Mrs. Dowling says, “Perhaps your mother tried to protect you from the truth. Word has it she couldn’t leave Helford fast enough once she found you.”
Ice, sliding down her spine. People have been talking about her here, too, just as they have in Greenwich, albeit for different reasons. They’ve been talking about her for almost twenty years. She staggers further back into the cottage. She wants to say,that’s outrageousandhow dare you speak of my mother like that.But in the end she only says, “If you’ll excuse me, I really must unpack.”
“Of course. Please let me know if there’s anything else you need.” Mrs. Dowling says it in the most normal of tones, as if they haven’t just been discussing mermaids.
When she shuts the door behind her, Isabel sees there’s a gap under it on one side, while the other is so flush with the doorstep it scrapes whenever the door moves. She waits a few minutes and opens the door again. The gravel path is empty. The fresh sea-river air pushes in, inhabiting the rooms, forcing out the musty old house smell. She’s on her own and it doesn’t hurt—yet. Maybe it’s the newness of the situation that’s keeping her calm. Maybe it’s the sea. She can hear it through the open window—not the rush of the surf breaking on rocks or the crash of waves, but a constant quiet lapping. She finds a comfort in it. And a promise, maybe, though of what she doesn’t know.
She finds a knife in a wooden box on the counter and a plate in one of the cupboards, and sitting by the fire, she eats a slice of bread with butter for an early supper. The bread is coarse, but it has a good, strong flavor, as if some herbs were used in the baking. The glow of the fire spreads inside her. She lit it herself—that’s something, isn’tit?
Halfway through the meal, she realizes she shouldn’t have used as much butter. When she has finished, she puts the plate on the stone counter. She should wash it, but she’s too tired to get water from the well. Instead, she opens her travel case and gets out her worn copy ofRobinson Crusoe. The book falls open on the page she keeps the newspaper clipping fromThe London Chronicle,October 20, 1789. Her mother kept the entire paper, most of which was filled with news from France, where the Revolution had begun three months before, but Isabel cut out the one small article that read:
Falmouth, Cornwall.A child approximately four years of age was foundon the wild and beauteous Coast of Cornwall late last month without any Family to claim it. The populace believes the Child to have Risen from the Sea after a Wreck, although there has been no report of such. Unless a Relation comes forward, the Child shall be adopted by Admiral and Mrs. Farnworth of Woodbury House, Norfolk, and raised as their Daughter. If anyone has any information regarding this Child, please write to Messrs. Enright and Pickering, Solicitors, Mayfair, London.
The unease grows in her again until it roars. Mrs. Dowling’s story about the merman fuels it, as does the knowledge that even here people have been talking about her. Why was Mrs. Dowling so interested in her past? Does she suspect something?Impossible,she tells herself.
Her nerves disagree, jittering under her skin. Clipping in hand, she goes to the door and opens it wide. It’s growing dark outside. The wind pushes against the door, the young tree next to it sways. Down the gravel path, the river dances in the last of the sun. A reminder thatshe’s close to the sea—so close. Breathing deeply, she tastes it: salt, water, the tang of wet seaweed. Gradually, a quietude envelops her, made of waves and foam, ebb and flow, the current steadying her. By the time she closes the door again, a renewed sense of purpose courses through her. She’s going to make this her home, come what may.
Chapter Two
In bed that night, she listens to the river and the wind crashing about the cottage. She’s all alone. She cannot think of it. She’s not alone—the wind is made of voices. They’re calling,come home.The sea lies just around the bend in the river. She’s dreaming, of course. Or half dreaming, hovering in the fuzzy state between sleep and waking, in which her mind jumps from one thing to another, forging connections that cannot be real.
A creaking noise rouses her. The house groans in unexpected places; there is a sound like feet on the roof. The bed is hard and built for two. The mattress is filled with straw that pricks her back, but the sheets are clean. Who lived here before her? Mrs. Dowling said the cottage was empty for three years. She thinks it must’ve been an old man and his wife. Did they die in the bed?
The sea-river is louder at night, the waves from earlier grown into maturity. The sound soothes her and eventually her mind wanders, the way it does when she balances on the edge of sleep: the house in Greenwich, her parents, George and her after the wedding, during the two days they had before he went back to sea. They were too young, George’s older brother said. There would be plenty of time after the war. Only there wasn’t.
—
The morning comes with heavy rain. The tide is out; the inlet has turned into a swath of seaweed and rocks. The wind sweeps the rain against the windows in sheets. The sky is low over the river. They’re both gray, the water a stony gray and the sky the gray of overly washed cotton. Braving the rain, she puts on her pelisse and stands in the paradise garden, watching the water rise and fall in the wind. She isn’t sure what she is meant to be doing.Is this how people live?she thinks.Is this what it’s like when you’re well and truly on your own?
Back in the cottage, she puts some kindling in the fireplace. She goes through the motions Mrs. Dowling showed her—striking the flint, using the cloth for tinder—but the fire won’t catch. Half the tinder gone, she’s nearly crying with frustration, when suddenly the flame jumps. Now she could cry with relief. There’s too much feeling in her since she arrived; everything makes her want to weep.
Around noon, there’s a knock on the door. Could it be Mrs. Dowling again? She doesn’t know anyone else in the village, apart from the innkeeper and his son, and they have no reason to call on her. When she opens the door, she’s surprised to see the red shirt and blue pantaloons of an officer of the Revenue Service. Above the stiff cotton necktie, the man’s face reminds her of the moon; it’s pale and round, and there’s something mournful about the way his eyes droop at the corners. He looks perhaps ten years older than her.
The man removes his hat, bows deeply, and says, “Lieutenant Arthur Sowerby, riding officer of the Revenue Service, at your service, madam,” as if he cannot see the squalid cottage, as if it’s entirely usual for her to answer the door herself.
“Mrs. Henley. Most charmed.” She curtsies, and to her shock, he reaches for her hand and presses his lips to it. The touch of them is cold. Rain drips from his reddish-blond curls, trailing down his cheeks and into the collar of his shirt. Somewhere outside, a horse snorts. She says, “But you must step out of this rain, Lieutenant.”
She moves aside and he folds himself through the door, saying, “Thank you, madam. I’m most obliged.” His size belies the gracefulness of his movements: he walks as if he’s dancing. By the kitchentable, he stops and turns. “I’ve come to call on you, madam, to warn you.”
“Warn me? Whatever for?” Her voice is oddly loud. It doesn’t belong in the cottage; it needs more space.
“I understand you live here alone?”
“My, how news travels.”
“I’m based in St. Keverne. It’s only five miles from here. We’ve had word of your coming. I believe the wife of my most particular friend the deputy lord lieutenant, Sir Hugh Darby, intends to call on you soon. Lady Darby is keen to make your acquaintance, as am I. As you may be aware, there aren’t many people of our standing in the area.”
She’d like to offer him tea but isn’t sure how to make it. She has no other drinks to offer, either. Heat rising, she reaches for the medal around her neck. The length of the ribbon she wears it on places it close to her heart. “As you can see, I’m much reduced in circumstance, Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Sowerby has the decency to pretend he only now notices. “I see. Even so. I feel it is my duty to warn you, madam, that these parts are rife with smugglers. As a woman living alone, you’re particularly vulnerable. I would advise you to lock your doors and windows at night.”
Isabel glances at the door behind her. There’s no lock.
“Or have a lock fitted,” Lieutenant Sowerby says. “For the safety of your person and your possessions. If anything is ever amiss, please let me know at once. I’d be honored to come to your aid, should you need it.”
He sounds terribly officious. Looks it, too, with his shoulders squared and his chin sticking up like that. The kitchen is too small; he’s towering over her. She takes a step back, but he follows her, dance-stepping closer. His voice drops when he says, “You are a widow, are you not?”
“I am.” Her hand clasps the Trafalgar medal. The ridges of Admiral Nelson’s profile dig into her hand. On the reverse is a view of thebattle in which George died, with above it the words of Nelson’s signal: England Expects That Every Man Will Do His Duty.
