September 1838
Dearest Sarah,
I hope you will forgive my writing to you unexpectedly, but I was anxious to let you know I have been thinking of you these past weeks. Robert Smeddle made inquiries and kindly passed on the address of your cousin, Eliza Cavendish, in Bamburgh. I hope you can forgive the intrusion.
I enclose a letter that I found in your coat pocket while you were here, and a book I had intended to give to you before you left. It is a copy of an instruction manual, issued by Trinity House to light keepers. You mentioned that Matilda had wished to know about the workings of the lighthouses. I hope you will keep the book in her memory.
The seal pups you admired grow bigger every day. There must be hundreds of them now. I think of you whenever I see them.
You might write a few lines when you are feeling up to it. I would be so pleased to hear from you.
Grace
APART FROM THE cameo locket at my neck and a few remarks in the Log, there is little to show that the storm or Mrs. Dawson or the others were ever at Longstone, the moody skies and angry seas returned to a blue melodic calm. Open windows send a brackish breeze washing through the lighthouse apartments, blowing away the lingering scent of grief. The bed sheets dance on the washing line like music hall chorus girls, while Father takes advantage of the good weather to hoist coal up the ladders and clean the external glass of the lantern room. But even as the familiar rhythms and routines settle among us again I feel myself changed, and as the weeks pass and the amber gaze of autumn turns fully upon the Farne Islands, the gaze of the world follows. Like buttermilk spilled across a table, the dramatic accounts of my part in the rescue continue to spread, and fingertips across the country are stained black from the ink of the newspapermen’s words.
Robert Smeddle comes to the lighthouse most fair-weather days, bearing the latest news reports from the printing presses in great bundles rolled up under his arms.
“Didn’t I tell you there would be a silk gown in this for you, Grace?” he crows, pompous as ever in his self-righteousness. “They can’t get enough of you!” A dull headache settles across my brow as I read a headline from The Times of London. HEROINE OF THE FARNE ISLES: GRACE DARLING’S DRAMATIC RESCUE. “Reports of your rescue are spreading like a spring tide,” Smeddle continues with his usual theatricality. “Rushing down streets and spilling into kitchens and sculleries and onto the lips of gossiping maids and fishwives. Who is this Grace Darling, they ask? Who is this brave young woman?”
My heart thumps beneath my apron, heat rising to my cheeks despite the cool air of the afternoon. My hands shake as I pick up one of the pages. “But this report is wrong, Mr. Smeddle. That’s not how it happened. The way they write, you would hardly think Father was there at all.”
“You would hardly think I was where?” Father asks as he appears at the bottom of the steps.
“The newspapers, Father.” I push them toward him. “Look.”
Father places his spectacles onto his nose and studies the reports, pulling at the silvered whiskers on his chin before turning to stoke the fire. “They must always find something to fill their pages, Grace. Best to ignore it. It will be talk of the Chartists by next week. I heard they were very raucous at a recent meeting in Newcastle. Did you hear the reports, Smeddle?”
Father’s attempt to change the subject works for a while as Smeddle divulges his knowledge of the latest Chartist activities in the northern cities and towns. I, however, am not as easily distracted by their talk of politics. My gaze strays back to my name, printed in bold black typeface. I imagine all the hands that will run over those words and all the eyes that will settle on them until I can almost feel those same hands and eyes on me. A shiver runs over my skin as I pick up my Bible and turn to Deuteronomy 31:6. Be strong and of good courage, do not fear nor be afraid of them.
But the newspaper reports are merely the beginning.
Next come dozens of letters, sent by the public to express their admiration for my bravery, many enclosing a small token of respect—books, Bibles, silk handkerchiefs. Requests for a lock of my hair or a piece of fabric from the clothes I wore on the night of the rescue are not uncommon. The declarations of admiration, and the kind words offered in my support, both touch and overwhelm me.
Mam throws her hands in the air when I tell her what the letters say. She marches off to the pantry, returning with a knife.
“What’s that for?” I ask, a little alarmed.
“If it’s locks of your hair they want, it’s locks of hair they’ll be having. And then maybe somebody might tend to the lamp, or is it all to be letter-writing now?”
I suspect she is quietly proud of the public’s interest in me. To have my mother’s favor is a rare and wonderful thing.
Smeddle insists on sitting with me for long hours, familiarizing me with the conventions of formal letter-writing as he dictates appropriate replies to the more notable correspondents.
“There’s really nothing to it,” he says, pulling his chair too close to mine as he flicks through the latest batch of correspondence. The warts on his fingers remind me of the fat blisters on bladder wrack seaweed. “A few formalities to open and close. A polite line or two of news. That’s all. The personal letters don’t require as much care, whereas this from the Royal Society, and this, see, from the Institute of Mariners, these need your undivided attention.”
When I ask Smeddle if I really must reply to them all, as well as sign my name on the dozens of blank cards he has provided (for which I can see no obvious purpose), he is astonished.
“My dear Grace. We wouldn’t wish to offend, would we? While you are very much in the public’s favor right now, they could turn against you just as quickly.” He presses his fat little fingers against mine. “I’m sure you wouldn’t wish the newspapers to claim you are ungrateful and aloof, would you? Too busy to respond to your admirers?”
“Of course not.”
“Very well then. We shall continue.”
I diligently follow Smeddle’s instructions, writing in my best copperplate handwriting until the ink runs dry and my hand aches with a cramp. I enclose a small lock of hair or a piece of fabric from my collar or shawl where requested, expressing my gratitude for their kind words while insisting I only did my duty and emphasizing my father’s bravery at every opportunity. When Smeddle is satisfied, he bundles the letters and signed cards into his coat pocket to have his clerk at the Castle send off immediately.
And so it goes on, day after day, until I begin to dread the endless scratch of my nib on the page and the prospect of more time spent under Smeddle’s tutelage. I tire easily of his company. I don’t care for the way his breath catches in his chest, nor for the cloying odor of porter and mustache wax he brings with him, and leaves behind.
The unwanted attention from the newspapermen and the public gives me a headache as the quiet days I’ve always known on my island home become smothered by a tide of unceasing demand to know more about me. As I extinguish the lamps each morning, I find myself wishing that the glare of public scrutiny could be quenched as easily. I no longer sleep easy in my bed, am no longer soothed by the velveteen lullaby of the sea, too anxious about what new drama might arrive with the dawn.
Mam seeks distraction in her spinning wheel, tutting about people who have nothing better to do with their time. Father is more reserved on the matter, observing it all with quiet perplexity, and among it all, the lighthouse stands, tall and unyielding. In rare moments alone, I rest my cheek against the thick stone walls, imagining the lighthouse to breathe with me, willing it to absorb some of my discomfort. And yet despite all the changes recent events have brought to our door, I am determined to carry on as before. I tend to the lamps and the Fresnel lens, fetch wood for the stove, polish Father’s boots, check on the hens, scrub at the hems of brine-stiffened skirts, take a needle and thread to any garments in need of repair, keeping my stitches neat and even as Mam had taught me. I take pleasure in mending things, in being purposeful and occupied. It is, after all, what I’ve been raised to do. The business of being a heroine I knew nothing about, despite what the newspapermen would have their readers believe.
“I’VE MADE ARRANGEMENTS for a sculptor and an artist to visit in the next few days,” Smeddle announces as he swoops into the lighthouse for the third time that week.
Now it is Father’s turn to be confused. “An artist. Whatever for?”
“To capture Grace’s likeness.” Smeddle smiles at Father as if he were a child misunderstanding a simple arithmetic. “Everyone wants to see her, William. To put a face to the name.” He watches me closely as he speaks, already assessing my physical appeal.
Mam mutters about how she might as well open the lighthouse up as an inn and offer board and lodgings.
“They won’t stay for long, Mrs. Darling,” Smeddle assures her. “If Grace sits well for them they could be done in a day. It really is a great honor. David Dunbar is one of the best sculptors in England. And Henry Perlee Parker is renowned for his seascapes.” He studies me with a quizzical eye, tilting his head first to one side, then the other. “They’ll make a good job of her. They can fix the imperfections.”
I feel like a stone sculpture already, an inanimate relic for people to stare at, not a person with thoughts and feelings. I cast a meaningful gaze at my father, who raises his eyebrows in reply. Without saying a word, I know what he is saying. What are we to do about it, Gracie? Smeddle knows these matters best. If people want a likeness of you, we must give them one. Excusing myself, I step outside, walking my frustration onto the pebbles along the beach, crunching seashells satisfyingly beneath my boots.
An unusual air of tension settles within the lighthouse walls that evening.
Father remarks that I seemed agitated. “I think all these letters and whatnot are troubling you, Grace. Am I right?”
I am grateful for his concern, but have no desire to talk about it. “I’m sure the letters and gifts will stop soon enough, Father. The marriage proposals, too.”
Mam jerks her head up from her darning. “The what?”
“There’ve been a few marriage proposals in the letters, Mam. That’s all.”
She is either horrified, or excited, I’m not entirely sure which. “That’s all?” she screeches. “Proposals from who?”
“Whom,” Father interjects.
Mam scowls. “This is no time for fussing over grammar, Father.”
“Nobody, Mam. Lonely men who believe what they read in the newspapers and think me to be far more than I am. Don’t give it another thought. I certainly won’t.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so hasty, Grace,” she counters. “There might be one or two who are serious.” She turns to my father. “Did you see these proposals?” He shakes his head. “Well then, I suppose we’ll never know if it was dukes and earls offering their hand. We’ll never know the life she could have had.” She returns to her darning, stabbing her needle crossly into her work as if it had done something to offend her.
Taking up my lamp, I stand and stretch out my back.
Father studies me carefully, his brow knotted with concern. “Why don’t you take off to the Main tomorrow, Grace? See your sisters. We can manage well enough here. A change of scenery will do you good.”
I concede to think about it as I bid my parents goodnight and climb the spiral steps to the lantern room. Father is right. I am exhausted. Not from any physical exertions but from the weight of expectation to live up to all the fuss and attention. I feel a great burden has settled on my shoulders, and I’m not sure I am strong enough to bear it.
Despite my exhaustion, sleep eludes me, my thoughts drifting and swirling like the delicate fronds of the anemones in the rock pools. I dwell on troubling thoughts of unwelcome artists staring at me, fixing my imperfections with their brushes and paints. I’m not like Ellen and Mary Herbert, or the ladies on the Main, who delight in having their portraits painted.
I recall something Mr. Emmerson had said about artists. That even for those born with a natural talent there is much that can be taught: how to study shape and form, how to frame an object to bring about its truest likeness, how to draw the eye to the focal point. “There’s far more to being an artist than brush, palette, and canvas, Miss Darling. Those are merely the tools. The real artistry takes place in the heart and the mind . . . and the eye.” I picture the smile that crossed his lips as he took the piece of indigo sea glass from me, but the memory soon dissipates as my worries about the present return.
I can think of nothing worse than sitting still for hours on end, apart from which I am sure the artists will consider me far too dull and ordinary, the reality of Grace Darling failing to match the image of the saintly heroine the newspapers have written about. I only hope Mr. Smeddle’s friends will change their minds and find someone far more interesting and suitable to occupy their brushes.
I toss and turn for hours, sit up and lie back down again. Perhaps Father is right. A trip to the mainland will be good for me.