She sat up in her bed. No, not her bed butabed. A strange bed. The blankets were of thick but rough woven wool. The walls were white-painted stone and the ceiling was low and black-timbered. The floorboards were bare. The only other furniture in the room was a wooden, ladder-back chair, a wash-stand anda wardrobe. A small window provided a view of a serene blue sky and matching sea. It looked calm out there. Calmer than it had a right to be after the fury that had been unleashed on the Sprinter. How long ago?
“Julian?” she cried out, still confused but with thoughts of him uppermost in her mind.
There came the sound of shuffling from outside, footsteps on floorboards, and then the door whipped open. A woman with graying hair and a kindly sun-browned face entered. She smiled at Ester and sat on the bed beside her.
“There now, you're awake at last. Safe and sound, child, don't you worry. The sea didn't get you.”
“Where am I? Where is...?”
“Julian?” the woman finished with a smile. “Your man is as safe as you. He's in the next room recovering. As to where you are, well, this is Penmon. You're on Ynys Mon, which you English call Anglesey. Your ship made it through the Straits but the wind drove you onto the rocks to the south of the headland here at Penmon Point. It tore your vessel apart, but thank the good Lord—it looks like most of the crew and passengers survived.”
She spoke with a warm lilting accent and had a motherly voice. Ester swung her legs out of bed, pressing bare toes on the cold floorboards.
“My family were on the ship too,” she pressed.
“A man and woman with a young lass?” the woman asked. “Don’t you worry. They are hale and hearty. The lifeboat got them to the beach. They are being put up at the village inn. The rest of the survivors are in various houses around the village, everyone has taken in someone. You and Julian and his manservant are here in my house. My name is Cerys, Cerys Morgan. What is your name, my dear?”
“Ester Fairchild,” she shivered. “It is quite chilly, is it not? Do you think I could have my clothes?”
“I'm afraid your clothes are sopping wet still, young Miss. You had quite the swim from what my husband tells me. But my daughter's about your size so I've borrowed a dress and some stockings from her. Here.”
Ester realized that Cerys held a folded bundle in her lap. It was a black woolen dress, plain but seemingly well made, along with a pair of thick woolen stockings.
“Thank you, Cerys. I remember a man carrying me up the beach?”
“My son, Rhys. My husband was the one who rallied the village men when he saw that your ship was in trouble. He and my son were one of the first into the water, always have been first to jump into danger with both feet.” She shook her head. “But this time, it came out well and I suppose it was worth it. You and your friend were just about on your last legs.”
“You must thank him for us,” Julian said from the doorway.
He leaned against the doorframe, pale and etched with exhaustion. Butalive. Ester forgot about Cerys. She leaped from the bed and ran to Julian. She flung her arms about him, burying her face in his chest, squeezing tightly. He held her just as firmly, saying nothing. There were no words to say.
Cerys broke the silence. “Looks like your family’s coming up from the village to see you,cariad,” she noted, glancing out of the window with interest.
Ester blinked, realizing the woman had likely looked for something to gaze at out there in order to give them what privacy she could—given that they blocked the doorway.
“Better get dressed. Don't want visitors while you're in your night things. I see Tom's things fit you nicely, Julian.”
Ester stepped back from Julian and saw that he wore fisherman's woolens and tough canvas trousers. With his long, dark hair, he looked every inch the Welsh fisherman. She went to the window and saw her mother and father walking into a cobbled farmyard. A young man with curly hair was walking next to Helen, and they were talking to the exclusion of Helen's mother and father and the man who walked with them. He was bluff with a thick beard and a mass of curls shot through with silver.
“I'll leave you to dress and meet you downstairs,” Julian said, gravely.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ester swept into what she assumed to be the kitchen of the Morgan farmhouse. The room was warm, alive with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and the comforting steam of brewing tea. A sturdy iron range commanded the space, while a mismatched collection of armchairs huddled by the hearth, worn but well-loved.
Her gaze landed on Helen first. The girl, all wide eyes and wind-tossed hair, darted across the room and flung herself into Ester’s arms. Lady Janet rose from her seat and her husband followed suit. Ester noted that he looked pale and leaned heavily on his walking stick but no worse the wear for his ordeal. Harper stood diffidently in the doorway as though not wishing to intrude on the family reunion.
“I saw you swept away!” Helen cried eventually. “A great wave swept over and you were gone in a blink! How ever did you escape?”
Ester’s eyes softened, her fingers tracing the outline of Helen’s woolen sleeve, a reminder that they had both been at the mercy of kind strangers. Simple clothes, plain and humble—how far they had fallen from the silks and satins of their former life. Her mother and father looked almost comical in such simple garb.
“It was Julian,” Ester said, her voice gentle but deliberate. Her words were in reply to Helen but she looked to her father. “He was swept down into the ship just before I was swept overboard. I was drowning. I—I thought I was going to die. He found a way out of the ship and came after me. He didn't try to swim to safety and he didn't give up, even though he must have thought himself dead when he fell. He saved me… and it is not the first time he has done so.”
She felt his presence behind her, knew he was there without looking. Her father's eyes went over her shoulder, as did her mother's. Both looked unsure, troubled even.
Ester knew that this was the moment to fight.
As Julian had fought for her—and now it was her turn. No longer a victim. No longer reacting to the decisions of others. Making her own decisions. Forging her own path.
