind the screen, the doctor tells me to make another appointment for around a month from now.
“You’ll be into your third trimester then, Mrs. Collins,” he says, enthusiastically. “Not too much longer to go.”
I wince at my invented name. My fictitious husband would turn in his grave at all the lies I’m telling to stick to Harriet’s cover story. She makes it all sound so plausible I almost feel sad for poor Mr. Collins and his tragic demise in a traffic accident.
I step out from behind the screen. “Thank you again, Doctor.”
He peers at me sympathetically through the black-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his sun-reddened nose. “I know it feels endless right now, Mrs. Collins, but you’ll have your baby in your arms soon enough.” The words prick at my conscience, knowing that it will be some other woman’s arms that hold this baby, not mine. Mistaking my silence for concern, he pats my arm reassuringly. “You’ve nothing to worry about. The child is perfectly healthy and everything is progressing as normal.”
