ALMOST AS SUDDENLY as they arrived, our unexpected guests depart.
One by one, the nine survivors of the Forfarshire prepare to leave Longstone. They are eager to return to their families while also anxious about returning to a life that is forever changed by what they have endured, and lost.
There are many exchanges of gratitude as the lifeboat readies to leave. I help where necessary and step back when my assistance isn’t required. I’ve become accustomed to caring for this small group and it is difficult to say goodbye.
When it comes to Sarah Dawson, I cannot stop myself rushing to her aid, nor does she want me to. Terrified of being out on the water again and still terribly weak and frail, having hardly slept or eaten since her ordeal, she trembles as she steps nervously into the boat, reaching up to touch her hand to my cheek as she sits down.
“You and your family have been so kind, Miss Darling. I’ll never forget it.” She presses something into my hand. “A token of my eternal thanks.”
Seeing that she has given me her locket, I insist she take it back. “It is too much, Sarah,” I urge. “Please. I cannot take it.”
She refuses to listen to me, quietly closing my fingers over it and smiling gently. “It used to hold a lock of each of my children’s hair. It’s too painful for me to see it empty. It’s not worth a great deal, but it would mean a lot to me to know it is here with you, at the lighthouse.”
Such pain and torment cloud her face that I have no choice but to quietly accept it. “I will treasure it. Thank you.”
“I’d have been very proud to introduce you to my little ones,” she continues. “‘This is Miss Grace Darling,’ I’d have told them. ‘One of God’s angels on earth, and the bravest woman in all of England.’” Tears form in her eyes as she speaks. “Matilda wanted to know how the lamps keep burning all night, but I didn’t know. You could have told her, couldn’t you?” I nod, unable to find anything helpful to say. “Five days and nights I’ve been without them now,” she continues. “I’ve never been without them a day. Not since they first bloomed in my belly and kicked their little feet.”
My thoughts flicker to the stiff little bodies on the rock; little bodies that now rest at Bamburgh Castle, waiting for their Mam to say her last goodbyes. I grasp Sarah’s hands in mine. “And if I should ever marry and be blessed with children, I will tell them about you, Mrs. Dawson. What you have endured these past days . . . I only hope I can show such courage, should I ever need to.”
We share a final embrace and, with an ache in my heart, I stand beside my parents and watch, silently, as the sea that has robbed Mrs. Dawson and the others of so much conveys them back toward the distant shore, and the misshapen life awaiting them there.
WITH OUR GUESTS departed, I feel as empty as Longstone’s apartments. The rooms appear ten times bigger than before. Far too spacious for our simple needs. The lighthouse senses everyone’s absence, too. A hesitance lingers in the air as we attempt to settle back into the normal routines that have been all but forgotten in the tumult of recent days. With the lighthouse empty, I complete my chores quickly and take advantage of the first reasonable day’s weather in almost a week to take a stroll around the island. The storm has brought such devastation, leaving great mounds of driftwood and seaweed piled up here and there. Seashells and stranded starfish color the sand pink-orange in patches, like the flesh of ripe peaches, but it is the limp remains of dozens of seal pups that I find the most distressing evidence of the storm. The shape of Longstone Island, the feel of it, is changed by what has taken place here.
As I walk, my attention is drawn to an unusual piece of rock. Bending down to pick it up, I smile: the telltale spiral of one of Mary Anning’s “curies.” A fossilized sea creature. A piece of the past, washed up in the present. Running my fingers across the undulating pattern, I think of how Mr. Emmerson would like to see it and realize I haven’t thought about him for days, my mind having been so occupied with other matters. Thinking of him now, I discover that I think no less of him. I still remember our conversation. How, when he’d asked if I’d seen Miss Anning’s sea dragons, I’d remarked that sea dragons didn’t usually swim in the waters this far north, it being too cold for them. His laughter was full of warmth that spread around me like the heat from a smithy’s furnace. Even with the cooling distance of the weeks since, an ember of something glows within me still. I place the fossil in my pocket to add to my collection. Mr. Emmerson, I put away also, into a very private place in my heart.
I stand then for a long time, just me and my beloved island, the ribbons of my bonnet flapping in the breeze, my skirts billowing around me, swaying to and fro like a church bell. Steamers slip by on the horizon. Fishing boats come and go. Everything returning to normal.
Having dosed myself with a much needed tonic of sunlight and sea air, I pick my way carefully over the slippery algae-covered rocks, back toward the familiar landmark of the lighthouse tower. The lamps have been somewhat neglected amid the chaos of the rescue. There is much work to be done.
It is only much later that I remember the letter from Mrs. Dawson’s coat pocket. The envelope and letter are still laid out on the hearth, the pages as dry and crinkled as autumn leaves, the ink mostly smudged. I can’t help noticing sketches of lighthouses in the margins as I fold the page. I hesitate for a moment, imagining my sister Mary-Ann at my shoulder, urging me to read the letter. Mary-Ann isn’t known for her discretion, but I respect Mrs. Dawson’s privacy. Smoothing the page, I return it to the envelope and place it in my skirt pocket. I will return it to her as soon as I can take a trip to the mainland and make the necessary inquiries as to a forwarding address. As I place the envelope in my pocket, my fingers settle on the cameo locket I’d forgotten I’d put there earlier. Taking it out, I admire the delicate filigree clasp and the words etched onto the back: Even the brave were once afraid. I fasten the chain around my neck. I’d expected it to feel a little awkward, heavy with the weight of Mrs. Dawson’s grief, but it sits pleasantly at the hollow of my neck.
That evening, as I sit by the fire to read a favorite volume on geography, my fingers absentmindedly twirl the locket around and around. My thoughts stray often to the little locks of hair that should be nestled safe inside, and then I think of Sarah Dawson, and eventually Mr. Emmerson, whose image settles so determinedly in my mind that I can almost sense him beside me, as invisible and definite as a gentle breath of wind against my skin.
North Sunderland, England
At the Olde Ship Inn, George Emmerson is restless, waiting for news of the safe return of the lifeboat that will bring his sister. He cannot settle, pacing the boards as he goes to the window and returns to his seat, still no sign of them. He rehearses his words over and over in his mind, but no combination will suffice. No words can aptly express what he wants to say. No expression feels right.
Eventually, word spreads that the lifeboat and the survivors are back. George rushes to the harbor where a mournful silence falls over the gathered crowd of onlookers as the desperate group emerges, one by one, up the steep steps. And there she is. His dear sister.
“Excuse me. Make way. My sister is there.”
The crowd parts to let George through. Sarah raises her head as she steps unsteadily onto the quayside, her eyes searching the faces of the gathered crowd until she sees him and it is the sight of him, her dear brother, which brings her to her knees. George throws his arms around her and they stand, huddled in a tight embrace, as the crowds move away, giving them some privacy in their grief.
Neither of them speaks. When it comes to it, there simply are no words.
Through the fabric of her cloak, damp with sea spray, George feels the convulsions of his sister’s body. He understands that she is broken beyond repair, but he must be the one to try to fix her. He presses her body to his, praying that some of her pain will pass to him, praying that he might bear this for her.
After a long time, she lifts her face from his shoulder, her eyes red and swollen, her face hollow and pale so that she is almost unrecognizable from the vibrant woman he’d seen last Christmas. “I must see them, George.” Her voice is a whisper.
He nods. “It is all arranged.”
They walk slowly, quietly, to a waiting coach that will take them to Bamburgh, where Sarah will somehow find a way to say a final farewell to her children. As he walks, George wonders how the streets can be so quiet and how the fisherwomen can talk so easily about inconsequential matters such as the day’s catch, and how it is that, for some, everything continues as normal when, for others, so much has changed so irrevocably.
Later that night, when it is done, Sarah sits by the fire in Eliza Cavendish’s home, a cup of ale in her hand. She asks George for paper and ink.
“What for, sister?”
“So that I might write it all down. What I remember. Of the lighthouse, and those who saved me.”
He crouches beside her. “It is over now, Sarah. You must try to forget.” He is patient; careful with his words.
Sarah disagrees. “I must remember, George. We must never forget.”
Thinking her rambling in her distress, George placates her. “Very well. I will get you some paper.”
“Thank you. We mustn’t forget the brave people who came to our rescue. We must never forget her name.”
“Whose name?”
“The woman who saved me. Grace Darling.”
The fire crackles and spits, shooting an ember onto the hearthrug. George stoops to pick it up with the fire irons, tossing it back into the grate. The rug smolders, a scorch mark seared forever into the weave of the wool, and in a moment of clarity George realizes that is precisely what Miss Darling has done to him. Despite the brevity of their interaction, despite his betrothal to Eliza Cavendish, despite none of it making any sense whatsoever, Grace Darling has seared herself into the fiber of his soul. And no more than he can easily remove the scar from the hearthrug, neither can he easily remove the memory of her from his heart.