WITH THE DISTRACTIONS of artists and storms and Mr. Emmerson, I had forgotten entirely about Mr. Sylvester, and Mr. Batty’s circus, but the arrival of the supply boat with a postal delivery brings an unwelcome reminder of them both.
I don’t quite know what to make of the letter when I first read it. It is a very earnest missive from a Mrs. Margaret Kirk, sent on behalf of a group of ladies in Edinburgh. With the letter, she has enclosed a cutting from the Caledonian Mercury in which Mr. Batty has printed a copy of the letter I’d written to him, and in which he makes grand claims about my planned personal appearance at the circus. Mrs. Kirk expresses her opinion about my interactions with Mr. Batty, saying he is not a man to be trusted and that she fears he will take my good name and turn it to his own advantage. Please do not, for a moment, consider exhibiting yourself in this manner, Miss Darling . . . We are, ourselves, gathering funds to donate to your cause and have grave concerns that the goodwill toward you from the respectable people of our city will be damaged by your association with this dreadful showman.
My hands tremble as I read Mrs. Kirk’s words for a second time, trying to absorb the full meaning of them. Tears of humiliation prick at my eyes as I rush to find Father at the boathouse. He studies the letter in quiet contemplation as I read it, again, over his shoulder. It only seems to worsen.
“Look, Father. Here Mrs. Kirk says the public will believe me to be courting popularity and that my name will be tarnished. I feel like such a fool.”
He folds the letter and places it in his pocket as he stands up. “Well, you mustn’t feel like a fool, Grace. Not for one moment. The only fool here is Batty and his unscrupulous actions. How dare he?”
I have rarely seen my father as furious. I rush after him as he strides hotly out of the boathouse, declaring Batty to be the very worst kind of shameless opportunist. “I will write to him immediately—and to the newspaper—to state that your intentions were entirely honorable, unlike those of Batty and his disreputable agent.”
His letter written in haste, Father rows to the Main that afternoon to dispatch it, leaving me at Longstone to stew over Mrs. Kirk’s words.
When Father returns and he has calmed down a little, he sits me down to explain that he has received other, similar, requests to Mr. Batty’s. “I didn’t want to trouble you with them, Grace. Not while all the artists were here. But I think you deserve to know.”
He shows me a letter from a theatrical producer in London who sets out, in great detail, his plan to produce a dramatic stage play of the Forfarshire tragedy, asking if I would consider starring in the production myself. I wonder if she might wear the same dress as that worn on the night of the famous rescue.
I can hardly believe it, unsure whether to be horrified or amused by such a ridiculous notion.
“I know their game, Grace,” Father says. “They see that there is profit to be made from your bravery. They are nothing but a flock of screeching gulls following the herring fleet, waiting to devour whatever pickings they can get.” He assures me he has replied to tell them, in no uncertain terms, that I will certainly not be starring in stage plays or any such nonsense. “Don’t worry, Grace. They will turn their attention to something else soon enough.”
But a somber mood settles over Longstone that day. Even Mam resists the urge to say I told you so. Nothing can cheer me. Not the seal pups, nor the miniature portraits in the locket at my neck. I have never felt less like the courageous heroine everyone believes me to be. I am nothing but a naive fool who misunderstands the ways of the real world and is easily duped by the actions of unscrupulous men.
Like the rocks at low tide, I am exposed. A curiosity. Nothing better than a circus exhibit for all to come and peer at. A deep discomfort settles in my stomach as the sun dips behind the horizon and the lamps cast a path of light onto the dark seas beyond. With the tide on the turn, I feel washed away, as if the real Grace Darling doesn’t exist at all.
OVER THE FOLLOWING days, my spirits are lifted by a series of rather more pleasant news. The first comes in the form of an envelope bearing the royal seal.
I watch Father open it with trembling fingers, rubbing his chin as he reads the contents, declaring, “Well, I never did,” several times.
Mam is fit to burst, grabbing it off him to read it for herself as Father takes my hands in his and explains it is from Queen Victoria, who, after reading in The Times about the events of the Forfarshire and our rescue, wishes to donate fifty pounds as a token of her esteem.
Having absorbed the contents of the letter, Mam sinks into a chair beside the fire and fans herself with it. “A letter from the queen! From the queen!” It is too much for her altogether and she has to take herself off for a lie down.
“Good riddance to the like of Mr. Batty,” Father says, a twinkle returned to his eye again. “It’s royalty you’re dealing with now, Grace.”
I cannot suppress my delight. As an ardent admirer of our young queen, I could not be more honored to know that she has thought of me. I read the letter so many times I can recite it at will be the end of the day.
But that isn’t all. Father also explains that a letter has arrived from the Duke of Northumberland. The duke—a nobleman of the Percy family—and his wife, Duchess Charlotte, are well known in the area, their family seat being the impressive Alnwick Castle, a little distance along the Northumbrian coast. The duchess had acted as governess to young Victoria before she became queen, and is extremely well-liked and respected.
“The duke writes to say that he is aware of the circumstances of the Forfarshire and our rescue and has written to the Duke of Wellington at Trinity House,” Father explains. “We are to receive ten pounds each and he also wishes to present us with gold medals, on behalf of the Royal Humane Society, of which he is president. We are to go to Alnwick Castle in person to receive the medals.” I sit beside the fire to warm my hands and feet as Father reads the letter out loud. When he reaches the end he leans forward, the fire dancing in his eyes. “An invitation to the castle, Gracie!”
I have admired Alnwick Castle many times from the upstairs window of my uncle Marsden’s grocery shop on Narrowgate in the town. Never did I think I would be the recipient of a personal invitation there. The thought fills me with excitement and dread.
“And Mam?” I ask. “It doesn’t mention her?”
Father shakes his head. “Just the two of us. Anyway, you know your mam. She won’t be bothered one bit about invitations to castles and meeting dukes and duchesses.” He winks. “She won’t mind at all.”