THERE ARE MANY ways in which a person can be saved. Sometimes among raging seas and wild winds. Sometimes with nothing more than a paintbrush and a gentle smile sent through shafts of winter sunlight. I have known both.
Over a dozen artists came to Longstone in the months following the Forfarshire disaster, but George Emmerson was the only one to truly capture me in every way possible, before setting me free so that I might stay in the place I love more than any other. I rest my gaze on his portrait of me. When I look into my eyes, captured so perfectly on the canvas, I see a young woman full of vigor and passion and I am grateful to have lived my short life so fully. Just as the portrait is unfinished, so must be the long and happy life I had always hoped would be mine.
Thomasin tells me that George called in again on his way to Durham last week, but I was sleeping and he refused to disturb me. She tells me he sat at my bedside for over an hour in quiet contemplation.
I know I shall not see him again.
As I listen to the wind in the eaves and the joyful sounds of life beyond the casement window, my thoughts drift back over my twenty-six years, seeking out memories of the people and places I have loved the most. Those unexpected days with George at the lighthouse were, perhaps, some of the loveliest I have known, full of moments so tender and precious they turn my heart to pure ruby to remember them.
They call me a heroine, but I am not deserving of such accolades. I am just a young woman who did her duty; a young woman who had more to lose from her fame than she had to gain. It is still incomprehensible to me that they write poems and ballads and plays about Grace Darling—Heroine of the Farne Isles.
In the weeks and months that followed the rescue, many words and opinions were printed about my bravery. That a woman could set out in such violent seas was the very essence of heroism. Now, in these quiet days at my sister’s home, I understand that this is not about a single act of bravery. The name Grace Darling has come to represent courage, and it is that—not the trinkets and tableware bearing my name—which I can be proud of.
My sister tells me I am feverish and speak of strange things in my sleep. I hear her telling the duchess that I am become like snow, melting in the spring thaw. Nothing can save me from this disease that sets my skin aflame and steals the breath from my lungs as easily as a footpad might steal a lady’s purse on the turnpike.
There is no more saving to be done.
The light fades against the window, and I, with it.
I have asked my family to come to my bedside. Those who can, come quickly, knowing there is not much time. Mam is here, and my dear father. My brother, Brooks. My sisters, Thomasin and Mary Ann. I have a small trinket for each of them, a little treasured something that they might remember me by in the years ahead: my gold medal for my father, my silver watch for my mother, a silk handkerchief for Thomasin, my plaid shawl for Mary Ann, my collection of sea treasures for Brooks. To Mr. Emmerson, I leave my collection of fossils and ask that he might give his portrait of me to his sister. The cameo locket that Sarah had so kindly given to me, I also ask to be returned, for her daughter to wear when she is old enough; the circle complete. As I pass it to Thomasin for safekeeping, I think of the inscription engraved on the back: Even the brave were once afraid.
I need more courage now than ever.
Late evening, and another golden day slips away with the setting sun. My father takes my hand in his and tells me to get some rest. I feel his fingers, warm and paper dry as they wrap themselves around mine, like rope coiling neatly back into place. I hold on as I close my eyes and wait for darkness to fall, when the lamps will be lit and Longstone will send out its bright beacon to guide me home.
THE BERWICK ADVERTISER
29TH OCTOBER, 1842
The funeral took place on 24th October of Grace Horsley Darling who died at Bamburgh on October 20th at 8:15pm, surrounded by her family. At an early hour of the afternoon, gentlemen from a distance of many miles round, began to arrive, and at the hour appointed, 3 o’clock pm, the village was crowded with strangers, both rich and poor, many of whom had come a long way to pay their last respects to the memory of the deceased. An immense concourse of people of all grades in society followed the coffin to the grave, many of whom were observed to be bathed in tears. The scene, altogether, was deeply impressive and affecting. The coffin was carried by four young men of Bamburgh, and followed by four pall bearers, William Barnfather, her doctor in Alnwick, and a representative of the castle, Robert Smeddle, representing Bamburgh Castle and the Crewe Trustees, the Reverend M. Taylor of North Sunderland, and Dr. Fender, the Bamburgh doctor.
There was also a young man from Durham, who wore the mourning emblem of intimate friends of the family.