The scent reached her before she identified it—dry grain and something faintly sour. Mice, most likely. A small scattering of husk lay near the wall. She did not recoil. Mice were not unknown at Longbourn in winter; they were a matter of management, not alarm. Perhaps she might acquire a cat.
She rose and returned to the window facing the headland.
The keeper was still at his work. He had constructed a low platform of sorts upon the knoll. The longer lengths of timber lay across it in careful alignment. He moved with the economy of one accustomed to solitude—no wasted motion, no glance toward the cottage.
The sky had deepened toward iron. The sea had lost its line.
She did not understand the keeper’s purpose, but she understood the hour. If she meant to eat before full dark, she must act.
She took up her cloak, fastened it, and unbolted the door. The wind struck her at once, cooler now, carrying the taste of rain not yet fallen. She closed the door behind her and set out toward the tower.
He was descending as she approached. His hands hung empty at his sides. His gaze passed over her without pause, fixed upon the ground ahead, and she saw him adjust his line—the smallest shift away from her path.
It would not do.
“Sir.” She did not raise her voice, but she did not soften it. “You mentioned stores at the tower. Where are they kept?”
He stopped. His jaw worked once before he turned. “The lower chamber. Through the door at the base. Shelves to the left.”
“And a lantern?”
His gaze moved briefly past her, toward the cottage, then back.
“There is a small one upon the table inside. You may use that. The larger must remain where it is.”
She followed the direction of his glance and saw a heavy brass lantern hanging from a hook near the entrance to the tower. “I have no intention of carrying off your apparatus.”
Something crossed his face—too brief to read—and he inclined his head once. He resumed his descent without further word.
She waited until he had gone several paces before continuing upward herself.
The door at the base of the tower opened upon a chamber far smaller than she had imagined. Scarcely more than an entry and stair, the stone walls close about her. To one side stood a narrow table bearing a small lantern, as promised. Opposite, rough shelves had been fixed into the wall. Upon them lay sacks of flour, a crock of salt, a small wheel of cheese, a loaf wrapped in cloth, a few onions, a joint of cured meat.
There was also a cot against the far wall, neatly made, a blanket folded at its foot. A single chair stood near it. Upon the table beside the lantern lay two or three books, stacked without ornament, a sheaf of letters weighted by a stone.
She paused. This, then, was where he slept. A cot, a chair, a table, a shelf of provisions. Everything reduced to function.
The cottage would have been more comfortable, would it not? More spacious, certainly. But here was his habitation: narrow, austere, sufficient. He had remained within the tower rather than repair the house below. Whether by choice or by the slow accretion of years in which no one required him to choose, she could not say.
But then, her new situation was not one of luxury, either. She had just draped her own gowns across a settle and a chair because there was nothing else to receivethem. The distance between his austerity and hers was shorter than she would have supposed that morning.
She did not touch the letters. She did not examine the books beyond noting that they bore no gilded spines. They were used, not displayed.
Through the small window, she saw him again, bending to lift another length of driftwood. Soon it would be dark, and the beam would sweep the water the way her uncle had described it—slow, steady, turning in its broad arc across the reef. She would see it from her window tonight. The one thing on this headland that would not require her to fight for it.
She moved quickly. It would not do to be found here alone. He was too tall, his shoulders too broad—why, he could flick his wrist and sweep her into his arms and do heaven-knew-what with her before she would be able to draw breath to cry for help. And he was young—far younger than she had bargained for. Surely, less than thirty. Her uncle had described lantern keepers as invariable old salts, wizened by the sea. This man was… well, there was nothing wizened about him, and he had eyes that already pieced her too cleanly.
She had no way of knowing what manner of man he was, but the cottage promised locks on the windows and a bolt on the door.
From the shelves she selected a modest portion of cheese, a heel of bread, two onions. She hesitated, then added a small measure of flour. The lantern she lifted carefully from the table, testing its weight. It held oil. It would serve.
She closed the door behind her and descended the slope with greater haste than dignity, the wind tugging at her cloak as though determined to question her decision.
The keeper was walking up just now, another length of timber on his shoulder. He did not look up as he passed.
Chapter Seven
Shemovedmorequicklythan he would have credited, the small lantern swinging at her side, the parcel of food gathered against her arm. His food. His lantern. The wind caught at her cloak and pressed it against her back; she leaned into it rather than yielding. The line of her shoulders refused assistance. He found that more aggravating than if she had struggled.
