Chapter Three
1 August 1890
The train to York pulled out of the station on a sluggish summer morning just before dawn. I sat very still as it made its way through London and her outskirts, as if I were anticipating being grabbed by some unknown party and held back from leaving the city’s narrow streets and confines. As soon as the train cleared the city’s smoky skies and morning mist, I felt as if I had been set free. The sun broke through dark clouds, transforming wet fields into endless expanses of shimmering green. Golden bales of hay, rolled up tight into spools, glimmered on the fields looking magical, like Rapunzel’s spun hair. Lazy horses and sheep turned their noses up to the sun to take in its warmth. Farm boys in tall boots trudged through pastures muddy from summer rains, but the same life-giving sun that shone upon them shone through the window and upon my face. As the train creaked along, warm air wafted into the open window, perhaps bringing soot from the engine with it, but I did not care. Other ladies held handkerchiefs to their faces, but the air was fresher than anything I had felt against my skin in a long time.
Many hours later, when we reached York, I transferred to a coach that would take me over miles and miles of moors and into Whitby. The flat landscape now gave way to rolling hills, the coursing over which began to make me feel queasy. The sun, my constant companion on the train, suddenly disappeared behind dark clouds. Flocks of white birds scattered as we rode along, flying away to take cover against whatever the dim skies would spit down upon them. We stopped briefly at Malton to pick up new passengers, and I asked the coachman whether the time on the clock tower was correct. It was not possible that it was just twelve o’clock noon.
“The old clock stopped at midnight years and years ago, but no clock-maker in England has been able to repair it,” he replied, shaking his head.
I refreshed myself with an egg sandwich and a cup of tea purchased at the station, and soon we were back in the coach and climbing into the moors. The gloom became more intense as increasingly dark clouds gathered, bringing with them the sensation of twilight, though it was just four o’clock in the afternoon. I looked out the dusty window to see that the skies behind us remained bright blue, as if the clouds were following the coach into the moors. A silly thought, of course, but I suddenly felt as if the harrowing experiences of the recent past would not be left behind at all but would follow me even on my holiday. I tried to focus on the heather, its lovely deep violet color muted by the gray daylight. But it bloomed only in places; instead of lush blankets of purple, lonely expanses of low vegetation and coarse, dull grass, dominated the scene.
The coach passed a big stone cross at the side of the road upon which hung a dried wreath of ivy, undoubtedly a memorial to a roadside death. A woman sitting opposite me made the sign of the cross and waited for me to follow her example, but I looked away and out the window at the bleak landscape and the ominous horizon. A brewing tempest was hardly unusual for an English summer, but I could not escape the portentous feeling that something was following me from London-something I would prefer to have left behind. The first sight of the sea should have heartened me, but as I watched the tide roll out, it seemed that the receding breakers threatened to suck me with them into the roiling water.
Because of my evening arrival, Lucy’s mother had hired a man to meet me at the station. He had been given a thorough description of me and took my bag from my hand as soon as I stepped out of the carriage. In my fearful state, I wrongly assumed that he was a thief preying upon visitors until he identified himself. Embarrassed, I apologized several times, which he received with a good laugh.
Lucy greeted me in the parlor of the rooms they had taken on the second floor of a huge guesthouse in East Cliff, sitting high above the sea and overlooking the red roofs of the town, the beach, and the double lighthouses that welcomed vessels coming into the harbor. She was thinner than the last time I had seen her, but her golden hair floated like waves around her shoulders. She had tied part of it back with a silky pink ribbon that matched her day dress. Her skin, always pale, had more color, and the light sprinkle of freckles that had covered her nose and upper cheeks since I had met her thirteen years ago were more prominent.
“I have been riding a bicycle,” she said by way of explaining her heightened color. “Mother is furious that I’ve let my skin get dark, but I don’t care a fig.”
“You, riding a bicycle? Like a common woman? Lucy, I am surprised at you!”
But I was not surprised.
At school, Lucy, with her pretty blond hair and innocent blue eyes, looked like the perfect angel but was secretly an unruly child who stole sweets from Miss Hadley’s personal trove of goodies and enacted elaborate schemes for which she never got caught. One morning, however, as Miss Hadley marched us to the park in a weekly outing, Lucy diverted the two of us from the pack of girls and revealed her latest plan. We would approach perfect strangers, explaining that we were collecting money for the blind, but we would use the money to buy candies.
I was petrified, but I went along with her, walking up to ladies in bonnets and men with whiskers freshly groomed by their barbers, allowing Lucy to tell her story and nodding my head in agreement. When we had collected two handfuls of pence, we caught up with Miss Hadley and slipped back into the group. But later, one of the older ladies who had given us money came up to Miss Hadley, congratulating her on the philanthropic nature that she had instilled in young girls. Miss Hadley listened attentively, then with one hand yanking Lucy by the ear and the other pulling my braid, she made us confess our story.
“But we were going to give the money to the blind!” Lucy insisted. She told the story that her mother had taken to doing good deeds for the needy, which so inspired Lucy that she wanted to impress her mother with her own charity.
“Henceforth I suggest you help your mother with her work, rather than do these things on your own.”
Miss Hadley demanded the return of the coins, gave the money to a one-eyed beggar sitting by a park bench, and let the matter drop. Another girl would have been spanked and sent to bed without dinner.
Such was Lucy’s talent for escaping her crimes unscathed.
“Mina, you are the most old-fashioned person I know,” Lucy said, in answer to my qualms over ladies riding bicycles. I supposed that she still got away with doing anything she wanted to do. “My mother would be so very pleased if you were her daughter instead of me.”
“I do not care what you say. I cannot imagine mounting such a thing and still comporting myself with any dignity whatsoever.”
“Perhaps you have not seen the new safety bicycles, but they are very popular in resort towns. A little stand keeps them in place while one mounts and dismounts, with hardly an upset to one’s skirts at all. A little fresh air and exercise is beneficial for females too!” Lucy’s big blue eyes were almost wild with excitement as she expressed this idea.
“Has Mr. Holmwood been taking you on these bicycling adventures?” I asked.
“No, no, not Arthur. Someone else, a friend of his from their Oxford days, an American named Morris Quince. He is occupying my time while Arthur is away on family business,” she said, turning from me. She called for tea and sandwiches, which were served by their locally acquired maid, Hilda, who informed us that Mrs. Westenra had already gone to bed with a headache.
“She is always ill nowadays,” Lucy said. “Her health has never been good, but since Father died, she has deteriorated. The doctor thought that the sea air would invigorate her heart, but I’m afraid the opposite has happened.”
Lucy looked forlorn. She had been close to her father, who had died the year before.
“Nonsense. One more month of sea air and you’ll see improvement,” I said, patting her hand. “Your letter sounded as if you had news to share.” I wanted to distract her from her woes, but Lucy shook her head. “No, dear one, you first. I want to hear all about your Jonathan.”
I took my sketchbook out of my satchel and opened it to the page where I’d sketched a white wedding gown. “It’s taken from designs I saw in The Woman’s World, with a few of my own additions and alterations,” I said. “I am going to have it made in Exeter, where the seamstresses work for a fraction of what is charged in London. Do you like the wreath? It is made of orange blossoms.”
“Why, Mina, it’s a variation on the gown you sketched when you were a girl of thirteen and secretly designing your wedding dress in the evenings before bedtime,” Lucy said. “You even said that you would wear white too like the queen.”
I had not remembered my girlhood vision of a wedding dress, though I did recall hiding the sketches under my bed. “How strange. This design is the very latest fashion. How could I have known what that would be nine years ago?”
“Perhaps you are a visionary! I always thought that, of the three of us friends, you were the most intelligent. Don’t tell Kate I said that.”
“Well, it isn’t true,” I said. “Kate’s intelligence is now a part of the public record. She has been writing long and thoughtful pieces of journalism for all London to consume, while I am still teaching girls how to sit and to pour tea.”
“Tell me everything about your wedding,” Lucy said excitedly. “Will it take place in Exeter?”
“Yes!” I answered, feeling pleasure at being able to share my plans with a friend. “Mr. Hawkins and his sister have offered to host a party after the ceremony.”
Many months prior, chaperoned by Jonathan’s aunt, I had spent a weekend at the Exeter home with Jonathan and his uncle. As soon as I saw the Cathedral Church of St. Peter, I knew that I wanted to be married in it. I was awed by its size, by the immense flying buttresses, and by the fading colors on its once brightly painted façade.
“Will I be invited?” Lucy asked coyly.
“You are my family, Lucy,” I said. “I have none but you and Kate and Headmistress, who is mother and father to me. You will attend me in a silvery gown that will bring out your blue eyes,” I said, producing an article on planning a wedding. Lucy eagerly snatched it from my hand.
“I tore it out of our copy of The Woman’s World before Kate had a chance to read it, and I do not feel the least bit of remorse about it,” I said. “Surely she would not want to defile her sensibilities with these bourgeois ideas.” My imitation of Kate made Lucy squeal with laughter. “But everything in the article is true. Marriage for a woman means that every aspect of her life changes. She enters a new home, takes a new name, and takes on new duties. Marriage means that a man has sought a woman out and placed her above all women, choosing her to cherish and to protect. It is an exalted position.”
“Your wedding day will be glorious,” Lucy said. “You are marrying someone you love. Nothing can harm you now.” She looked away from me as if she heard a noise outside the window, but I could hear nothing but the sea, which crashed loudly against the Whitby cliffs. I recall having heard that no matter where one stood in Whitby, the sea was a constant audible companion.
“And your news? Are there to be two weddings in the near future?”
“I have accepted Mr. Holmwood’s kind offer of marriage,” she said quietly.
“Congratulations, dear friend,” I said, taking both her hands, which were cold, and kissing her cheek, which was hot. “He will make a fine husband, and you will make a lovely bride and mistress of the manor.” Waverley Manor, his family estate in Surrey, was known to be one of the finest homes in southern England.
Lucy’s smile looked like a fresh knife cut across her pretty face. “Oh, yes, the sheer size of it is rather intimidating. But Arthur says that his only desire in life is to make me happy. What more could I ask for?”
I started to give my heartfelt agreement, but she interrupted me. “I think it’s time for bed. We are sharing a room. Won’t that be fun? This is our last opportunity to be together before we are old married ladies.”
The Westenra house in Hampstead was of formidable size and elegance, and whenever I had slept there, I had my own room with an enveloping feather bed. Still, on most nights, Lucy climbed into bed with me, and we talked until dawn. I was disappointed to call our evening to an end so soon, but I voiced no displeasure, washing my face and hands and changing into my nightdress while Lucy did the same.
The bedroom window faced an old churchyard with gravestones that seemed haphazardly placed as if they might topple against one another in a strong gust of wind. Behind it I could see the ruins of Whitby Abbey, stark against the night sky. We were in bed before ten o’clock with the lights out and the window open so that the roar of the sea might lull us to sleep. I could hear the voices of people walking down Henrietta Street to the harbor, but I must have been more tired than I recognized because in a few moments, I slipped into a dreamless sleep. Not long thereafter, though, I was awakened by a noise. I opened my eyes to see Lucy tiptoeing out of the room.
“Lucy? Is anything the matter?” I asked.
“No dear, I just want to peek in on Mother to make sure she has taken all her medicines. I will stay the night with her if she asks me to. Go back to sleep.” She blew me a kiss and walked out the door, and in moments, I fell back asleep.
The next morning at the breakfast table, Lucy received a note from Morris Quince, Arthur Holmwood’s American friend. The note announced that Quince would be away for a few days, and Mrs. Westenra expressed her delight that he would not be gracing her parlor. “The Quince family is absolutely scandalous, Mina, and the scion is no better,” she said. Lucy rolled her eyes.
For as long as I had known her, Mrs. Westenra had always appreciated a good gossip session, and she spared no detail about the infamous Quinces. “Oh, the father is wealthy,” she said, slathering butter on her toast and then covering it with runny blackberry jam. “But he began his career as a circus performer! When the American Civil War broke out, he began to smuggle goods over enemy lines, and, apparently, had no compunction about selling stolen battle plans to either side, or that is the rumor. They also say that the man is actually a Jew, which of course would have abetted his journey into banking and finance. That, dear Mina, is where he made his second fortune.”
Though Mrs. Westenra had looked pale and ill at the start of breakfast, talking of Morris Quince’s unscrupulous father brought a good deal of color to her cheeks. Lucy, on the other hand, looked tired. Little purple veins had crept out beneath her eyes, which were red at the inside corners.
Mrs. Westenra continued, “It is a well-known fact that the senior Quince keeps a showgirl as his mistress, but they say that Mrs. Quince does not mind because-Mina, dear, forgive me for what I am about to say. I pass this along to you because I want you to be armed with the realities of this man’s background, should he try to charm you. As I was saying, Mrs. Quince pays no mind to her husband’s indiscretions because she is reputedly engaged in a sapphic relationship.”
Mrs. Westenra picked up another piece of toast, methodically smearing it with the contents of the condiment tray.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Westenra, I do not follow,” I said. “Is Mrs. Quince a poet?”
“Dear Mina, dear, dear Mina. You must keep up with modern terminology. Dr. Seward-you have not met him, but you will. He was crazy over our Lucy, but, of course, she could not turn down the future Lord Godalming for a poorly paid mad doctor, now could she?”
Lucy had never mentioned a doctor who had been one of her suitors. She merely shrugged, pouring herself more tea.
“At any rate, when I told this very story to Dr. Seward, he informed me that ‘sapphism’ is the medical term for the disease in which women fall in love with other women, transferring to them the same feelings that normal women have for men.”
“Mother, you must stop telling everyone these awful stories,” Lucy said. “You are merely repeating idle gossip. How will Mina be able to look Mr. Quince in the eye when she meets him?”
“He is very handsome, dear. It is quite the pleasure to look him in the eye,” Mrs. Westenra said. “I thought our Mina should be warned about him. He might try to charm her away from Mr. Harker.”
“Mother!” Lucy threw her toast on her plate in exasperation. “Mina is solidly in love with Mr. Harker. No one may taint her character; she would not allow it.”
“You are both naïve young ladies,” said Mrs. Westenra. “It is my duty to prevent you from falling prey to men’s schemes. Mr. Quince has a certain raw American charm but has no solid plans. The man paints! What sort of a man paints? A man who likes to see ladies without their clothing-that is who paints!”
Small beads of sweat appeared above her quivering lip. She patted her mouth dry with a napkin, then picked up her fan and fluttered it rapidly. “Mina does not have a mother’s guidance and welcomes my insights. Is that not correct, Mina?”
Headmistress always stressed the importance of deferring to one’s elders, though Mrs. Westenra’s warning did little but increase my desire to see this terrible man.
“Did you sleep well last night?” I asked her, attempting to change the subject.
“No, Mina, I did not. I tossed about all night.”
“I am so sorry,” I said, “but that explains the pallor in Lucy’s cheeks. I suppose you were kept awake too?” I looked at Lucy, whose face froze, but she put her hand over her mother’s. “I looked in on you at midnight, Mother. I sat in your room for a long time, but I suppose you don’t remember.”
“You must not let my condition ruin your good health,” Mrs. Westenra said. “I will speak to Dr. Seward about giving you medication to help you sleep.”
“I won’t take it,” Lucy said in a very argumentative tone. “Someone in this family must remain alert.”
“That is what servants are for! You vex me, my child. If your father were here, he would tell you to do as I say!” She shook her head furiously, the slack skin on her cheeks vibrating to and fro. “Oh dear, I hope Mina is spared the horrible sight of one of my paroxysms. They come on so suddenly, not like heart palpitations at all. The angina is a separate condition, I have learned. The attack comes on swiftly, beginning with a sharp pain here in the breastbone.”
She pointed to the place with her finger. She began to take quiet, slow breaths, making circular motions in front of her chest. “It is terrifying to feel as if one’s heart were about to collapse, Mina. An indescribable dread comes over me, and my skin becomes like ice, as if the very blood has stopped flowing in my veins. My poor heart gasps for its vital fluid, and I feel as if I am dying. It must be terrible to die! Oh, my poor husband.” The memory of Mr. Westenra overtook her, and she started to cry, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her napkin.
Lucy remained indifferent during her mother’s presentation, sipping her tea as if she were the only person in the room. Later, when she and I were alone, I said, “If you did not have a mother, perhaps you would appreciate a mother’s concern.”
She looked at me as if I had betrayed her.
“I only mean to say that I wish I had a mother to help me navigate through life’s passages and into womanhood.”
“Perhaps you are fortunate,” she said. “You are free to navigate for yourself, and in a girl’s life, that is a privilege.”
Lucy decided to nap after breakfast, and I welcomed the time alone. The sun was not exactly shining, but it was apparent beneath a thin film of cloud cover. I wanted to explore and to find a place where I might write in my journal. I had been told that the best view of Whitby was from the old churchyard cemetery that overlooked the village, the harbor, and the sea. I climbed the one hundred ninety-nine steps to St. Mary’s Church, obeying the local superstition that each step must be counted or bad luck would befall the climber. I stopped to admire a large ancient-looking Celtic cross at the entrance to the churchyard, then peeked inside the small church, dark but for the light that shone through the stained-glass triptych behind the altar, illuminating at the center the body of the Christ hanging upon the cross. A few dark-clad women prayed fervently in the shadows. I lit a candle for the dead, dropped a coin in the offerings box, and went outside.
All the benches in the yard were taken, but I did not want to give up my mission. A solitary old man occupied the bench that sat furthest out on the promontory with the best view of the sea. He looked as if he had once been husky, but the decades had shrunken him to the size of an old woman. His clothes probably fit him well some twenty years ago, but hung in folds now on his bony frame. His skin was as brown and shriveled as a roasted peanut and covered with dark spots and moles.
“Would you mind if I joined you?” I asked.
He acquiesced to my request in a thick Yorkshire accent, the sort that we worked hard at Miss Hadley’s to remove.
“I won’t disturb your tranquility,” I said, opening my journal and removing the cap from my pen.
“I’ll have all the tranquility I need soon enough,” he said, swallowing his vowels, as they were wont to do in the area. I was not sure what he meant, until he nodded his head toward the gravestones. I smiled, and then looked out to the sea to collect my thoughts. I started to write in my journal, but the old man, short of company, I suppose, began to talk to me about his life.
He was the last survivor of the men who had once “addled a living” in the whaling industry. “Whitby ships were known to be the strongest vessels in the water,” he said, explaining that all the great sailors of the last century including Captain Cook himself preferred ships made by Whitby shipbuilders.
“The vessels had to be strong to withstand the winds that rise up in these frigid waters, and the men had to be strong to face the sea and the prey and the privateers. I was a young man on one of the last of the great whaling ships, the Esk.”
I knew I was in for a long-winded tale, so I took a deep breath and donned a look of interest.
“We were coming home, were not thirty miles from the harbor, struggling all day against a southerly breeze, when of a sudden, violence in the air like you have never seen came squalling in from the east. Our sails were shortened, so we were not prepared for the likes of that storm, and were caught against the leeward shore.” The more he talked, the more animated and younger he sounded. “I felt the Esk hit the reef and I knew she were grounded. She broke up, she did, spitting out every man on board into the sea, like we were no better than seeds from a piece of fruit. I was near six and twenty, and strong as an ox. I hung on to two men trying to keep them above the water, but in the end, only three of us survived.
“After that, I turned to herring to addle me living. Imagine, one day chasing the biggest fish in the sea and then being reduced to catching the smallest!”
I expressed my condolences for the shipmates he had lost. “They are all here, the ones who were found,” he said, waving his arm around the churchyard. “I visit them every day, keeping them up on the news of the town. They appreciate it, they do.”
“How do you know that, sir?” I asked.
“Because they thank me. The dead speak to us if only we have the patience to listen. The others that were lost to the sea, eaten up by the very fish we catch for our own dinners, they speak too, not in words but in terrible howling cries. And who can blame them? Young men losing their lives in their prime? One day, strong and brave, like young gods, then at the whim of the winds, they become food for the fishes. Strange, if you think on it. They have made cannibals of us, those fish.”
I did not want to think too long on that gruesome image, nor about communications from the dead. I had come to Whitby to escape that. I gave him my name and inquired of his. He told me that he was known as the whaler. I was about to bid my new acquaintance good day when he invited me to see the very place where he had washed to shore.
“On some days, you can still hear the cries of the sailors,” he whispered, and something bade me to accompany him back down the steps and toward the shore.
The day was cloudy and not warm. A few bathers gathered at the shoreline, but none braved the water. Optimists had rented big umbrellas and chairs, sitting under blankets against the wind. The sea was boisterous, crashing relentlessly against the cliffs in the distance, spewing waves onto the beach and forcing the bathers to move their chairs away from the encroaching waters. I hiked up my skirt as far as I dared as we strolled along in the sand. Vendors selling tea, lemonade, and cakes had set up stands along the beach. Suddenly, the old man pulled me aside, guiding me by the arm to hide behind the tea stand.
A tall man with a large physique and ginger-colored hair sticking out of a cap walked brusquely on the beach, the legs of his pants rolled up to his knees, revealing powerful-looking calves. As he walked, he roared at the sea, as if he were trying to scare it away from the rock-bound shore. “That man appears to be in an oratory competition with the sea,” I said, pulling my shawl close against the wind.
“Aye, best to avoid him. He’ll nark me till I’m mithered.”
“Has he tried to harm you?” I asked. The man did, indeed, look insane and somewhat dangerous, either exercising his arms or waving them at some unseen thing as he yelled into the waves.
The whaler laughed. “Harm me? No, he’ll fill me with pints and make me tell him my stories. He’ll take me off to a place where we cannot take a young lady and pour ale into me until I cannot walk.”
The old man explained that the fellow was a writer who managed a theater. He had come to Whitby chasing stories of monsters and ghosts, looking for a play to write for a famous London actor. “What is his name?” I asked.
“The redheaded man?”
“No, sir, the actor. I enjoy the London theater when I am able to attend.”
The old man had been told the name as if he should know it as well as he knew his own, but, as he had never heard it before, he had promptly forgotten it. “Along with most of what was in my brain,” he added. “But I remember all the stories of the haunted and the dead, and that is what that fellow likes to hear. Claims my stories are worth sheer gold, but he only offers me the pints. What are my stories worth to you, young lady?”
I explained that I was but a poor schoolteacher with no money to spare.
“Then your beauty will be my reward for the tales I tell you,” he said. “I’ll not be fuggled out of what’s due me till I get me eyes full of you and your coal-black hair.”
With the other man long down the shore, the old whaler and I resumed our walk. He showed me the place where he had swum to shore after the shipwreck, and where the bodies of his shipmates had been found. I did not comment. I did not want to be thought without compassion for the dead, but I did not want to linger. What was once a lovely shoreline now seemed like a massive graveyard, each rock on the beach a headstone.
He stopped walking, cocking his ear toward the waves. “Can ye hear her?”
I listened but only heard the sound of the water relentlessly rolling onto the shore. “Hear who?” I asked.
“Mirabelle! Oh, she was a good girl, but she lost her head to a bad man, as women are wont to do. Some devilish seaman, used the poor girl up and then admitted that he was leaving her to go back to his wife and seven kiddies.”
I was about to tell him that I did not want to hear two sad stories in one afternoon when I thought I heard a woman’s voice roll onto the shore with one of the waves. I stopped in my tracks.
“You heard it,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“I did hear something,” I said. “I cannot be sure what it was.”
“My lady, it was Mirabelle. Listen to my tale and then judge for yourself. From the day the sailor went away, Mirabelle walked along the sea, longing for him, hoping to see his ship sail back into the harbor. She knew in her heart that he would miss her and come back to her.”
“And did he?” I asked, anxious to hear a happy ending.
“Of course not. And the poor girl, by calling out to him, was playing a dangerous game. Too many sailors have lost their lives to these waters over the many years, and being young and virile men, they did not want to die. No, miss, they resented God for taking their lives and so they make bargains with the devil.
“The spirits know that by stealing the blood of a young woman, they can bring themselves back to life! That is the truth of it. The spirit of a handsome young man came to Mirabelle at twilight and kept her in his company until dawn. He made love to her and at the same time drained her of as much blood as he could take from her, and from that blood, he made himself stronger. She could not resist him, for such passion makes an addict of a young woman. He had a strange power over her, and his kisses that were killing her also made her swoon with pleasure!
“The girl’s parents were innkeepers who expected her to put in an honest day’s work, but soon she had no life in her to hold a broom, and she fell asleep as she tried to do her chores. The parents thought she was sick and called for a doctor, but he was helpless to name the disease that was wasting her away. Every night, she sneaked out of the inn and met her lover, who was getting more powerful with each meeting, while Mirabelle, once a beauty like you, became so pale and thin that she was almost invisible. She refused food and could never sleep. Then, one morning, she was found dead at the hearth, a broom in her hand. Her poor body had given out. And just as her mother found her daughter’s body crumpled at the hearth, she heard the father welcoming in a loud and happy voice a guest at the inn. He was a young sailor who had been given up for drowned some ten years before, and there he was, looking no older than the day that he had disappeared.
“You see, Miss Mina, the air is thick with the spirits of the young sailors and fishermen who died in the sea. They still yearn for the love and touch of beautiful women, young men that they were when they were forced to leave their bodies and earthly pleasure behind. I tell you this to warn you, beauty that you are with your jet-colored hair and your lovely skin more pure and delicious than the top of the cream, and those eyes of yours that stole their green from a sultan’s emerald. Beware when you walk this shore. Pay no heed to the blether of the boggarts. In death, they possess silvery tongues that can charm a maiden. If the spirits of the dead call out to you, swaddle yourself tight with your shawl, make the sign of the cross for protection, and walk away.”