His own house in London—the Darcy house in Berkeley Square—sat a quarter mile to the south, shuttered, staffed by the two servants his solicitor had retained to keep the damp at bay and the silver from tarnishing. He would need to go there. He would need to walk its rooms the way he had walked Pemberley’s, cataloguing what had been neglected, authorizing what must be repaired, making the decisions that only the owner could make. The house would need to be opened properly if Georgiana’s presentation was to proceed as Lady Matlock intended. There would be dinners. Callers. The machinery of society that required a London address with fires lit in every grate and a master capable of receiving guests without flinching at the sound of his own name.
He would do it. Not today. Today he would stay here, in his aunt’s morning room, with his hand on his old dog’s head, the night music still fading in his memory, and the knowledge that his sister had not shut her door. He would stay among the people he had missed, because staying was the thing Elizabeth had taught him to do, and the lesson had travelled south with him as surely as the stone in his pocket.
Tomorrow, he would begin the work. Tonight, he would write to Elizabeth—not the keeper’s report, not the coded professional correspondence, but something closer to the truth. He did not yet know what the letter would say. He knew only that it would be longer than the last, and that the writing of it would be the best part of his evening. And that reading it next week would be the best part of hers.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
GravesarrivedonaTuesday, which was a Robson day, and Elizabeth had the oil topped and the mechanism cleaned before the man’s horse cleared the harbour road. She had been expecting him for a fortnight—the Trinity House letter had given a window rather than a date, the sort of vagueness that suggested either institutional carelessness or a deliberate strategy of keeping the inspected party off balance. She suspected the latter.
She had dressed with care. The blue wool gown—the one he had chosen for her, the one she had worn the morning after it arrived and watched his expression fail to conceal its satisfaction—was clean and pressed and fitted her well enough to suggest competence without vanity. Her hair was pinned in the Longbourn manner. She carried the logbook under her arm the way a solicitor carried a brief, because the logbook was her evidence and she intended to use it.
Calder was already at the tower when she climbed from the cottage. He had come up at a pace that left him winded, which was unusual for a man who moved through his days with the swagger of someone conserving himself for the sea. Robson had spotted the rider on the Alnwick road half an hour earlier—a man on a long-legged horse, carrying an instrument case, asking at the inn for directions to Blackscar Tower—and had sent his boy running to the harbour, and the harbour had sent Calder up the hill, because the harbour understood what an instrument case and an Alnwick road meant before the rider had finished his breakfast.
Hurst arrived ten minutes later, the chandler picking his way up the headland path with the careful tread of a man whose business kept him largely indoors and whose boots were not equal to the terrain. He had heard from Calder’s wife, apparently, that his expertise might be wanted.
“Graves?” Hurst asked, somewhat breathless from the climb.
“Not yet. Another quarter-hour, perhaps. He stopped at the inn.”
“And the apparatus?”
“In order. I checked it at dawn.”
Hurst nodded. He looked at the tower with the appraising eye of a man who supplied its consumables and therefore understood its costs better than anyone, save the steward herself. Calder only stuck his thumbs in the loops of his oilskin and waited to be consulted on the things he knew best—which, in his estimation, was nearly everything to do with the water below.
Graves arrived on horseback at half-past nine.
He was younger than she had expected—perhaps thirty-five, with the lean, angular frame of a man who spent his days climbing structures rather than sitting behind desks. He wore a dark coat that had been good once and was now merely serviceable, and he carried a leather case of instruments that clinked faintly as he dismounted. His face was narrow, clean-shaven, with the detached attentiveness of someone whose profession required him to assess the condition of things without forming attachments to them.
“Miss Bennet?” He consulted a paper. “The land steward?”
“I am.”
“Graves. Trinity House, Northern District. I am here to conduct a full assessment of the navigational apparatus, the tower structure, and the lighthouse operation generally.” He looked past her to the tower. His eyes travelled upward from the base to the gallery with the systematic thoroughness of a man reading a column of figures. “Shall we begin?”
“Of course,” she said. “This way, please.”
Graves was, as she had feared, thorough. He measured the tower’s diameter at the base and again at the gallery level, recording the figures in a small book with a pencil so sharp it must have been cut that morning. He examined the mortar between the stones, pressing his thumbnail into the joints at intervals and noting the depth of the impression. He tapped the walls with a small hammer and listened to the sound the tapping produced the way a physician listens to a chest—not for what was there but for what ought to be there and was not. He climbed the stair, counting the steps, and she followed. Calder followed her, and Hurst remained below because the stair was narrow and Hurst’s constitution did not welcome confined spaces.
In the gallery, Graves examined the mechanism with a care that bordered on reverence. Or the fear of handling a fragile antique.
He removed the lens panels one by one, held them to the light, replaced them. He measured the collar—the worn, thinning collar that the Heaton foundry had still not replaced—and recorded its dimensions without comment, though the dimensions themselves were commentary enough. He tested the rotation of the bearing, turning the assembly through a quarter-arc with one hand and listening to the sound it made, the faint grinding that had worsened since November and that Elizabeth oiled each evening with a care bordering on superstition. He checked the oil reservoir, the wick housing, the ventilation channels, the reflector plates that gathered the flame and directed it outward through the glass.
He examined the flame. It burned as it had burned every morning since Darcy’s departure—strong, clear, with a warmth that reached the gallery glass and would, when darkness came, throw its beam across the channel and the reef and the coast with the steady sweep that the village relied upon.
There were nights when it wavered. She knew this. There were nights when the flame guttered without apparent cause—no draught, no fault in the oil or the wick, nothing mechanical to account for the disturbance—and those were the nights when she lay on the cot with the blanket pressed against her mouth and wept from a loneliness so complete that it reached the gallery above her and troubled the light.
She would not speak of this to Graves. She would not speak of it to anyone. But she knew, and the knowledge was its own burden, that the flame responded to her as surely as it responded to oil and oxygen, and that her grief was a variable the engineer’s instruments could not measure.
Graves finished his examination. He stood in the gallery with his notebook open and his pencil poised and looked at her with the courteous detachment of a man delivering a verdict he had reached before he began.
“The apparatus is in acceptable condition, given its age. The reflector array is original—a single parabolic mirror, I believe, circa 1780 or perhaps earlier. It is functional but significantly outperformed by the modern Argand systems with multiple reflectors that Trinity House has been installing in coastal stations these past fifteen years. The collar is dangerously worn and should have been replaced before now.”
“The replacement has been ordered. The foundry has experienced delays.”
“So I understand.” He made a note. “The tower structure is sound at the base but shows deterioration in the upper courses. The mortar has failed in several joints above the second landing. I would recommend repointing at minimum, though a more thorough assessment may reveal the need for partial reconstruction.”
“Partial reconstruction of a working tower?”
