THE ARTISTS COME and go with the tides, endless waves of them sent by Smeddle to meet public demand for my portrait and the special commissions he has secured for friends in high places. The men get under Mam’s feet with their easels and their paint boxes stuffed with tubes of paint and vials of pigment and oil, not to mention their many brushes and palette knives and the turpentine they use to clean the oils from their brushes which gives us all a headache.
As a fiercely practical man, my father doesn’t have much time for these artistic men with their romantic ideals and fussy ways. Like the reading of novels, he considers the creation of art to be an indulgence of the upper classes. While not quite so scornful of them, and admiring of their talents, I am, nevertheless, uncomfortable to find myself the focus of their gaze.
Henry Perlee Parker is the first to visit. A whiskery, boisterous man with an intolerance for small spaces, he finds the light at Longstone poor and the cramped conditions difficult to work in. He concludes that while lighthouses are rather romantic from the outside, they are definitely not designed for making good art.
I find the entire process of portrait painting tedious. It is unnatural to be cooped up inside for hours on end, afraid to swallow or blink, hardly daring to breathe. My back and neck ache, my feet and hands itch to be occupied. I try to distract myself during my sittings by silently reciting passages from the Bible or watching the seabirds through the window, but that only makes me long to be outdoors among them. The weather will soon deteriorate, leaving little chance for walking. Even Mam remarks that my skin has paled from spending so much time indoors.
“They won’t need to sculpt me if I sit much longer,” I grumble. “I’ll turn into a statue of my own accord.”
“You should be pleased so many people want to paint you,” she replies. “You’ve a face to be admired, and there’s not many of us can say that.”
“Well, I admire yours,” Father says, planting a rare kiss on Mam’s cheek where a pink stain rushes to join it, as round and rosy as if Mr. Parker had placed it there with one of his brushes.
Mam walks a little taller for the rest of the day, incapable of hiding her delight.
As the days pass, still the men arrive. After Mr. Parker and a Mr. Carmichael come David Dunbar, a sculptor, and then an artist from London, commissioned to paint my portrait by Lord Panmure, who requests a portrait of Father, too. A very pleasant young man, Mr. Musgrave Joy, lodges with us for a week when he is stranded by bad weather. Mr. Reay from Newcastle almost drowns on his way out to us when his boat founders off Holy Island. For the most part, they are all polite and patient, but I long for the day when the last of them will pack away their oils and we may never be bothered by artists again.
Following a change in the weather and a notice from Father in the local newspaper to state that anyone else desiring my likeness might obtain one from the printed copies of pictures and engravings already in circulation, the visitation of artists comes to an end. The shortening autumn days pass more freely as the temperature drops and the dear old lighthouse endures heavy seas lashing its walls as it shelters us inside. On such heaving seas the boats of opportunist fishermen cannot sail, and for a perfect fortnight Longstone belongs only to us once again. The storms that had brought such unwelcome attention to our humble home become the very thing that affords us the solitude I have craved in recent weeks. Yet as I tend to the lamps and take my turn on watch, my mind follows the beam of light toward the coastal towns and to Sarah Dawson, whose letter I received the day the first artist arrived. Shocked, thrilled and confused by its contents, I have read it a dozen times since. Sarah’s words have painted a picture on my heart that I am afraid to look at too closely.
Dear Miss Darling,
I leave shortly for my home in Hull (address below) but before I leave I wanted to thank you for returning the letter, and for your very thoughtful gift of the lighthouse manual. I am already learning much about the maintenance of the lamps. When Matilda and I meet again in Heaven I will have so many things to tell her.
There is also something else I must tell you before I return to Hull. You see, Miss Darling, in the letter you returned to me—which you had found, sodden, in my coat pocket—my brother, George, had written to me about you. He told me he’d met a lighthouse keeper’s daughter while walking at Dunstanburgh. Since my return from Longstone, he has spoken often of you, and with great regard.
You might not know that George is engaged to be married to a cousin of ours, Eliza Cavendish of Hope Street, Bamburgh where I have stayed these past weeks. I don’t wish to cause Eliza any distress, but I won’t rest until I tell you that George struggles greatly with his conscience. While his hand is already promised to Eliza, his heart aches for you.
Please do not think badly of me for sharing this with you. I don’t wish Eliza any ill will, but life looks very different when you’ve lost everyone you hold dear. We must grasp every opportunity for happiness, no matter how difficult it might seem. You may choose to ignore these words, or to act upon them. Only you can know if you hold any affection for George in return. Either way, I wish you well, Miss Darling.
I would be honored to hear a few lines from you now and again, if you have time.
Your friend,
Sarah Dawson
A BREAK IN the weather the following week sees the wind change direction to a cold northeasterly that blows away the storms to the south and carries a small fishing sloop toward Longstone on a lively slate-gray sea.
I am enjoying a much-needed walk on the Whin Sill, the dark volcanic rock that forms our island. I step over the tributaries and fissures of the tidal channels, careful not to slip on the exposed moss and algae. The water at my feet is clear and pure; the air around me ripe with the smell of seaweed and the keening song of the gray seals. It is invigorating to be away from tedious matters of letter-writing and portrait painting and cutting curls from my hair.
Tracking the approaching boat with the telescope, my heart sinks as I suspect another boatload of gawping onlookers with eager hands reaching out to touch me if I will only stop to say hello. But as the boat gets closer, I see that it is almost empty, just the oarsman and a tall gentleman in a black frock coat, sitting rigid in the back of the boat, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon.
Even from some distance, I know it is Mr. Emmerson.
The boat slows as it reaches the base of the landing. Unseen from my vantage point, I watch as Mr. Emmerson stands up, lurching precariously from side to side as the boat bobs in the swell. He passes some instruction to the oarsman, tips his hat, shakes sea spray from his coat, and clambers out, as ungainly as a newborn kitten.
Smoothing my hair beneath my bonnet and wishing I’d chosen a better dress that morning, I rush toward the henhouse, busying myself with unnecessary tasks as I rehearse my surprise. “Gosh. Mr. Emmerson. What a surprise!” “Mr. Emmerson. How lovely to see you here.” “Goodness! Mr. Emmerson. Whatever brings you to Longstone?”
As he appears at the top of the landing steps I look up, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun against the water. For a moment, words fail me entirely, but I recover sufficiently to say, “Mr. Emmerson! What a surprise!”
His skin bears the unmistakable pallor of someone who doesn’t travel well on the sea. He stands feet apart, hands on hips, drawing in deep breaths of air.
“Miss Darling. You must forgive me for arriving unannounced, and in such a state of disrepair.”
It isn’t quite the romantic encounter I have—to my shame—imagined in the private hours of night, when such things seem so possible. Daylight casts a mocking eye over my ludicrous ideals.
“Do I look as green as I feel?” he gasps, taking another deep breath.
I try to hide a smile, not wishing to mock. “You are rather . . . discolored, I’m afraid. Was the sea a little lively?”
“According to the fisherman it is as still as a mill pond today, but yes, it was far too lively for a hopeless landlubber like myself.”
“It takes some longer than others to find their sea legs. Far better to be at the lighthouse looking out to sea than at sea looking at the lighthouse.”
He manages to stand fully upright, a smile playing at his lips. “I could not agree more.”
Insisting he take his time to recover, I chatter on about the weather and the last of the migrating kittiwakes and the gray seal colony and how fortunate I am to have such a majestic view to wake up to every morning. I ask after his sister, who, he confirms, has returned to Hull. The content of Sarah’s letter presses uncomfortably on my mind.
After ten minutes of invigorating sea breeze and the rigidity of land, Mr. Emmerson assures me he is feeling quite recovered.
“You must come inside then,” I say, my voice casual despite the pounding in my chest. “I’ll make nettle tea. It is the best cure for nausea. Mam swears by it, and she’s put most cures to the test over the years.”
“You are most kind. And I am rather embarrassed.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be. We have seen far worse reactions to the sea. Ellen Herbert takes at least two hours to recover after traveling out to us. She swears by the reviving properties of a glass or two of Madeira.”
Leading Mr. Emmerson toward the lighthouse, I feel the familiar tumbling sensation in my stomach that I’ve felt too often recently. I urge myself to retain my composure as we step inside the welcome warmth of the living quarters where I remove my bonnet and gloves and introduce our guest to my parents.
“This is Mr. Emmerson. He is the brother of Sarah Dawson.” I invite him to take a seat beside the stove.
Mr. Emmerson greets my parents with his usual charm and humility. “I’m afraid I am a little discombobulated by the crossing. Your daughter is a patient nursemaid.”
While Mam fusses over our visitor, fetching an impressive plate of bread, cheese, and meat, I tend to the fire, taking twice as long as usual, all fingers and thumbs and dropping the fire irons with a great clatter against the hearth.
“I do hope you’ll forgive my intrusion, Mrs. Darling. Mr. Darling. I believe your days are punctuated with intrusions of late.” His legs stretched out in front of him, Mr. Emmerson looks, for all the world, as though he has sat beside our stove all his life.
Father confirms that we are rather the sideshow fascination of late.
“But friends are always very welcome,” I interject, afraid that as soon as he’s arrived Mr. Emmerson will feel obliged to leave again. “Mr. Emmerson is a good friend of Henry Herbert’s,” I explain. “He is a student of art at the University of Dundee.”
Mam, always with her senses on high alert, detects something in the air. “You two have met before, then, I take it?”
“I bumped into your daughter while she was walking with the Herberts at Dunstanburgh Castle some months ago. I was fascinated to learn of Miss Darling’s life at Longstone. It isn’t often one meets a lighthouse keeper.” He takes a sip of his nettle tea. “And then, of course, the events of the Forfarshire brought my sister into your care.” We all mark the memory of that night with a respectful silence. “I cannot thank you enough for your bravery, and compassion.”
A nod from my father is all the acknowledgment required. “How is she bearing up?” he asks.
“Some days are better than others. She has returned to Hull and says she is happier to be at home, surrounded by memories of the children. She tells me she is becoming quite the expert in the workings of lighthouses with the help of the manual Miss Darling kindly sent. She is surprised there are so many procedures to follow.”
“It is a highly regulated profession,” my father adds. “Much more to it than lighting a lamp once a day. It becomes an obsession as much as an occupation. Much like your painting, I imagine.”
Mr. Emmerson smiles warmly. “You are absolutely correct.”
“We’ve been rather busy with artists recently,” I add.
“So I believe. I’ve seen some of their efforts.”
“Efforts?” I laugh. “Are they really that bad?”
Mr. Emmerson squirms a little. “I am being disingenuous. They are a little lacking in energy.”
“Oh?” I can’t help feeling a little disappointed. “And they took so long over them.”
He raises his eyes to mine. “Don’t be alarmed. They’re a perfectly acceptable likeness, but who wants to create something acceptable. Who wants to do anything that is merely acceptable?” He takes a long sip of tea, lost in his thoughts as he swirls the cup around. “When I made similar remarks about the portraits to my sister, she insisted I stop complaining about others’ failings and paint you myself. She was quite adamant. My coming here is all her doing,” he continues.
My thoughts turn, again, to Sarah’s letter. I hope Mr. Emmerson doesn’t notice the color that rises in my cheeks.
“Our Grace is sick to the back teeth of being painted,” Mam remarks brusquely as she clears plates from the table. “There are plenty of likenesses in circulation. Mr. Darling said as much in a recent letter printed in the Courant. Perhaps you could make an appointment with Robert Smeddle.”
“Mam!” I stare pointedly at her. “Mr. Emmerson isn’t just another artist. He is Mrs. Dawson’s brother. I needed a break from sitting still for a few days, that’s all.” I turn my attention back to Mr. Emmerson. “An appointment won’t be necessary. You are very welcome to paint my likeness. Right now, if you wish. Did you bring your things?”
Glancing at my parents, Mr. Emmerson confirms that he has, indeed, been rather presumptuous and brought everything required.
Father smiles knowingly at me, amused by the sudden contradiction to the announcement I’d made only yesterday about hoping I never had to sit for another boring portrait as long as I lived.
“If you’ll excuse me I have to check on the lamps,” he says. “You might like to join me, Mr. Emmerson?” Like a proud parent with a new child, Father cannot resist the opportunity to show off his wonderful lantern room.
Mr. Emmerson says he would like that very much.
I explain that I must row over to Brownsman to collect provisions from our vegetable garden. “I’ll be back within the hour. Perhaps we can start then?”
Mr. Emmerson looks a little hesitant. “You’re sure it isn’t an awful inconvenience?”
“Perfectly sure. One more sitting can’t do any harm. I’m far less fidgety than I was a month ago.”
He smiles. “Then ours will be a happy arrangement.”
The manner in which he says this renders my fumbling fingers incapable of tying the ribbons on my bonnet. I leave them loose as I step outside, pressing an enormous smile into my gloves as I walk like a drunken fool toward the boathouse.