She hesitates a beat too long. “I miss what we could have had. Yes, I miss him, very much indeed. But in three years we only had five weeks together, so I miss perhaps more that which should have been, but wasn’t.” The hair coming loose from her plait falls in front of her face as she looks down at her hands. Is it true, she wonders, or is she merely telling herself this? Is she really missing George’s arms around her, the way his voice dipped when he spoke her name, the clear, unadulterated affection in it? She believed she’d have a lifetime’s worth of those things. Through her painfully constricted throat, she says, “If that doesn’t sound like nonsense to you.”
“Isabel.” When she doesn’t react, he says it again, “Isabel.” He’s trying to make her look up. After a moment, she does it. She’s not going to weep—not yet. Jack says, “It isn’t nonsense. It makes perfect sense. It’s why I refuse to wed. In my line of work, one never sees much of one’s wife and one may die tomorrow, leaving too many things unsaid, undone.”
Before she can stop herself, she says, “Or today.”
Incongruously, this makes him laugh, which makes him wince. It’s like watching him curl up inside himself, away from the room as the pain washes over him. Then he comes back out of it and says, “I should hope not. I’m only twenty-nine. But I won’t subject a wife to that sort of thing…or, God forbid, any children. It’s too dangerous, like it was for your husband.”
She says, “Don’t compare yourself to my husband.”
“Why shouldn’t I? He was a sailor, same as me.”
“He fought for his country. You’re a…a smuggler.” It’s an insult, the way she saysit.
He doesn’t deny it. Instead he says mildly, “I prefer the term free trader. And prize money, I am sure, never featured into the equation where your husband was concerned. Or did it? I don’t believe your husband and I are all that different.”
“My husband wasn’t too cowardly to marry.” She wishes she hadn’t said it; it makes him laugh again. “Stop that,” she says. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“The revenue men’s bullet did that. But you’ve got me there, madam. Still, there’s a fine line between bravery and foolishness. I should know—I’ve crossed it one too many times myself.”
“You shouldn’t talk so much.” She dips the cloth again. The water runs pink from her fingers. Outside, beyond the yellow glow of the lantern, the sky is graying at the edges. She says, “It’ll be morning soon.”
“Good.” He closes his eyes, his face nearly as pale as the sheet. “I should like to see the morning.”
He sleeps for a while, or perhaps he only rests. His eyes are closed and she studies his face, the faint lines around his eyes, the way his hair curls at the edges, the shape of his mouth, which is quite small for his face but suits it all the same and which has a perfect Cupid’s bow. Every ten minutes or so, she checks the wound. It isn’t bleeding now, but it is looking awfully raw and deep. She has to turn her head away and not look at it too long or a queasiness rises in her stomach.
The air in the room has grown close. It smells of blood and the wick of the lantern. Whale oil, she thinks. She wants to open the window, but she doesn’t want Jack to get cold, so she merely keeps sitting there on the edge of the bed, rinsing the cloth while she waits. Time passes like treacle. Where is the doctor? Why haven’t they brought him yet? The captain thinks the same. When he wakes, he says, “Where is that damned doctor?” And then, “I beg your forgiveness, madam.”
“You have it,” she says, and she goes into the kitchen and pours him a cup of milk, of which he manages three sips before falling back into a slumber.
Dawn lifts itself up from the river. She watches the sky turn gray and then a faint pink through the window glass, which is of better quality than that of the kitchen window, but still somewhat opaque. She pictures the sea, around the bend of the river, turning into the sweeping, turquoise-blue field it’ll be in an hour or two, when the sun has fully risen.
Watching the river calms her, but only a little. The captain’s face is as pale as the milk in the cup on the sill. She hesitates, then puts her hand by his mouth. He’s still breathing.
Time slows further. Just as she’s beginning to truly fear for the captain’s life, there’s a noise on the gravel path. A late owl hoots outside. Then the front door scrapes and Jack is fully awake at once, the pistol in his hand, hammer cocked, muzzle pointing at the bedroom door. Isabel draws in her breath sharply. Her heart’s pounding hard again. Footsteps and then a voice…“Captain, it’s us. I’ve got Rowell here.”
She lets out her breath slowly. Her legs are pudding, but this time it’s from relief. She draws back into the corner as they enter: Oppy, Dick, and the doctor, ducking through the door one by one. The doctor looks more like a farmer than a doctor, with an unlaced shirt under a brown wool coat and knee breeches in the old style. He takes off his coat and places it on the side of the bed. The mattress sags under the weight of his leather bag.
“Myttin da,Jack,” the doctor says, sitting on the edge of the bed near the window, where Isabel spent the past slow hours. Under the linen of his shirt, his arms bulge with muscles. “Got yourself in a stew again, have you?”
Jack says, “There’s one aboard theSwallowthat aims a little too well for my liking.”
“Did you manage to unload?”
Isabel watches the doctor closely when he lifts the silk from the wound. The look on his face doesn’t assuage her fears.
Jack says, “Not yet.”
“They’re blocking the way into Nelly’s Cove,” says Oppy. “Wepulled in here after the captain was shot, so we could get to you as fast as we could. Didn’t expect this one to be living here.” He jerks his thumb in Isabel’s direction.
The doctor looks up. “Are you the woman of the house?”
“I am.”
“Could you get me some fresh water, please?”
She lifts the bucket and carries it to the door. Before going through, she looks back at the captain. He’s watching her as the doctor examines the wound. She tries to give him an encouraging smile, but her mouth does a funny thing, sort of drawing down as if she’s about to weep, and then she’s through the door and almost runs down the steps and into the garden.
The light is fully flowing now, pink and purple and early morning gray vying for dominion of the sky. The wind has largely died down, the river laps at the roots of the stone wall around the garden. After the closeness of the room, the scent of sea, grass, and flowers is as fresh as the new day. She pulls the air into her, mouth open, breathing deeply, and throws the reddish water from the bucket over the wall. The light hits the stream and everything turns soft pink: the water, the sky, the river. Isabel feels soft with it, as if the edges of her have worn away.
