“There is no need. I secured everything before retiring. The shutters held.”
“All the same—”
“Mrs Hargreaves.” Elizabeth tightened her arm. “I should be very much obliged if you would help me with the provisions first. I have had nothing since yesterday’s supper, and I confess I am rather desperate for tea.”
The appeal to practicality worked where deflection had not. Mrs Hargreaves clicked her tongue— “No tea! Lord above, child”—and turned toward the path down to the village, already cataloguing aloud what would be required: kettle, leaves, milk if her son’s household could spare it, and something more substantial than bread if Elizabeth meant to work through the morning.
Elizabeth walked beside her, matching her pace, asking questions about the village, the weather, the state of the harbour after the storm—anything to fill the air with conversation that led away from the cottage and its shattered chimney.
At the fork in the path, she did not look left.
Theycameinaloose procession throughout the morning. Robson first, with his eldest son Joseph hauling a barrow of scrap iron for the pyre fittings. Then Tom Calder—young, windburned, loud where his father was laconic—who had sailed past the headland before dawn and seen only the pyre’s low ember against the cliff.
“No beam last night,” Tom said, not quite a question, standing at the base of the tower with his hands in his coat. “Nor the night before.”
“The mechanism requires a new collar. It has been ordered from Newcastle.”
“What’s wrong with the old one?”
“Borewear. The collar no longer seats to its original tolerance. The flame draws unevenly and will not hold.”
Tom considered this with the expression of a man who understood boats and rope and very little about brass tolerances. “My da’ says the light’s not swept the water in fourteen nights running. TheHannah Crowenearly put her bow on the northern spur two nights past. Skipper’s not pleased.”
“The skipper may address his displeasure to the trustees.”
“Aye, or to Josiah Tull, who’s coming up the hill behind me.”
He turned. The path below revealed two figures ascending—one he knew at once: Tull, the harbour warden, a man of sixty with the unhurried gait of someone whose authority did not require haste. Beside him walked a younger man carrying a leather case.
Tull had jurisdiction over navigational hazards within the harbour district. He could not order the light replaced—that required the trust's decision or Trinity House—but he could file a report recommending it, and Trinity House acted on Tull’s reports with a speed they extended to no one else on this coast.
He descended from the knoll and met them at the tower door.
“Wickie.” Tull did not offer his hand. His eyes moved from the tower to the dead pyre and back. “We need to talk about your light.”
“The apparatus is under repair. The collar has worn beyond its tolerance, and a replacement has been ordered from the foundry that supplies Trinity House. I expect it within the month.”
“So I’ve heard. Robson told the whole of the Anchor the same last evening. I’ve also heard your light hasn’t swept in a fortnight, and that you’ve been burning timber on the headland like a man signalling a wreck.” Tull removed his hat and turned it in his hands. “A worn collar is a day’s work. Fourteen dark nights is something else. I’ve a duty to inspect the mechanism. You know that.”
“I know your duty. I question your timing. The housing is partially disassembled.”
“My timing follows yours. Fourteen dark nights, Wickie. I cannot write that off as maintenance.”
The younger man had opened his leather case and was arranging paper upon a flat stone. A pen appeared. An inkwell. He was preparing to record.
“Oh, good morning! I was hoping to meet some neighbours today.”
Miss Bennet’s voice came from behind him. He had not heard her approach—she moved quietly in those stiff boots—and he turned to find her standing at the tower doorwith a tin cup in one hand and a composure so thorough it could only have been built in the time between hearing Tull’s voice and reaching the threshold.
“You must be from the village,” she said, addressing Tull directly. “I am Elizabeth Bennet. I have recently taken up the stewardship of the Blackscar trust.”
Tull’s eyebrows rose. He looked from her to the keeper and back. “The stewardship?”
“The female-line trust, established under the original settlement. I arrived only yesterday, and I have been confirmed to my position by the trustees in London.”
Tull glanced at the keeper once more, then removed his hat and turned to bow to Miss Bennet. “Welcome, Miss. I was not informed of any steward.”
“No. I expect not. The trustees’ communications have been, in my experience, somewhat selective.” She took a step forward, placing herself between Tull and the tower door in a manner that could have been accidental and was not. “You wish to inspect the mechanism?”
