Gripping the fire poker, she tiptoes to the front door, cursing herself for not getting a lock, cursing, too, the scrape across the flagstones as she opens it. Slivers of cloud drift past the moon, high above the river. The trees lining the coastal path stand silhouetted like frozen spectators. She feels as if something in the trees has its ancient eyes on her. There isn’t a shred of wind, nor the sound of footsteps. She’s lifting the poker, about to call out when—
“Mrs. Henley! But you are awake!”
The poker hits the gravel as she clutches her chest, finding her breath. “Lieutenant Sowerby—sir. You gave me such a fright! What in Heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“Forgive me, madam, I believed you abed.” Lieutenant Sowerby’s garments are in a state of disarray, the red shirt partly unbuttoned, necktie loose, hat askew. Snatching it from his curls, he bows and says, “There’s a threat, madam. Smugglers lurking about. I wanted to ensure you’re safe.”
Her breath slows. She catches a whiff of drink on him, mixed with aniseed or caraway, as if he’s been chewing comfits. She hides her uneasiness by bending down and lifting the poker. Somewhere in the dark, the lieutenant’s horse drags its hoof across the ground. “The only person I see lurking about, sir, is you.” The words come outmore sharply than she intended. She remembers the dream she had after Jack left, of the power of the sea running through her. She cannot afford to alienate the lieutenant—besides being a riding officer, he’s the only member of society in the area with whom she’s acquainted—but she can try to make sure he doesn’t come too close again.
“All I have in mind is your well-being, madam,” Lieutenant Sowerby says, retying his necktie. “As you’re still up, could I come in and keep watch for a while? It would greatly allay my concerns for the safety of your person.”
“I was about to go to bed. I’ve already put out the candle.”
“It wouldn’t be long. I expect they’ll pass by in the next hour.” He’s already making his way to the door.
She casts a glance at the river before she lets him in, drawing a measure of fortitude from it. She has but to look at Lieutenant Sowerby to hear the echo of Agnes Ferries’s scream as she watched him hang her husband. The kitchen thrums with the sound as he perches on one of the chairs by the window, looking out at the dark.
He stays the full hour and then some, sipping from the cup of milk she’s offered him and largely filling the time with a monologue about the evils of smuggling and the necessity to stamp it out. He delivers this in a breathless sort of voice that makes the hair on her arms stand on end. She keeps hold of the fire poker, underneath the table, the whole time. What she’d do with it, she isn’t sure, but it feels good in her hand.
When at last the lieutenant stands to leave, she steps aside so as not to get cornered again, but he follows her until she’s with her back against the stone counter, only a foot of space between them. His eyes are glazed, his face turned a blotchy red as if he’s in a fever. He begins to say something in praise of her person again, something to do with purity, but she barely hears as she raises the fire poker until it sits resolutely between them.
“I should like you to leave now, sir,” she says. She remembers thefeeling of the fish tail in her dream, the strength she possessed. “Now,” she repeats, gripping the poker harder.
He rakes his eyes across her and then steps back, saying, “Yes, indeed. I bid you good night, madam.”
After he goes out, she takes the fire poker up to the bedroom. She falls asleep with her hand around the handle and dreams of a whale the size of the cottage, which swallows Lieutenant Sowerby whole.
—
The weather turns to full spring. Even the mornings are pleasant now. Walking on the coastal path in the sun six days after the smuggler left, she marinates in sweat under the tight stays and layers of chemise, skirts, and gown. The climb down to the cove she selects for her purpose is steep along black rocks, but when she gets to the bottom, she cannot be seen from the path. She’s out of sight of the inlet where the fishing boats anchor and cannot see any vessel from where she stands. She’s tired of resisting; the possibility of revenue men passing by on the path can no longer stop her.
The outgoing tide has pushed the beach into wet ripples, as if the sand, too, is a live thing, full of motion like the sea. Indecision grips her another moment, then she kicks it to the side and strips down to her chemise as fast as she can. The breeze pulls at the fabric, caressingher skin, and she looks at it, at the crisp white cotton that took so long to wash and dry, and then she takes this off, too, as well as her stays. The river bites her flesh when she enters the water, it’s that cold—like dropping through ice.
She kicks her legs hard and moves her arms, puffing with the effort, and then she’s through the worst of it. The cold recedes and she pushes off properly, away from the rocks, and swims. She’s quite warm now. The water glints around her. With the sun on it like this it’s no longer black, but a hundred shades of green and blue, like the turquoise stone George brought her back from Naples. She glides through the water, reveling in the way her arms and legs are free fromthe constraint of her clothes and the weight of gravity. She has always been a good swimmer, though she doesn’t remember the first time she swam. Her parents swore they didn’t teach her; it’s simply something she has always been able todo.
She swims for maybe half an hour. She could go longer, but she has supper to prepare. She wishes she could swim the whole day and all through the night, going and going, right out to sea and then across the ocean. She wonders what the ocean feels like at night, when it’s so dark you cannot imagine there being an end to it. Perhaps it’s like that if you go deep enough under the surface; perhaps it’s always night.
The swimming is more than just refreshing. For the first time since she came to Helford she doesn’t feel alone. No, that’s not right—for the first time since the smuggler left the cottage. Every time she walks by the shed, she wonders if she should go to the innkeeper, Tom Holder, and tell him she has news for his friend from the cove.
As she steps back onto the beach, she hears a voice. Only it’s not truly a voice…it’s the breeze, she thinks, or maybe it’s the seagulls squawking or the water softly reaching for her.Swim,the voice says.Come home.She looks back at the river, squinting against the light. A shadow moves along the edge of the inlet. A fish, only the shadow is too long, like the shapes she saw in her dream. She looks at it until it has moved out of sight. A cloud passes before the sun, making her shiver. She thinks of Jack’s words,There’s nothing unnatural about the Bucca. He’s nature itself; he’s a part of the sea.The landscape is playing tricks on her; the villagers’ notions about the merman are making her see things.
Taking up her clothes, she finds a spot in the sun and lets the warmth of the day dry her. An hour later, she’s walking down the gravel path, her eyes fixed on the shed again, when a loud snort nearly makes her shriek.
A black stallion rears its head and snorts again, stomping its right foot. The horse is tied to the oak sapling by the door. It’s a magnificent animal, tall on its legs, its black coat in places almost silver in the sun, with a thick, smooth mane. The horse couldn’t look more out ofplace next to the cottage. Stomping again, the stallion shakes its head, as if it knowsit.
At the sound of a woman’s voice, she spins around. “Buttons! You impatient thing. We’ve only just gotten here.”
Buttons?The woman, too, doesn’t belong. She’s standing on the path that leads to the water and she’s as young as Isabel—younger, perhaps—with blond curls as shiny as the horse’s mane, a heart-shaped face, and eyes that could vie with Jack’s for bluest. Despite the weather, she’s in a full riding habit of the finest green wool, with gold thread embroidery along the front and a matching silk ribbon wound into her elaborately pinned hair. Isabel used to see women dressed like this in London—she used to be one of them.
This must be Lady Harriet Darby, she thinks, whom Lieutenant Sowerby said wanted to visit and who, she’s sure, must be regretting her decision to come. She glances at the cottage, seeing again how small and dark and simple it is. How squalid. Not to mention, she looks more than a little shabby herself. Certainly, her second-best gowns still far outshine those of the women around the village, but her hair is wet from her swim, her shoes have dried mud stuck to them, and she isn’t wearing any gloves.
The woman walks up and caresses the horse’s nose. Her hands are slender, encased in kidskin. White, not cream. The contrast between the white of the leather and the black of the horse’s coat is as startling as the woman’s presence in front of the old pilchard shed. Isabel opens her mouth to say something, but the woman is quicker. Turning away from the horse, she says, “Mrs. Isabel Henley. May I present myself? My name is Lady Harriet Darby, of Weatherston Hall. I was told of your coming into the area and I hope very much you don’t consider it presumptuous of me to introduce myself.” The words tumble out like marbles. Lady Darby’s fingers flutter to her face. Giggling, she adds, “The truth is, I’ve been desperate to meet you.”
Isabel curtsies, and to her surprise, Lady Darby does the same. Isabel says, “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Lady Darby.”
“I’m ever so pleased,” Lady Darby twitters. “I had meant to come sooner, do you know, but I was laid up with the most horrid cold. My nose is still red, can you see?” She turns her head to show her profile.
Isabel says, “I cannot tell, Lady Darby. You look lovely.”
