MR. EMMERSON!”
“Miss Darling? What a surprise!”
The surprise is all mine. After imagining him so often and conjuring fragments of our conversation in the darkness of my bedroom, it is almost incomprehensible that Mr. Emmerson is standing in front of me.
“I was only thinking about you,” he adds, hesitantly.
“Me?”
“Reading the latest account in the newspapers.”
A quiet thrill blooms in my heart to hear the soft musicality in his words, just as I’d remembered, but apart from his voice, Mr. Emmerson isn’t how I’d remembered him at all. Dark shadows lurk beneath his eyes. His lips are pinched and pale, his skin carries the sickly pallor of the sleep-deprived. “Ah, yes. There are rather too many accounts in the newspapers, I’m afraid.”
“Not nearly enough, I’d say, after what you did.”
I fiddle with my gloves for want of something to do with my hands. My breathing is shallow, my thoughts leaping to Sarah Dawson as I feel the press of the locket against my skin with every quick breath.
“I am so very sorry, Mr. Emmerson,” I say. “For your sister’s loss. And yours.”
“How can I ever thank you for saving Sarah and taking such good care of her in her darkest hours?” He speaks slowly, without drama or hysteria, yet the strain of recent events is clear to see. “She is so grateful for your kindness. She speaks very fondly of you.”
“And I of her,” I reply, offering a tentative smile. “Your sister was so very brave. I will never forget her.”
The pause in our conversation is awkward. “My apologies,” he says. “I am delaying you.”
I assure him he isn’t, explaining that I had been visiting the Herberts. “I’m afraid my appearance in the haberdashers caused rather a fuss. It seems I can’t buy so much as a button without drawing attention to myself. I am keen to get back to the island.”
A slight smile tugs at his lips. “Perhaps I can escort you to the boat?” he offers.
I accept the invitation while worrying about the appropriateness of walking with a man betrothed to another.
“Sarah and the children were traveling to Dundee for a little holiday with me,” he explains as we walk. “Her husband passed away in the summer and she had suffered other . . . difficulties. I pestered her until she agreed to come to Scotland. I believed the change of scenery would lift her spirits.”
“It is a very beautiful country,” I remark.
Mr. Emmerson pauses. “The thing is, Miss Darling, that I feel responsible for the loss of Sarah’s dear children. If it weren’t for my interfering, they would never have been on the bloody Forfarshire.”
I flinch at his language, shocked by the anger and emotion he carries beneath his crumpled frock coat.
He looks at me, such loss and remorse in his eyes. “Please forgive me, Miss Darling. I am not myself.”
“There is no apology needed. You have all been through a dreadful ordeal but you mustn’t shoulder the burden of blame. It was a terrible accident caused by a violent storm. If you must blame someone, blame Mother Nature.”
We walk down the steps onto the beach, the fresh breeze nipping at my cheeks.
“Ellen mentioned that your sister is staying with relatives in Bamburgh,” I say.
“Yes. Sarah is with an aunt and cousin. I visit as often as I can, but it all feels rather lacking.”
The name Eliza Cavendish settles between us like a child waiting to be entertained. Why doesn’t he mention her? Why call her his cousin, rather than his wife-to-be? It doesn’t make any sense. None of this does, and I am thankful that we reach the coble which Mr. Emmerson insists on helping me drag to the water’s edge.
“I believe they are sending boats out to Longstone so people can see you,” he says as we push and pull together. “It must be quite an intrusion to your usually peaceful home.”
I tip my head to the sky and let out a long sigh. There is so much I want to say but now is not the time to admit to my frustrations or to share unkind thoughts about the boatmen and their passengers. “Apparently the public must see their heroine, Mr. Emmerson. I only hope they will not be too disappointed,” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood a little. “I blame the newspapers. They have greatly exaggerated my part in the rescue. It is really my father who should be praised.”
“I am quite sure nobody would be disappointed to see you,” he says, his words sending heat rushing to my cheeks. “As for the newspapers’ exaggeration? Perhaps, but men like your father are expected to row boats in stormy seas. A young woman isn’t.”
“But as the lighthouse keeper’s daughter it is my duty to rescue wrecked souls.”
“And so it is the newspapers’ duty to report interesting events. We must all have our heroes and heroines, Miss Darling. The world would be awfully dull without daring sea rescues and brave adventurers. I certainly don’t find much to inspire in the listings for the price of corn and the schedule for the courts.”
I smile, despite myself. “You make a very persuasive argument.”
“There is no argument from me, Miss Darling. Persuasion? Perhaps a little.”
And there it is again. That gentle smile. The unspoken something I’d felt so keenly as we’d walked at Dunstanburgh Castle. I briefly wonder if he senses it, too, if he has thought about me in the weeks since we met. But of course he hasn’t. He is engaged to be married and I am ridiculous to even entertain the idea. Am I starting to believe the newspapermen’s version of me? Do I really believe I am worthy of thought and attention? I blush at my awful neediness.
As I step into the boat I remember the packet in my pocket. “I wonder if you might pass this on to your sister. I’d meant to post it to her. Would you mind?”
“Of course. She will be pleased to hear from you.” He takes the packet from me. “It was an unexpected pleasure to see you again, Miss Darling.”
“And you, Mr. Emmerson.”
“I’m especially glad to have had the opportunity to thank you in person. I had planned to write a few lines, but words were never my forte.”
“And I am grateful for it. I am drowning in letters. You have done me a great favor by reducing the amount by one.” I push against the rocks with my oars. “Besides, what need have you for words when you have the talent to draw and paint?” My thoughts flicker to the imminent arrival of the first artists, my heart sinking into my boots at the prospect.
As the waves catch the boat and carry me away from the shore, Mr. Emmerson places his hand in his coat pocket and takes something out.
“I still have it,” he calls. “My memento.”
The indigo sea glass catches the sun, glinting like a rare treasure. He had remembered.
“And I am still looking for sea dragons,” I call in reply, biting my lip to stall the rampant smile that urges to break free.
I row poorly, unable to coordinate my strokes, distracted by thoughts of Sarah Dawson and Eliza Cavendish and sea glass and sea dragons. Mr. Emmerson stands for a long while until he becomes a barely visible speck, and I, in turn, become part of the sea, a young woman and her boat, invisible from the shore, indistinguishable from the waves that carry her home.
Bamburgh, England
Sarah Dawson listens patiently as George tells her, with great enthusiasm, how he had bumped into Miss Darling in North Sunderland, and what a strange coincidence it was and how well she looked and how humble she was in regard to the newspaper reports written about her. Sarah quietly observes the high color in her brother’s cheeks, the adoration in his eyes when he talks about Miss Darling. It is a look she has never seen when he talks about Eliza.
For the first time since the tragedy, she smiles. “If you weren’t engaged to be married, I would believe you had feelings for Miss Darling, George.” She teases, only a little.
He denies it furiously, but his demeanor belies the truth. And then Sarah remembers the sketches of lighthouses in the margins of the letter he’d written to her, his sentences full of admiration for this lighthouse keeper’s daughter. She wonders where that letter ever went. Lost to the sea, no doubt.
“It isn’t too late,” she ventures, no longer caring for propriety or caution, nor for Eliza’s feelings, or her aunt’s reputation.
“Too late for what?”
“To change your mind.” She leans forward conspiratorially, placing her trembling hand on George’s knee and lowering her voice. “Eliza is a pleasant girl, but she is a breeze, George. A breeze. Your heart desires a storm. I can tell.”
He stands up, fussing with the buttons on his waistcoat as he throws on his coat and hat. “I don’t know what you mean, Sarah. But I’m afraid I must be getting back to the Olde Ship. The landlady fusses when I’m late. Can I get you anything before I leave?”
Sarah shakes her head. “But you can promise me something.”
“Yes?”
“Think about them. The breezes and the storms. Think about your life, George, and what you really wish to do with it. It can, so suddenly, be snatched away. We must do our best with the time we have. Mustn’t we?”
He kisses her cheek and says that yes, he supposes we must, before closing the door thoughtfully behind him.
Sarah is pleased to have said her piece.
Dear George. He has been so good to her. So considerate and caring. She knows he feels responsible for what happened, even though she insists he mustn’t. And Eliza has been kind, too. Everyone has. They tiptoe around her as if she were a piece of finest porcelain, liable to crack and break at any time. Does she want anything to eat? Has she had sufficient rest? Is there anything she needs to make her stay more comfortable? She understands that they mean well, but she feels suffocated by everyone’s good intentions and wishes they would all leave her alone.
Nevertheless, she tolerates their incessant goodwill and lingers in this halfway house, stuck between the past and the future. She knows she is an awkward and unexpected addition to the Cavendishes’ lives. She tries to keep out of their way, making herself small and uncomplicated, but despite the whispers and hushed voices that follow her around, her grief is loud and ever-present, lending an air of tension to the rooms of the small house. Although she dreads the thought of returning to her home in Hull, and all the memories and reminders waiting for her there, she knows she must. Apart from anything else, she doesn’t sleep well here. She hears voices in the night: lullabies and distant songs.
A little while after George’s departure, Sarah remembers the package he had brought from Miss Darling. She is touched to discover a thick book inside: Instructions to Light Keepers along with a letter. 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. Sarah runs her fingers over Miss Darling’s inscription inside the front cover. For dear Sarah. So that you might know. Grace Beneath, she adds an inscription of her own. For my darling Matilda. From Mummy. x
Alone in her room, she starts to read, page after page, hour after hour, studying the tasks and routines until she can picture Miss Darling, busy in the lantern room as she cleans the lens with a feather brush to remove any soot and dust before wiping each part of the delicate apparatus with a linen cloth. Spirits of wine remove any spilled oil, and then she buffs everything until it gleams. When the job is complete, she places a linen cloth over the lens and draws the curtains around the lantern room to prevent any discoloration by sunlight.
As for how Miss Darling spends the rest of her day, Sarah must imagine, the instruction book lacking in information about how a lighthouse keeper might feel, or what they might think about during the long hours on watch. Perhaps Miss Darling places the locket beneath her pillow at night, remembering the events of that awful night. Perhaps she imagines a life beyond the island. Perhaps she longs to fall passionately in love with a student of art, or perhaps all she wants is to fade away from the public gaze and slip back into obscurity like a discarded fragment of sea glass washed from the beach. Whatever she desires, Miss Darling must learn to be the heroine everyone needs her to be. As a laborer’s daughter, Sarah has always understood that choice in one’s destiny is a luxury preserved for the upper classes. For a lighthouse keeper’s daughter, as for a sea merchant’s widow, there is only duty and expectation.
Sarah adds a few lines to her account of the Forfarshire disaster before climbing into bed. The darkness of the room envelops her as the distant singing grows gradually louder until she isn’t entirely sure where it ends, and she begins.
North Sunderland, England
That evening, by the light of a guttering candle flame in his room at the Olde Ship Inn, George Emmerson’s hands move quickly across the page. He doesn’t work especially well with charcoal but it is all he has with him. His mind is a whirl, turning over his sister’s words. “Eliza is a pleasant girl, but she is a breeze, George. A breeze. Your heart desires a storm.”
He blows the dust from the page in short puffs before holding his work at a distance to scrutinize his progress. He is a harsh critic, never happy with his work until it is just right. He is determined to capture her, to show that certain something that sets her apart. But how? How to re-create her on the page? Slightly below average in height, a slender figure, a gracefulness befitting her name. He sketches a wreath of gentle brown curls, a clear complexion, soft as buttermilk. And her eyes, so darkly expressive, revealing her emotions without disguise. How to capture that willful determination? The wistful smile at her lips?
He scrunches his page into a ball and tosses it to the floor. Starts again. And again, until, finally, she begins to emerge on the page, but the light of the candle fades and he cannot finish it tonight. He writes her name on the back, packs his materials away, and stands the sketch against the window, where the light will catch it at dawn.
As he falls into bed and closes his eyes, he remembers a favorite line from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
He will continue by daylight, already accepting he will possibly never capture her on the page as truly as he sees her in his mind; already accepting that it will have to be enough.