IT IS A different home we return to.
I have never been more grateful to see the familiar tower of Longstone emerge from the mist, but I also know that everything has changed, that I am changed by what has taken place. Part of my soul has shifted, too aware now of the awful fact that the world can rob a mother of her children as easily as a pickpocket might snatch a lady’s purse. But it is the sight of Mam—steadfast, resourceful Mam—waiting loyally at the boathouse steps that stirs the strongest response as I become a child, desperate for her mother’s embrace.
Her hands fly to her chest when she sees the coble. “Oh, thank the Lord! Thank the Lord!” she calls out as we pull up alongside the landing steps. “I thought you were both lost to me.”
“Help Mrs. Dawson, Mam,” I shout, trying to make myself heard above the still-shrieking wind. “Father must go back.”
“Go back?”
“There are other survivors. We couldn’t manage them all.” Mam stands rigid, immobilized by the relief of our return and the agony of learning that Father must go back. I have never raised my voice to her, but I need her help. “Mam!” I shout. “Take the woman!”
Gathering her wits, Mam offers Mrs. Dawson her arm. Too distraught to walk, Mrs. Dawson collapses onto her knees on the first step, before turning as if to jump back into the water.
I rush to her aid, speaking to her gently. “Mrs. Dawson. You must climb the steps. Mam has dry clothes and hot broth for you. You are in shock. We must get you warm and dry.”
Again, she grasps desperately at the folds in my sodden skirt, her words a rasping whisper, her voice snatched away by grief. “Help them, Miss. Please. I beg you to help them.”
I promise we will as I half carry, half drag her up the steps. “My father is a good man. He will bring them back. But he must hurry. We must go inside so that he can go back.”
The two injured men limp behind, while the other, refusing any rest and insisting he is quite unharmed, sets out again with Father to fetch the remaining survivors. I catch Father’s eyes as he takes up the oars. Without exchanging a word, I know he understands that I am begging him to be safe, but that I also understand he has to go back. I pray for him as I help Mrs. Dawson into the lighthouse.
Inside, all becomes urgent assistance and action. While Mam tends to the injured men, patching them up as best she can, I fetch more wood for the fire and fill several lamps with oil, it still being gloomy outside. I set a pot of broth on the crane over the fire and slice thick chunks of bread, glad now of the extra loaves Mam had made yesterday. I pass blankets and dry clothes around the wretched little group huddled beside the fire, grateful for the light and warmth it lends to their frozen limbs.
Having dealt with the most pressing needs, my attention returns to Mrs. Dawson. I fetch a screen to save her modesty before helping her out of her sodden clothes, peeling them from her like layers of onion skin before hefting them into a wicker basket. How broken and vulnerable she is, standing in our home without a stitch on her. She shivers and convulses, her skin almost gray in color, her fingertips and toes badly wrinkled from the salt water. I dry her as quickly and gently and respectfully as I can before helping her into the dry clothes. Our eyes meet only once during the long process of undressing and dressing. It is a look that will stay with me for a long time.
“How long is your father gone?” she asks, glancing anxiously at the window.
“He is a strong rower,” I assure her. “He’ll be back soon.”
She stands then, as if in a trance, staring at the collection of seashells and sea glass on the windowsill. “Matilda will like the glass pebbles,” she murmurs, rubbing her fingertips over them. “And James will admire the patterns on the shells. He loves patterns. He likes the repetition in things.”
I curl her shaking hands around several small shells. “Keep them,” I say.
Her eyes are glassy and swollen from her tears. “They were too cold,” she says in desperate hitching sobs. “I couldn’t keep them warm.”
Kneeling at her feet to lace a pair of old boots, I blink back tears that prick my eyes. I have to stay strong, have to suppress whatever fears I have about my father, still out there at the mercy of the sea.
I startle as Mrs. Dawson places a hand gently on my shoulder. “I don’t know your name, Miss. I’m Sarah.”
“Grace,” I tell her, looking up. “Grace Darling.”
Sarah Dawson smiles a little through her pain. “Thank you, Grace Darling. I will never forget your courage and your kindness.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Mrs. Dawson,” I say, standing up. “We only did our duty as light keepers. I thank God for enabling us to save at least some of you.” I drop my gaze to my boots. “I only wish we could have done more.”
I fetch bread and broth, watching closely as Sarah Dawson eats, just as a mother might watch its child, swallowing every mouthful with her, knowing that with each spoonful her strength will return, and that somehow she will find a way to endure this. As I watch her, I notice a pretty cameo locket at her neck. It reminds me that someone must be waiting for her, perhaps already missing her.
“Do you have family, Sarah? A husband? Sisters?”
“I have a brother,” she says, as if she had forgotten. “Poor George. He’ll be ever so worried. He’ll be waiting for me. We were traveling to Scotland to spend a month with . . .” Her words trail away. “I don’t suppose it matters now.”
I press my hands against hers. “We can talk later. Try to get some rest.”
Eventually, she sleeps, exhausted from shock and numbed a little from the good measure of brandy I’d added to her broth. While she rests, I take the sodden clothes to the outhouse, where I put them through the mangle, sea water spilling onto the floor until half the North Sea sloshes about at my feet. I am glad to be occupied, but it is tiring work for arms that are already sore from my efforts rowing the coble. With each turn of the handle I imagine myself still rowing, bringing Father safely home.
The clothes are put through the mangle three times, and still Father doesn’t return. I think about the bird flying inside and how he’d joked about it. “Which one of us do you think it is, Gracie, because I’m not in the mood for perishing today, and I certainly hope it isn’t you . . .” Scolding myself for being maudlin, I carry the heavy basket of damp clothes back to the lighthouse, where I hang them on the line above the fire. Glad to see Sarah Dawson still sleeping, I place the letter I’d found in her coat pocket on the hearth to dry. I will remind her of it when she wakes.
IT IS ELEVEN o’clock—almost two hours after Father set out again—before he returns with the remaining survivors. My heart soars with relief when the lighthouse door opens and the bedraggled group stagger inside. Not for the first time this morning I have to blink back tears, rushing to assist, keeping myself busy to stop my emotions overwhelming me. This is not a time for sentiment. It is a time for common sense and practicality.
“The children?” I whisper as I help Father out of his sodden coat.
“Not enough room,” he replies, shaking his head. “They are secured on the rock with the other lost soul.”
“Secured?” The puzzled expression on my face demands further explanation.
“Placed high above the waterline,” he explains. “Where the sea will not reach them. I will go back when the storm abates.”
We both glance over to Sarah Dawson. I can hardly bear to tell her.
Once again, our living quarters become canteen, laundry, and hospital, and Mam and I become cook, nursemaid, and counsel.
I place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’ll manage, Mam. At least Father is back safe.”
“Aye, pet. I suppose we must be thankful for that. I only wish your brother was here with us.”
Brooks has been on my mind, too. I tell her I’m sure he is safe on dry land, and silently hope I am right.
Nine survivors in total are rescued and brought back to Longstone. Eight men and one woman. Five crew and four passengers. Of all those aboard the steamer when she’d set sail from Hull, it hardly seems anywhere near enough. Mam is pleased to discover that in addition to the Forfarshire’s carpenter, trimmer, and two firemen, we have also rescued Thomas Buchanan, a baker from London, and Jonathan Tickett, a cook from Hull. Mr. Buchanan and Mr. Tickett soon have fresh loaves baking and a stew bubbling over the fire. The lighthouse is so full of people I can hardly remember the quiet harmony the room usually holds. As always, dear Longstone plays its own part, somehow expanding to accommodate everyone. I take a moment in the stairwell to offer my gratitude to this place I am so proud to call home. I can imagine nowhere safer, or more welcoming, for the poor souls below.
A little later, while they are seated around the fire, the five rescued crewmen talk in hushed voices, each recalling his own version of events, remembering moments of good fortune that had seen them at the front of the ship when it struck the rocks, or moments of great despair when they had been unable to help others. I am troubled to hear them debating their captain’s decision not to seek repairs in Tynemouth, shocked by their willingness to apportion blame and point the finger so soon after the tragedy. It doesn’t sit well with me, especially not with the captain believed lost to the sea and poor Sarah Dawson close beside them, foundering in her grief.
I offer the men a tray of bread and cheese, putting it down on the table a little too roughly so that the plates clatter against each other. “I will leave you, gentlemen. You must have many things to discuss.” There is no smile on my lips. No softness to my voice.
Realizing they have been overheard, the men lower their voices, shuffling their chairs closer together. Guilt clouds their faces as I step from the room. I am happy to leave them to their ill-judged discussions.
By late morning the light is still that of evening and the many candles and lamps scattered about the place burn their wicks hungrily. After the initial melee of organization and the rush to tend to our guests’ needs, a strange calm falls over the lighthouse as the hours wear on. One of the crewmen takes up a lament, a haunting tune which we all join in to the best of our ability. Playing its part in the performance, the cacophony of the storm rages on outside. It is impossible to even contemplate making the journey to the mainland to seek help or much-needed supplies. As the waves crash relentlessly against the rocks and the wind howls at the windows, my thoughts turn repeatedly to Mrs. Dawson’s children, alone on Harker’s Rock. At a point when I think the storm has abated a little, I ask Father if he might consider returning for them.
He shakes his head, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, pet. It is still too dangerous. We must pray for their souls. That is all we can do for them now.”
“But I can’t get them from my mind, Father. How can I ever forget their still little bodies, or poor Mrs. Dawson’s suffering?”
“I’m not sure you can, Grace. Nor that you should. We all must face our maker when the time comes and those of us left behind must somehow find the strength to carry on. Our duty as keeper of the light is to warn, but it is also to rescue and to offer a place of shelter for those in need. We did our best, Grace, and you showed tremendous courage. I will write a report for Trinity House and make a note in the Log, and we will trim the wicks and inspect the lenses and the light will turn as usual tonight, and the world will turn with it. That, my dear child, is what we must do—carry on. Today, we have seen the very worst of life, and the very best of it.”
“Best?”
He sees the surprise in my eyes. “Yes. The best. Look at these people—strangers—in our home, in our clothes, eating our food. Look at how they comfort and help each other. Look how much you care for Mrs. Dawson and her children, all of whom you’d never even heard of until a few hours ago. There will always be someone willing to save us, Grace. Even a stranger whose name we don’t know. That is the very best of humanity. That is what puts my mind at ease on a day like today.”
His words, as always, fly to my heart, giving me the strength to keep going. Pushing all thoughts of tiredness from my mind, I tend to the fire, fill the kettle with water to heat for tinctures and tonics. As I work, the door blows open, the wind rushing inside, snuffing out lamps and sending yesterday’s newspaper skittering along the floor.
The storm has brought unexpected visitors.
FROM HER CHAIR beside the fire, Sarah Dawson observes the new arrivals with a strange detachment. Where were all these people when she was struggling to stay afloat? Where were they when her children were still alive? Too late, she wants to call out to them. You are all too late. But she says nothing, only wraps her arms around herself, rocking backward and forward, singing to herself of lavenders green and lavenders blue and muttering how sorry she is that she couldn’t tell Matilda about the lighthouse, and that James never got to use his uncle’s paintbrushes.
Reaching up to scratch an itch at her throat, her fingers knock against her locket. With trembling hands, she unhooks the chain around her neck. The filigree clasp is already undone, the two sides of the locket as open as butterfly wings. Inside, there is nothing. No lock of pale barley. None of darkest coal dust. The sea has robbed her of the last piece of her children. Her past has been erased, her future stolen, her whole world shattered into fragments of what was and what might have been and what can never be again. Like Matilda’s rag doll, she folds in on herself, head to knees, her grief so all-consuming she cannot imagine how she will ever move on from this moment.
Eventually she sleeps, her fingers unfurling like a summer rose until the locket falls into her lap and the piece of emerald sea glass Miss Darling had given to her drops from her hand and rolls a little way along the floor, where it waits patiently for some other hand to find it.