THE DAY OF our appointment at Alnwick Castle, I wake to mercifully calm seas. I have worried about the trip all week, unable to settle on what to wear and worrying about conducting myself adequately in front of the duke and duchess. Mostly, I have worried about the weather, concerned that we might be forced to attempt a crossing in rough seas. Thankfully, no such decisions are necessary.
Father prepares the coble while Mam helps me into my best pink dress, taking extra time to wind my hair into a neatly braided crown on top of my head. I wince at her less-than-gentle touch, but try not to complain. Her nerves are frayed enough as it is without my tugging at them with my grousing.
After saying our goodbyes and promising Mam we will remember our manners, we push the coble away from the rocks and set out for the mainland. Mam stands loyally at the landing steps until she fades from view behind a light sea mist.
“We’ll never hear the end of it you know,” Father remarks as he sets up a steady stroke on the oars.
“The end of what?”
“That time we were important guests at the castle and Mam wasn’t invited.”
We both giggle. “Poor Mam,” I say. “She would have loved to come, wouldn’t she?”
“Poor Mam, nothing. She would have loved to brag about it to anyone who’d care to listen. The poor duchess would have had her ear chewed off! It’s better this way.”
He’s right, of course. I relax in Father’s company, where I only become more fretful in Mam’s. We row in quiet harmony, happy to be out on the water together. Inquisitive seals follow the boat and the gulls cry out to send us on our way.
We make good progress to North Sunderland, from where we take a coach to travel the seventeen miles along the coast to Alnwick. It is almost a year since I visited my cousins and I’ve forgotten how impressive the castle is. As the coach rattles along the cobbled streets beside the castle walls, I peer out of the window, eager to get a better look as we rumble beneath the impressive gateway, guarded by baileys and tower turrets. The area outside the gate is crowded with stall holders, harried mothers with fretful children, serene ladies and gentlemen, and soldiers on horseback. It is a stark contrast to the solitude of the island and I can hardly stop myself gawping. Father sits quietly beside me, absorbing it all in his usual humble way.
“Do you think they’ll have tea and cake for us, Grace?”
“I should hope so,” I smile. “I’m famished.”
He takes up my hand, as giddy as a child at Christmas. “Who’d ever have thought it? Summoned by the duke. Are you nervous?”
“A little,” I admit. “I hope they don’t make a terrible fuss.”
“They will of course. That’s what dukes and duchesses do. But we will be patient and polite and grateful for their time. The duke is a very pleasant man. I know you’ll make a great impression on him.”
Our names announced, we are escorted inside the castle and up an impressive staircase, the ceiling soaring above. I try not to stare but my eyes rove up and down and all around as we follow our guide, my shoes sinking into the soft rugs as we are led down a long corridor, past enormous gilded portraits of members of the Percy family, their expressions captured so perfectly I feel their gaze follow us as we pass. The air is rich with the perfume of hothouse flowers, displayed in ornate porcelain urns that stand on great plinths. Father squeezes my arm as we walk, his lips twitching as he tries to contain a delighted smile.
We enter a sumptuous saloon, decorated in rich gold brocades and crimson velvet, where we are presented to the duke and duchess with quiet dignity. The duke cuts a very impressive figure in formal military dress and the duchess is the most elegant woman I have ever seen, dressed in sumptuous midnight blue velvet with an intricate lace collar. I dare hardly look at her as she addresses me.
“Miss Darling. What an honor to meet you.”
She smiles so warmly and speaks so pleasantly that my shyness and worry instantly ease. I curtsey, remembering how Mam had shown me and glad to have practiced. There is only a slight, almost indiscernible, wobble as I dip my knee. Beside me, Father bows deferentially before the duke takes him to one side where they discuss the proposed changes to shipping laws following the Forfarshire disaster. The duchess reserves all her attention for me, expressing her admiration for my bravery.
“I was such a dreadful tragedy. We were all astonished to learn of your part in the rescue, Miss Darling. Even the queen was most impressed to hear of your bravery. As a determined young woman herself, it pleased her greatly to learn of your part in the rescue. I daresay she would have jumped into the boat to help you row if she had been there.”
I smile and say thank you and how very grateful I am for the queen’s support. It hardly feels sufficient response to such an honor.
“I cannot think of many who would have shown such courage,” the duchess continues. “My husband was adamant we acknowledge your bravery with the gold medals.”
“We are incredibly honored, ma’am. Any keeper at the many light stations around the English coastline would have done the same.”
“Perhaps so, but I can only think the nine survivors fortunate to have found themselves stranded by the Longstone light, and no other. I was especially sorry to learn of the poor mother who lost her children. Do you hear of her?”
“Yes, we have exchanged a few lines.” I blanch at the thought of our latest exchange regarding matters of romance and George and Eliza. “Mrs. Dawson was exceptionally brave, ma’am. I often think it should be her the newspapers write about, and who receives medals and accolades.” I am still haunted by the image of those ragged little bodies, slumped on the rock, the sea lapping at their boots.
The duchess places her hand on mine. “And that is precisely why you are so admired, Miss Darling. Not only were you extraordinarily courageous, you show humility in equal measure.”
We talk for a good while, the duke and duchess keen to hear our version of the events of that night. I let Father do most of the talking but when prompted by the duchess, who is especially keen to hear my thoughts on the matter, I speak as freely as I can, becoming more relaxed as the interview goes on. When they are satisfied to have heard the full account, and following the formal presentation of the medals, our hosts prepare to bid us farewell. The duchess presents me with a gift of a Paisley shawl.
“I should be very happy to think of you wearing it as you tend to your lamps, Miss Darling. I have often admired the work of the light keepers. I shall admire them all the more after meeting you and your father. It has been a great pleasure.”
I thank her profusely. “I shall wear it with the greatest pride, ma’am.”
Father and I are escorted to one of the housekeeper’s rooms, where we are served tea and cakes and delicacies the like of which we’ve never seen before. We are made to feel very comfortable and most welcome and smile wryly at each other as we eat, barely able to believe that we have swapped our humble living quarters at the lighthouse for all this.
After the refreshments, we are given a tour of the castle apartments. I am especially impressed by the vast library, never having seen so many books. We also see the armory and the chapel, the staterooms and another impressive portrait gallery. As we walk, Father tells me that the duke has expressed his intention to act as my ward.
“He was troubled to learn of the interferences you have experienced recently, with Batty and the like. He proposes to establish and manage a trust fund to handle the sums of money being sent, and to offer protection from any further intrusions into your privacy.”
It is a surprising development, but not an unwelcome one. “It is a very generous offer,” I say. “It would certainly be a relief to have the duke manage things.”
“Indeed,” Father agrees. “It is a pity, in some ways, that events have gone so far, but I told him I am in full agreement that such steps are now necessary.”
We are grateful for the tour and the exceptional courtesy we are shown, but as we are escorted into yet another ornate room I begin to feel my enthusiasm wane. I can tell Father feels the same. We are both a little relieved when the tour reaches its conclusion.
As we walk back to the castle gates, we talk, ten-to-the-dozen, recalling everything we have heard and seen and consumed, each of us remembering some other detail. But my excitement quickly diminishes as it becomes apparent that a crowd has gathered at the castle walls. They push and shove around me as we try to leave, fervent cries of “Hurrah for Miss Darling” and spontaneous applause surrounding us as we are engulfed by a wave of people, clamoring to see me. Hands reach out to grasp at my skirts and shawl, my heart pounding as I cling to my father, who calmly expresses his thanks on my behalf and asks that they make way. The cacophony of noise and the fervor of the crowd frightens and bewilders me.
At last we reach the carriage, where I stumble inside, Father behind me, urging the coachman to close the door and to hurry about it. My heart thumps beneath my cloak, my hands tremble when I place them on my lap. As the wheels begin to turn and we move away, the hurrahs and cheers fade into the background, but I am shaken by the event.
Father places a reassuring arm around my shoulder. “They mean well, Grace. They only wish to show their admiration.”
I sigh. “I know, Father, and I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but I wish they wouldn’t. I wish they would stop. I wish this would all stop.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “You’re going to have to bear it just a little longer, pet.” He rubs the whiskers on his chin. “Perhaps we should have brought Mam with us after all. She would have seen them all off with her rolling pin.”
The thought of Mam running through the castle gates brandishing her rolling pin makes me laugh until tears of frustration and relief fall against my cheeks.
Father brushes them away with his thumbs. “That’s more like it. Let it out, Grace. Set it all free. This will pass, I promise you. Like the storms and the seasons, nothing stays the same forever.”
As the coach takes us back to North Sunderland, Father outlines in greater detail the full extent of the duke’s guardianship, explaining that he will manage all matters relating to formal correspondence and that any further donations of money will go through the duke’s own lawyers. I am especially pleased to hear that the duke intends for three of the Crewe Trustees at Bamburgh Castle (excluding Robert Smeddle) to be appointed in charge of my affairs.
Despite the distressing end to the day, I try to put it behind me and close my eyes, lulled by the motion of the carriage and comforted by the familiar shape of my father’s shoulder against my cheek. Soon, the only sounds are the clatter of horseshoes and the creaking of the carriage and I let myself slip away from it all beneath the welcome embrace of sleep.
THAT EVENING, AFTER taking Mam through every minute of the visit in painstaking detail (she is far from content with the abridged version offered by my exhausted Father), I take first watch after sunset. After the whirlwind of the day, I take pleasure in watching the sky as it changes from blue to violet to navy. I scan the heavens, waiting for the first star to shine through the darkness, and then the next and the next until the sky is fully dark and I am covered by a perfect canopy of starlight.
The lamp turns, and my mind turns with it, back to the events of the day and beyond, to the recent storm and Mr. Emmerson’s unexpected stay. Despite his departure, his deep affection for Longstone lingers in my heart and his words linger in my thoughts. The angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection. The universal law of science. The universal law of love, it seems, has no such scientific explanation. It is as unfathomable as the depths of the ocean and the height of the heavens and I must find my place between them, without him.
I open the locket, admiring the miniature portraits inside. I think about the absent locks of hair once held there and how Sarah Dawson must now find her place in the world without her children. I wonder how she is, and set my mind to write another letter to her in the morning.
SARAH DAWSON SPENDS quiet empty days among the rooms of her quayside home in Hull. She has too much time to think, so that sometimes she cannot be sure which parts of her day are real, and which are spent in the fabrication of her restless mind.
While she was pleased to receive the response to her letter from Miss Darling, she is a little disappointed to learn that there will be no romantic development with George. Sarah understands that Grace isn’t like the ladies on the mainland, eager to catch a gentleman’s attention, desperate to secure a proposal of marriage. Although only slight in build, she is possessed of a great strength of mind; a strength which needs no bolstering by the affections of a man.
It is settled then. George will marry Eliza Cavendish in the spring and he will make the best of things, and Miss Darling will remain on her island. It is a shame, Sarah thinks, certain that George and Grace would have been much happier together than they ever will be apart. But she has meddled enough. Destiny must play its hand now, and she must get back to the business of stitching together whatever scraps and fragments of her life she can find at the little house on Quay Street, where she still hears her children’s laughter in their empty rooms and still feels the warmth of her husband’s embrace as she stands alone in the scullery.
As sure as a drowning man will cling to a piece of passing flotsam, Sarah clings desperately to these memories. They, alone, are what buoy her; keep her afloat in the ocean of her grief. They are all she has now. If she lets go of the past she shared with her husband and children, she will surely never find a future without them.
She picks up a sheet of paper, dips her pen into the ink, and begins to write her memories down, capturing her family’s too-short story in simple sentences until she is satisfied. Here they are, written in ink, a permanent record of John, Sarah, James and Matilda Dawson so that they might never be forgotten and their story often told in the years and decades ahead.
She sleeps then, dreaming of the sea and where it might take her.