WITH MY LETTER and a package for Sarah Dawson tucked safely into my skirt pocket, I set out just after sunrise the following morning, taking advantage of the calm seas. It feels good to be out in the coble again, my oars moving easily over the water, the sun warm against my face. I stop rowing for a moment, the waves slapping gently against the boat as it bobs in the light swell. I draw in deep steady breaths. This is my fuel; my oil and wick. This is where I come alive, with the sun on my face and the wind at my back and the unfathomable depths of the sea below.
With a tinge of guilt, I admit that I’m relieved to be free of the routine of my chores; glad to hear the cry of the gulls and to feel the rush of the breeze against my skin; relieved to be away from the tedious business of letter writing and the incessant interference of Robert Smeddle. As I sit quietly in the boat, I reflect on what Father said the morning before the Forfarshire disaster—“It can’t be easy for you, seeing your sisters and brothers marry and set themselves up on the Main.”—and my reply that I could think of nowhere I’d rather be than at Longstone. The more honest answer is that I’ve grown so accustomed to life at the lighthouse that I’ve never properly considered any alternative.
Sitting alone in the coble, the lighthouse behind me, the coastline of Northumberland ahead, I let myself wonder. Properly wonder. Perhaps there is another life waiting for me, running alongside the one I know, like the tracks they use for the steam locomotives. Perhaps I could marry, could devote myself to something or someone other than my parents and the dear old lighthouse. Brooks will take over from my father when the time comes, and when he marries—which he undoubtedly will before too many more years pass—what need will he have of me? What do I know other than tending the lamps and keeping the seven apartments clean?
And there it is. My greatest fear. Not of storms or rough seas, but of a life beyond the lighthouse. My reluctance to leave Longstone doesn’t only come from a sense of duty, but also from a reluctance to go anywhere else; become someone else. The newspaper reporters might write effusively about my bravery and courage, but the truth is that I am as scared and as hesitant as anyone else. To be truly brave would be to leave behind the life I know, to row away and not return with the tide. The question is: do I have the courage to do it?
Picking up the oars, I row on, enjoying the familiar ache in my shoulders and forearms. I am out of practice after being confined to the lighthouse by the weather and letter-writing, but my muscles easily remember and I am soon lost in the rhythm of my stroke as the lighthouse slips from view and the battlements of Bamburgh Castle grow closer. I reach North Sunderland’s small harbor in good time, running the coble up onto the shallows with the aid of the incoming tide.
The early morning light tints the sand golden as the fisherwomen gather on the shore to see home the herring fleet. Hungry infants suckle at heavy breasts while young children pull at their mams’ skirts or draw pictures in the wet sand with razor shells. Empty creels stand nearby, ready for the day’s catch. The cockle collectors, already back from their morning’s work, haul their cobles up onto the shore beside me. The smell of seaweed and brine paints the air as I loosen the ribbons of my bonnet and ease my shawl around my shoulders.
I love these mornings when the boats come in; love to see such industry and bustle. I notice one or two local artists on the harbor wall, keen to capture the play of light on the water and the way the rising sun falls against the women’s faces. Too many times, I’ve seen those faces cloud with concern as news is relayed about a missing boat. Fishing communities along the east coast towns of North Sunderland, Whitby, and Craster thrive on the fleet, their lives prospering or foundering with the boats. This morning, the first sight of them prompts a great cheering and waving from the gathered families.
Anxious not to draw attention to myself, I stand to one side, watching the women as they expertly pack the fish before hoisting their laden baskets onto their backs, everything they need for their day’s work inside: gutting boards, knives, paper for wrapping the fish for the customers. They are hardy women, out in all weather. Tough as iron and never a breath of complaint. The fishwives work on the quayside, splitting the fish in two before packing them tight in salt barrels, their eager daughters learning the trade alongside them. Just as I once stood at my father’s knee and learned the life of a light keeper, so these young girls will, one day, take on their mams’ creels. They’ll never question the life they were born into, or ever consider any other. Fishing is stitched into their bones and the plaid fabric of their shawls.
Passing Swallow’s Smokehouse, the scent of wood chip makes my stomach growl at the prospect of fresh kippers. Limestone burns in the kilns on the harbor as boats are loaded with quicklime to be shipped to Scotland for fertilizer. Crab pots teeter in lopsided piles outside the door of The Badger, the raucous noise inside carried out through the cracks in the windows as the crab fishermen linger by the open fire, warming their bones.
I make my way along the narrow streets toward the Herbert’s house where I am surprised and delighted to find my sister Thomasin, making a morning call. I am especially grateful for the familiar feel of her embrace. I forget, sometimes, how much I miss her.
Ellen is beside herself to see me, and explains that Mary is out for the morning. “She will be very sorry to have missed you, Grace. We were all so worried for you when we heard about the rescue. Come and sit by the fire and tell us all about it. Was it really as terrible as the newspapers say?”
I remove my bonnet and gloves and move closer to the fire to warm my hands. Dry as autumn leaves, they whisper as I rub them together. When I have warmed myself and recounted the events of the rescue several times to Ellen and my sister’s mutual satisfaction, Thomasin shows me a page from The Times of London. I am horrified to see that some of the letters I’ve received are printed on the page, along with my replies. I am furious with Smeddle for putting my private correspondence on public display and plan to tell him so when I next see him.
“You write so well, Grace,” Ellen gushes, oblivious to my anger. “Such humility after such bravery. Is it true your admirers ask you for a lock of hair?”
I confirm that they do, but I cannot share Ellen’s enthusiasm for the requests which she claims to be a mark of how highly I am held in the public’s regard.
“Grace? What is it?” Thomasin asks. She knows me too well for my sour mood to escape her notice.
“Everyone is making far too much of it, sister,” I sigh, worrying my hands restlessly in my lap. “You know it was my duty to help. You’d have done the same. Anyone would. Even Ellen.”
Thomasin laughs. “Ellen! Go out in a storm? She can’t even put her toes in the water on a summer’s day.”
Ellen admits that she can barely tolerate the boat trip out to the Farnes. “You do yourself a disservice, Grace. There are not many who would have acted as you did.”
Thomasin places a hand on mine. “Ellen’s right. What you did that night was exceptional, Grace. No wonder people are eager to read about you in the newspapers.”
“Well I wish they wouldn’t. I’m tired of people writing about me and talking about me.” I slump back in the chair and rest my feet on a stool. “And now they’re even sending out boat trips, full of people wanting to get a glimpse of me. Of me!”
For a moment the room falls silent apart from the fire crackling in the grate. And then Thomasin snorts a laugh. Ellen follows. Soon, we are all doubled up laughing, tears spilling down our cheeks. It is a welcome release and I feel much better for it.
“You shouldn’t take it so much to heart, Grace” Thomasin says. “You’re far too serious.”
Perhaps she is right.
“Robert Smeddle is arranging for some artist friends of his to come to the lighthouse to paint my portrait,” I continue when we are all recovered. “Apparently the public want to know what I look like.”
Ellen sits beside me. “Well, that isn’t so bad. Just relax and sit still. It’s quite enjoyable.” She takes a sip of tea. I envy her ability to be so blasé about something I’m so worried about. “Talking of artists,” she continues, “do you remember Mr. Emmerson who we met at Dunstanburgh last month? A friend of Henry’s. You probably won’t remember.”
My cheeks redden at the mention of his name. I lift my teacup, hoping to conceal my face behind it. “I don’t especially remember him. No.”
“Oh, Grace. You must. He hardly spoke to anyone else. Tall fellow. Scottish accent. Broad smile . . .”
“Oh, him. Yes, I remember now. What about him?”
“Did you know his sister was rescued from the Forfarshire? A Mrs. Dawson.”
“Sarah? She’s George Emmerson’s sister?” I can hardly believe it. My mind races back over our conversations. Had she ever mentioned him? Had I? Had she noticed my distraction?
“Such a strange coincidence isn’t it? George has been staying at the Olde Ship since she returned to the mainland. Sarah is staying with a cousin of theirs, in Bamburgh. Eliza Cavendish. Pleasant little thing, if rather too meek for my liking.” I can barely concentrate on what Ellen is saying, my thoughts straying back to that afternoon at Dunstanburgh, and all the occasions I have remembered Mr. Emmerson since. “At least the wedding gives them all something happy to look forward to,” she adds.
“Wedding?” I stifle a cough and take another sip of tea before putting my cup and saucer down to stop the telltale rattling.
Ellen looks me full in the face, her eyes shining. “George and Eliza’s. They are to be married next month.”
I feel suddenly very hot. “You really shouldn’t bank the fire so high, Ellen. You’ll have the chimney on fire again.”
Ignoring me, Ellen continues to share everything she knows about the Cavendish girl and how the family had all but given up on George ever asking her to marry him, but all I hear are the words “They are to be married next month” and for some inexplicable reason tears well in my eyes and I have to excuse myself to visit the outhouse.
When I return, I explain that I must be getting on with my errands. Thomasin says she has to leave soon, too.
At the door, Ellen presses kisses to my cheek, telling me, again, how immensely proud they all are of me. “Will you give the harvest ball some thought, or if not that then at least Christmas?”
I promise I will.
Thomasin, as ever, is quick to notice the change in my mood, delaying me on the doorstep as Ellen walks back inside. “Is there anything you wish to tell me, Grace? I noticed you became rather flustered when Ellen mentioned George Emmerson.”
Pulling on my gloves, I assure her there isn’t anything I wish to tell her. “I’m just a little tired of the attention, and dreading the artists’ visits.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” She squeezes my hands as she’d once done when we were young girls sitting together on the rocks, watching the seal pups. Thomasin has always been able to get the truth from me.
My true feelings burn against my cheeks as I reassure Thomasin there is nothing else. “I will write.”
She folds her arms across her chest, clearly unconvinced. “Come and visit me in Bamburgh soon,” she calls after me as I turn to wave before ducking down a side street.
Before calling at the post office, I stop at the haberdashery to pick up some buttons and ribbon for Mam but I am only inside the shop a minute when the whispering starts. “Is it her?” “It is.” “Go and ask her, then.”
Soon the shop is full of admirers as word spreads that Grace Darling is about.
“God bless you, Miss, for what you done. Could I trouble you for a lock of hair?”
“Would you touch my baby’s blanket?”
“Could you spare a little square of material from your skirt, Miss?”
I try to be gracious and polite, but I become agitated and excuse myself, leaving the shop without buttons or ribbon, forgetting entirely about the package in my pocket and my intended trip to the post office. With my head down and my bonnet tied tightly, I rush back to the harbor, eager to return to Longstone where I can be myself, rather than the heroine everyone desires me to be.
I walk with quick steps, already regretting not telling Thomasin the truth. She knows me too well for me to keep things hidden from her for long, but on the matter of Mr. Emmerson I won’t—can’t—be pressed. How awful it would be for me to admit I have been thinking about a man I’d barely spoken to for more than a few minutes, not to mention a man who is engaged to be married.
It is better to keep this particular secret to myself.
IN A SMOKE-FOGGED tavern near the harbor, George Emmerson stares blankly into an untouched glass of porter, wishing there was something he could do to help his grieving sister. The agony of her loss is unbearable and he cannot shake the shadow of guilt that hangs about his shoulders like a heavy cloak. After all, he had encouraged Sarah to take the trip to Scotland, nagging and pestering, insisting the change of scenery would do them all good. He was the one who had arranged the tickets, choosing the Forfarshire especially as he had heard it was such a fine vessel. He is to blame for James and Matilda’s deaths. His mind taunts him with happy memories of the many times he carried them on his shoulders. He can still hear their squeals of joy as he mercilessly tickled their knees. If he cannot bear their loss, how on earth can their mother?
Of course Sarah will not hear of his talk of blame, but George wonders if the same thoughts cross her mind during the empty hours of the night when she wakes from a fitful sleep and remembers that her children are not safe in the bed beside her. How can he ever set things right? How can he ever take away her suffering?
He is, at least, grateful that Sarah is taken under the care of Eliza’s family in Bamburgh. When he visits, Eliza tells him how Sarah stays up late at night, scribbling illegible pages about the Forfarshire disaster and Miss Darling’s rescue, and how she sings in her sleep of lavenders blue and lavenders green. Her delirium is painful to watch, she says. With the tragedy having hit the family so hard, all talk of weddings has been temporarily stalled. Even Eliza’s mother has been sensitive enough not to mention it.
George knows he must return to his studies in Dundee, but he hates the thought of leaving Sarah. Besides, he has no interest in canvas, brush, or charcoal. Every time he thinks of painting or drawing he sees only a page of dark water and storm-tossed ships and stiff little bodies held tight against their mother’s. No color. No joy. He wonders if he will ever paint for pleasure again.
Amid his anguish, George overhears rumor and gossip about the sinking of the Forfarshire. Whispers pass between the lifeboat crew and the locals while self-important men conduct the official inquiry, discussing the whys and wherefores and looking for someone to blame. A man by the name of Robert Smeddle is in charge and from what George can gather, appears to be rather enjoying the drama and attention. What does it matter where the finger of blame lies? Nothing will bring back his dear niece and nephew. Nothing will heal his sister’s broken heart. No accusation or attribution of blame can ever make this better.
Aside from the inquiry, conversations revolve around the extraordinary tale of heroism that has emerged from the Longstone lighthouse. Grace Darling is the name on everyone’s lips. Who is she, they want to know? What does she look like? George listens to idle speculation as he takes lunch in one of the harborside taverns. I know, he wants to tell them. I remember the earnest look in her eyes, the trace of a smile at her lips. That Miss Darling had saved his sister’s life is a coincidence he cannot ignore. He turns the piece of indigo sea glass over in his hands and sees her in its reflection.
Beside him, on the bar, the evening newspaper carries a small advertisement in the center column which catches his attention.
BOAT TRIPS TO LONGSTONE. SEE THE HEROINE, GRACE DARLING. DEPARTS DAILY.
“Is this true?” he asks the publican. “They’re offering trips out to the lighthouse?”
The publican wipes the thick rim of a glass and nods steadily. “People want to see her with their own eyes. Fishermen are always quick to spot an opportunity to make a bit of money.”
“But Miss Darling isn’t a circus exhibit. It doesn’t seem right for people to go to gawp at her.” He thinks about how fondly she’d spoken of her secluded island life, how intrusive she will find it for boatloads of onlookers to descend upon her.
The publican laughs and holds out his hand. “Then give me the newspaper and don’t go!”
Finishing his glass of ale, George takes the newspaper and his hat and walks outside into the pale autumn sunshine. He must meet Eliza, as arranged. He wishes he could be more enthusiastic about her, but he isn’t like the street entertainers he passes with their clever tricks and quick hands. He cannot summon absent feelings from a hat, or easily conceal feelings he shouldn’t possess. He must become an actor then, play the part of devoted husband. What else can he do, other than cause distress to a young girl who deserves none? He would ask Sarah’s counsel but she has enough to think about without his problems.
Scrunching the newspaper into a ball, he tosses it in an empty creel and turns to walk up the harbor steps. Boat trips he can do without. Brave heroines he must push from his mind. Eliza and Sarah are all that he must think about now.
Or they would be, if Miss Darling weren’t standing directly in front of him.