A FULL HUNTER’S MOON hangs low on the horizon, the agitated sea glistening beneath its bewitching light. Unable to sleep through the storm that has pounded the island for four days and nights, I stand at my bedroom window, mindful of old mariners’ tales of rings around the moon being a foretelling of rain. We are grateful no other ships have foundered in the dreadful weather, and I am also grateful for the storm extending Mr. Emmerson’s stay at Longstone. For that alone, I cannot entirely wish for clear skies and calm seas.
His presence lends an unexpected brightness to the lighthouse, filling a gap I hadn’t known was there. We all feel it. Mam, especially, delights in having another young man about the place to fuss over. She misses her sons since they departed for the Main and it pleases her to have another hungry mouth to feed. Father, too, seems a little lighter with Mr. Emmerson around, or rather George, as he insists Father calls him, happily dispensing with formalities. Another pair of hands about the place is always welcome, especially at this time of year, and Mr. Emmerson is eager to assist and learn. I enjoy listening to the two of them debating politics and philosophy. They briefly discuss the outcome of the second inquiry into the Forfarshire disaster, ruminating on how Captain Humble was found entirely to blame for failing to turn in at Tynemouth for repairs. Knowing how easily the disaster could have been prevented, I feel the anguish of Mr. Emmerson’s loss more keenly.
“Trinity House are pressing the government to make changes to shipping laws,” Father explains. “We can only hope that no life is lost in vain and that we will learn something, no matter how small, from each vessel lost. I am confident there will be a time, perhaps not within our lifetime, when no ships are lost at sea for want of warning.”
I draw a quiet sense of completeness from having Mr. Emmerson around; the hours we spend together while he works on his portraits are as pleasant as the hours we spend apart. I breeze through my chores, spurred on by the knowledge that we will all gather for supper that evening. I find myself listening for the sound of his footsteps descending the stairs each morning, anticipating the cheery greeting which sets me in good humor for the entire day. Our evenings are spent in quiet companionship, safe and warm within the lighthouse while the storm batters the rocks beyond. I am surprised to find myself thinking, on more than one occasion, that if married life is like this, then I might not have been so hasty as to dismiss the idea. The simple fact is that George Emmerson slots into life at Longstone as easily as a lace through a boot, which only makes it harder to accept that the temporary bonds we have formed must soon be untied and threaded back among the lives of others.
Mr. Emmerson’s engagement hasn’t been mentioned by him, and nor have I asked, yet Eliza Cavendish blows through the lighthouse like an unwelcome draft, leaving a chill lingering about my neck. No matter how many rags I stuff against the bottom of doors or against the window frames, still she persists in creeping through, tormenting my thoughts and my conscience, pricking at my morals and asking questions of my Christian principles. It isn’t like me to think unkindly of another, but the energy of the storm and Mr. Emmerson’s company have placed a sort of madness over me.
To fill the long hours of our confinement, Mr. Emmerson works on more sketches and portraits. I am far less fidgety than I was during the early sittings with poor Mr. Perlee Parker and the others, and quite enjoy the process now that I’ve learned how to sit still, to relax my jaw and not pick at the quick of my nails. I sit beside the window with my ankles resting one over the other, releasing the tension in my neck and shoulders, my face turned to the left slightly so that the meager light afforded by the dull skies falls fully onto my face.
Mr. Emmerson settles himself at his stool, palette in hand, assessing the light and the angles of my pose, humming and hawing to himself as he is apt to do when concentrating. “Could you turn your . . .”
I turn my cheek slightly toward him.
“Thank you. You’re a very good student, Miss Darling.”
“I’ve learned that it serves no purpose to shuffle and fidget. The job will be done much quicker without my interruptions.”
“Good art cannot be rushed, Miss Darling. Like the incoming tide, it will take all the time it needs.”
A slight smile at my lips, I settle myself, but despite the rigidity of my body, my senses skip about like a giddy child as I listen to the swish of his brush on canvas, the patient dab dab dab of detail and the long sweep of broader strokes. The room smells of the linseed oil he uses to mix the pigments, and the spirits he uses to clean his brushes. Mr. Emmerson has a habit of tapping his foot as he works, and he also licks his lips in concentration. I hear every swallow, every clearance of his throat, every quick sniff of satisfaction and tut of frustration. Without its ever touching me, I feel every stroke of Mr. Emmerson’s brush like a feather against my skin. Without ever looking at him, I feel his gaze settle on my face. In this quiet, intimate way, hours slip by as the wind whips up a frenzy outside.
When he is happy with the session’s work, he coughs three times and as if a spell is broken, I emerge from my frozen state.
“Goodness. I must tend to the lamps,” I remark, noticing how quickly the light fades outside. “I’ll ask Brooks to join you. You might teach him another ballad or two? Father will be delighted to play his fiddle again.”
“I would like that very much.”
I am pleased to see how my brother enjoys Mr. Emmerson’s easy manner and good humor. Brooks is easily impressed with our guest’s repertoire of ballads and far-fetched tales of Scottish folklore. “I’ll apologize in advance for my brother,” I add. “He tends to prefer the bawdier tunes.”
Mr. Emmerson laughs. “Your brother reminds me of myself when I was younger. Full of energy and ambition.”
“He has a good heart, and is a quick learner. He is to be appointed Assistant Keeper and will take over as Principal when Father is no longer able to manage things.” The hint of regret in my voice is audible.
Mr. Emmerson detects the truth in my expression. “You would like to take the position yourself, no doubt,” he asks.
I put on my brightest smile. “A woman does not decide her destiny, Mr. Emmerson. The men in her life do that for her.”
The pause in our conversation underlines the point rather more markedly than I’d intended.
“There’s something about a storm, isn’t there?” Mr. Emmerson remarks, thankfully changing the subject as he packs away his things.
“In what way?” I reach my hands behind my neck to ease the ache left there by the persistent fingers of an icy draft.
“So much energy. Such absolute insistence to be heard and felt. It is almost impossible not to be affected by it. I feel a little wild myself.”
I smooth my skirt, noticing that the hem is frayed and making a note to mend it later.
“There is certainly a passion carried in the sea when the wind blows like this. The island never feels more alive than in a full-blown storm. Visitors in the summer remark on how pretty they find the islands with the turquoise seas and warm breezes, but I prefer the chaos of the later months with snowstorms and lightning crackling in the air.”
Mr. Emmerson wipes his brushes carefully. “I couldn’t agree more. Having spent the past few days here, I don’t think this storm will ever quite leave me.” He stands tall, blocking the light from the window. “I am beginning to understand what you said about the lighthouse enchanting anyone who comes here. There’s something about this island, this place, you . . .”
His words waver like a guttering candle flame, the guilt of his thoughts draining all color from his face.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, turning half a shoulder but keeping my eyes to the floor. “Enchantment is a fickle mistress, Mr. Emmerson. We would all do well to be wary of her.” I lift the hem of my skirt so it won’t trip me on the stairs. “You will excuse me. I am needed in the lantern room.”
IN THE SMALL room below Miss Darling’s apartment, George Emmerson cannot sleep. He tumbles and turns among the bedsheets until he is wrapped in them like an embalmed corpse, trapped by his emotions and indecisiveness. Only briefly do his thoughts stray to Eliza, no doubt despairing for his welfare, imagining him to be drowned and all her plans for their future dashed against the rocks. Perhaps it would be better if he had foundered in a wreck or become stranded on some island far from these shores where he could spend the rest of his days alone, rather than confront the confounding reality of the feelings he has for Miss. Darling.
He hears his sister’s words carried on the wind, as if she stands now at the small window, reminding him. “Eliza is a pleasant girl, but she is a breeze, George. A breeze. Your heart desires a storm. I can tell.” Even in the pitch dark of the room, he sketches Miss Darling with his mind’s eye. He sees so clearly the rounding of her cheek, the angle of her eyes, the shape of each perfect shell-like ear. He knows he must leave Longstone as soon as the weather improves, but is grateful all the same for these days he has been afforded. Still, Miss Darling has made it perfectly clear that she has no desire for a husband or a life on the Main. She is as duty-bound to her family and the lighthouse as he is to Eliza. Devotion and obligation—the things that must keep them apart while binding them irrevocably to others. There can be no undoing of any promises. He would not ask it of her.
Resigning himself to the impossibility of sleep, he gets up and walks to the window, watching the reflection of the light on the water. He knows Miss Darling is on watch in her room above, ascending intermittently to the lantern room to keep the oil topped up and to trim the wicks, ensuring the light burns brightly through these, the very darkest of hours. He feels a madness settle over him, knowing that the storm in his heart won’t be silenced until he has spoken his true feelings.