The kitchen is as dark and cool as ever—it will take more than a week of unseasonable weather to heat it. Mrs. Dowling lowers her bulk onto one of the kitchen chairs. The lines on her face arrange themselves in a pattern of concern. Before Isabel has the chance to ask her if anything has happened, Mrs. Dowling folds her hands together and says, “I spoke with Mrs. Winters at the market this morning.”
Isabel sits down opposite. Mrs. Dowling’s fingers are long and slender. She wears a thin band of silver, set with three carved coral stones,on her left hand. “Yes?” she says, apprehensively. “Was Mrs. Winters well?”
Mrs. Dowling says, “She told me her grandson, Joe—you know him, perhaps, he works at Angove’s farm—went fishing yesterday out by Frenchman’s Creek. Or he meant to, only he saw something in the water that made him go straight back to the village.”
Isabel’s hands grow cold. She forces herself to meet Mrs. Dowling’s eyes. The disappointment in them makes her want to crawl deep into herself. Mrs. Dowling says evenly, “I believe, Mrs. Henley, you know what he saw.”
“I…I’m not sure…” She trails off. There’s nothing she can say. She has no excuse; she cannot explain why she was in the water with Jack, chest to chest, with only the cloth of her gown and his shirt in between. Why he sat half naked on the beach with her, and she outlined in wet muslin, every curve visible to anyone who would care to look down from the path. It will be like Greenwich all over again, she thinks, the story spreading, people talking, judging her. She can already hear their whispers:that loose woman…
Except this time there’s nowhere to escape to. What’s more, she doesn’t want to leave again, not now that she has a new home.
Mrs. Dowling says, “Joe told Mrs. Winters he saw two people in the river together. He believed the woman was the lady come from London. The one they call the Bucca’s daughter, he said.”
She wants to say,it wasn’t me. Not this time. Not again. Only it was—and Mrs. Dowling knows it. Her throat is dry like the grass outside. She coughs. “Mrs. Dowling,I—”
Mrs. Dowling holds up her hand, the one with the coral ring. The lines in her face shift, softening her expression. “Before you speak, Mrs. Henley, I’ll tell you what I’ve told Mrs. Winters. I have told her Joe was mistaken. It couldn’t have been you he saw with a man in the creek, for you were helping me all afternoon with the canning of the strawberries.” She pauses to let her words sink in and says, “Weren’t you?”
The heat rushes back into her limbs. Greenwich, all of London, recedes. “I was! Oh, I was! Thank you, Mrs. Dowling!”
A thin smile touches Mrs. Dowling’s papery lips. It’s barely visible and vanishes in the space of a breath. “As widows, we’re trusted to keep our virtue because we kept it once before. It gives one a certain freedom, but I fear this could easily lead one to making the wrong choices. Choices that could injure one’s reputation.”
The bee from earlier buzzes past Mrs. Dowling’s head and she swats at it. Isabel says, “You’re perfectly right, Mrs. Dowling. I…I would never do such a thing.”
“I’m glad, Mrs. Henley. You show yourself to be a woman of sense.” A light chuckle. “The Bucca may protect one from many things, but a damaged reputation isn’t one of them.”
The voice she heard in the creek echoes in her mind.Swim.Come home.Did she imagine it? Would that there was a Sea Bucca and that he could protect her. Quietly she says, “Thank you, Mrs. Dowling. For the…canning.”
A full smile appears on Mrs. Dowling’s face, lighting her eyes. A girlish giggle follows in its wake. “I shall bring you a pot of strawberry jam next time, shallI?”
“Thank you. I should like that.” She hesitates. “Do you suppose Mrs. Winters has told many people?”
Mrs. Dowling rises. “Knowing her, she’ll have told the whole market. Rest assured I shall mention the fine afternoon you and I spent canning together to anyone who wonders.” Mrs. Dowling is almost at the door when she turns back. “Your mother was very fortunate, Mrs. Henley. Mr. Dowling and I left offerings, hoping for…Well, you see, the Sea Bucca does not merely lend protection, he may also help when one wishes for a child. Not often, but there are stories, though not one of them is quite like your story. I don’t know if your mother knew—”
“She did not,” Isabel says quickly. “At least, I don’t believe she did.” Her voice cracks. “Did you…?”
Mrs. Dowling shakes her head. “For Mr. Dowling and me, it wasn’t to be.”
She watches Mrs. Dowling make her way up the gravel path.There’s something laborious in the older woman’s way of walking; some heaviness in her step that wasn’t there before. A wild tenderness rises in Isabel so suddenly she takes a step outside and almost calls out,wait!But what she would do if Mrs. Dowling were to stop and turn, she isn’t sure. She can’t very well embrace the woman as she would have embraced her mother.
Back in the kitchen, she shuts the door and leans against it, letting her breath out slowly, like the air escaping the pig’s bladder the boys in the village play with.
—
She spends three days packing the small bundle she’ll take with her on the voyage. This is not on account of the things she’ll take, for there are only ten in total. Rather it is because she keeps unpacking and repacking them, considering each in light of its usefulness aboard a ship at sea and, of secondary and slightly unwelcome consideration, Jack’s opinion. Ever since Mrs. Dowling’s visit, a sense of disquiet has accompanied her like a loyal pet. She isn’t worried about the voyage, but about the difficulty of keeping away from Jack. She came appallingly close to losing everything a second time, thanks to her own indiscretion. She can’t risk it happening again.
In the end she carries a spare set of clothing—one to wear and one to wash, as George used to say about his uniform—comprising a set of stays, chemise, underskirt, and a green cotton dress that complements the color of her eyes, as well as her cloak and a second pair of gloves. She also packs Jack’s book about La Pérouse’s voyage, the tinderbox, two candles, and after long consideration, the small, sharp knife she uses to cut bread. All of this she ties into a length of cloth, with a loop under the knot to carryit.
On the day of the sailing, she wanders from the garden, wet under a dripping sky, to the chair in the sitting room and back again. It’s a Sunday, but she cannot imagine sitting still in a church pew that morning. At last, she sets out for Jack’s estate. It’s only one in the afternoon and Roskorwell is no more than a brisk two hours’ walk, but shecannot remain at home any longer. Shouldering the bundle, she starts out on the coastal path. The rain grows fatter, and soon she’s as wet as when she came out of the water in Frenchman’s Creek. The path turns to mud. The cloth of her dress—she has chosen one of a thicker cotton, cream with a pattern of red climbing roses—sticks to her legs, slowing her steps. The bundle drags on her shoulder. Maybe bringing the tinderbox was a bad idea.
After some twenty minutes, she stops and lowers the bundle to give her shoulder a rest. Standing on the shore, she looks out across the river to the spot where the land gives way to the sea. It’s hard to see it in the haze of the rain; the water is as gray as the sky. The wind pushes foam onto the waves. On the open ocean, the waves will be much higher. She hopes she won’t feel too seasick tonight.
Taking a deep breath, she hoists the bundle onto her other shoulder and begins to walk. The rain cuts through the canopy above and she grows cold despite her dress. The river whirls around the rocks. The path turns and she spots a figure up ahead, a vague smear of color in the rain. A beat, then the color solidifies into the red of a Revenue Officer’s shirt.
She looks around wildly. Could she climb the cliff and hide among the bushes? But it’s too late, the man has seen her. His horse comes trotting down the path and he’s calling, “Hullo there!”
She knows that voice. Her heart sinks. “Lieutenant Sowerby, good day to you, sir,” she says when he reaches her, as casually as she can while all her bones quiver.
Chapter Nine
