THE SUN RISES and sets over Longstone three times before the sea conditions are considered safe enough for the lifeboat crew to return to Harker’s Rock for the bodies, which they take to Bamburgh Castle before continuing to North Sunderland to exchange their borrowed fishing coble for the lifeboat. It is another two days before they return to take the survivors back to the Main. As Father had anticipated, Robert Smeddle arrives with them.
Mam grouses at the window beside me as we watch him step precariously from the boat, his black cloak flapping about in the breeze like wings. She still hasn’t forgotten the bird that flew in through the window on the day of the shipwreck. A bad omen indeed. Folding her arms tight across her chest, she sniffs derisively. “Might have known he’d come snooping about. Surprised it took him so long.”
Father patiently reminds her that it is Robert Smeddle’s duty to remain informed in all matters relating to shipwrecks and wrecked persons. “Not so much snooping, as doing his job, missus. Don’t be forgetting that we are in Smeddle’s employ, to one degree or another, whether we like it or not.”
Mam sniffs again. “We do not.”
Suitably chastised, she nevertheless does her best to be polite to our guest, regardless of her personal feelings.
“Mrs. Darling! William! Young Grace!” Smeddle greets us all effusively, pressing three freshly baked stotties and a haunch of ham into Mam’s hands. “I bring supplies, Mrs. Darling. Barrels of fresh water, dried peas, tea, barley and wheat.” I can feel the tension in Mam’s shoulders release with each item Mr. Smeddle mentions. “And boats to convey the stricken survivors to the mainland and relieve you of their care. You must be exhausted, cooking and cleaning for so many. What a woman you are! You’ll be wanting to put your feet up and get things back to normal, no doubt.”
A smile passes my lips as Mam fusses and fawns, putting on her “elegant” voice as she explains how she is entirely wrung out with it all, and that she canna remember when she last rested her poor aching feet.
As Father leads Smeddle inside, I walk behind with Mam, who inspects the quality of the ham. Suitably impressed, she concedes that Mr. Smeddle isn’t such a bad sort after all. “At least he had a mind to bring provisions, which is more than can be said for some.” She has never forgiven the Herberts for arriving empty-handed one Whitsuntide, apparently having left a basket of food on the scullery table. She’d served them a measly supper that evening to make her point. They have never arrived empty-handed since.
Smeddle adopts his usual air of authority as he strides into the lighthouse, addressing his comments to my father while handing his cloak and hat to me as if I were a maid-of-all-work. “I’d already held an inquiry and written up my remarks for the Crewe Trustees, considering the matter to be closed, when your son, Brooks, returned with the North Sunderland lifeboat crew and recounted the remarkable events that had taken place here. Of course, I had to hear it for myself and came as soon as I could!”
After several days of quiet condolence and prayer, Smeddle’s commanding voice feels too loud and harsh in the confined space at the bottom of the lighthouse. Unexpectedly, he then turns his attention to me.
“Young Grace. Your brother tells me you assisted with the rescue, by which I presumed he meant caring for the survivors when they were returned to Longstone, but he assures me your part in the event was far more than that of nursemaid. He tells me you set out in the boat with your father. Is it true?”
I squirm beneath Smeddle’s scrutiny, wishing he wouldn’t peer at me with his narrow eyes. Suspicious or excited, it is impossible to tell. Whichever it is, I don’t wish to be the center of Robert Smeddle’s attention, or anyone else’s for that matter.
“Yes,” I confirm. “I set out in the coble with my father to aid the stricken survivors.” I keep my voice light, matter-of-fact, as I place Smeddle’s cloak on a hook beside the door where it dangles like a hanged man. I don’t care for the ominous form of it. “My father made the journey twice.”
Sensing my discomfort, Father intervenes to confirm the events of my brother’s story. “You have things correct, Robert. Grace was the first to see the wreck from her bedroom window. As usual, she was perfectly levelheaded and assisted ably in the rescue. As you know, she is an experienced oarswoman. I couldn’t have made the journey without her. The seas were like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
Smeddle’s obvious incredulity settles in the creases and lines on his face, his unfortunate pallor reminding me of crinkles pressed into a puddle of warm wax. “Of course, I know your daughter to be an active girl. I’ve often seen her rowing in the waters around the islands, or over to the Main or to Brownsman on clear calm days, but the seas on the night of the Forfarshire disaster place an entirely different perspective on matters. I suspected young Brooks of embellishing his sister’s role in the rescue and will admit I’d dismissed his reports as balderdash, but perhaps I was a little hasty.” He turns to me again. “And you steadied the coble yourself, Grace, while the storm raged and your father attended to the desperate survivors clinging to the rocks?”
His dramatic narrative wouldn’t be out of place in one of Mary Herbert’s romance novels. I do my best to remain polite, nodding my assent. “Yes, Mr. Smeddle. That is how it happened, but I was only alone in the boat for a few moments. One of the surviving men took the oars while I tended to another who was badly injured, and to poor Mrs. Dawson, who was distraught to have lost her dear children.”
Even with the assurance of us both, Smeddle appears incapable of fully comprehending what he hears. “It’s simply remarkable. I can hardly believe that a woman would even consider setting out in those seas, nor that your father would permit it. Pure folly, surely.”
I can tell my father is rapidly losing his patience with Smeddle’s endless questioning. He stands up suddenly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor, the noise voicing his frustration for him.
“Well, I did permit it, Robert. Indeed, it was Grace who insisted we attempt a rescue while I was initially hesitant. She set out in the boat with me and the rest you know.” He places his hands on his hips. “Now, unless this is an official inquiry, I think we would all like to have something to eat, and put the whole episode behind us.”
Smeddle laughs, tipping his head back so far his hat tumbles to the ground. “Put it behind us! Mark my words, William, there’ll be no putting this behind you. The locals are already talking about Grace, and will talk about her for a long time yet, I’ll wager. When the newspapers get wind of her role in the rescue she’ll be the talk of the country. Everyone loves a romantic tale of a daring young heroine.” He stands up, grasping my hands in his, gripping them tightly. My skin recoils at the touch of his clammy flesh against mine. My heart races as he leans forward, lowering his voice as he stares at me with great intent. “There’ll be a silk gown for you for this, Grace. A silk gown! You mark my words.”
I laugh, nervously, willing him to let go of my hands. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You, Grace Darling, will be famous!” He bangs his hands on the table, making me jump. “And what a name to accompany such courage. Grace Darling—Heroine of the Seas.” His hands sweep upward in a broad flourish as he speaks, as if he were a theater promoter announcing his latest play.
Smiling politely, I assure him he is quite mistaken. “It is the duty of a lighthouse keeper to save those in peril.” I grab a book from the windowsill, flicking forward a few pages until I find the line I am looking for. “It is the duty of light-keepers to aid wrecked persons as far as lies in their power,” I read aloud. “See, it is stated in the instruction manual to light keepers from Trinity House. What sort of a story could the newspapers possibly make of such a simple fact?”
Smeddle doesn’t answer, only smiles a self-satisfied smile that sends shivers down my spine. “In any event,” he continues, “the official verdict on the incident was challenged, so a second inquiry must take place. Your official report will be important evidence, William.”
Father assures Smeddle that everything is in order on that front. “A full report is already written and ready to be dispatched to Trinity House. There is nothing more to add, Robert. We assisted the stricken passengers, and now we will return them to the mainland and wish them a speedy recovery. Our part in the matter is closed.”
Smeddle cracks his knuckles and blows his nose in a vulgar manner, muttering to himself about matters never being quite that simple.
Unable to tolerate his company any longer, I excuse myself, but even seeking distraction in my chores can’t stop the echo of Smeddle’s words. “The locals are already talking about Grace . . . When the newspapers get wind of her role in the rescue, she’ll be the talk of the country.” With the wind tugging at the ribbons of my bonnet, a brooding discomfort settles on my skin like a fine sea spray. I look toward the just-visible outline of the mainland and wonder if it is true: if people there are talking about me. Have the wild winds that battered our island really carried my name so far, so quickly? Even if it is true, names are easily forgotten. Like the storm, any interest in me or my family will soon move on.
I am quite certain of it.