The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter

Giving up her struggle, she allows the young woman and her mother to half carry, half drag her along. With every step closer to the lighthouse she wants to scream at them: Why didn’t you come sooner? But her words won’t come and her body can’t find the strength to stand upright. She crawls the final yards to the lighthouse door where she raises her eyes to pray and sees the light turning above.

Light. Dark. Light. Dark.

Matilda wants to know how it works.

James wants to paint it.

Too exhausted and distressed to fight it anymore, she closes her eyes and lets the darkness take her to some brighter place where she sings to her children of lavenders blue and lavenders green, and where her heart isn’t shattered into a thousand pieces, so impossibly broken it can surely never be put back together.

Dundee, Scotland.

Late evening and George Emmerson waits, still, for his sister in a dockside alehouse, idly sketching in the margins of yesterday’s newspaper to distract himself from dark thoughts about ships and storms. The howling gale beyond the leaded windows sends a cold draft creeping down his neck as the candles gutter in their sconces. He folds the newspaper and checks his pocket watch again. Where in God’s name is she?

The hours drag on until the alehouse door creaks open, straining against its hinges as Billy Stroud, George’s roommate, steps inside. Shaking out his overcoat, he approaches the fireplace, rainwater dripping from the brim of his hat. His face betrays his distress.

George stiffens. “What is it?”

“Bad news I’m afraid, George.” Stroud places a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There are reports that the Forfarshire went down in the early hours. Off the Farne Islands.”

George cannot understand, scrambling to make sense of Stroud’s words. “Went down? How? Are there any survivors?”

“Seven crew. They got away in one of the quarter boats. Picked up by a fishing sloop from Montrose. Lucky buggers. They were taken to North Sunderland. The news has come from there.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, George pulls on his gloves and hat, sending his chair clattering to the floor as he rushes out into the storm, Stroud following behind.

“Where are you going, man? It’s madness out there.”

“North Sunderland,” George replies, gripping the top of his hat with both hands. “The lifeboat will have launched from there.” The impact of his words hits him like a blow to the chest as he begins to comprehend what this might mean. He places a hand on his friend’s shoulder, leaning against him for support as the wind howls furiously and the rain lashes George’s face, momentarily blinding him. “Pray for them, Stroud. Dear God, pray for my sister and her children.”

LEARNING OF HIS sister’s stricken vessel, George throws a haphazard collection of clothes into a bag and leaves his lodgings, much to the consternation of his landlady, who insists he’ll catch a chill and will never get a carriage in this weather anyway.

Not one to be easily deterred by frantic landladies or bad weather, within half an hour of learning of the Forfarshire disaster, George has secured a coachman to take him to North Sunderland on the coast of Northumberland. The fare is extortionate, but he is in no humor to haggle and allows the driver to take advantage of his urgency. It is a small price to pay to be on the way to his sister and her children. He images them sheltering in a tavern or some kind fisherwoman’s cottage, little James telling tall tales about the size of the waves and how he helped to row his mother and sister back to shore, brave as can be.

Partly to distract himself and partly from habit, George sketches as the coach rumbles along. His fingers work quickly, capturing the images that clutter his restless mind: storm-tossed ships, a lifeboat being launched, a lighthouse, barrels of herrings on the quayside, Miss Darling. Even now, the memory of her torments him. Does he remember her correctly? Is he imagining the shape of her lips, the suggestion of humor in her eyes? Why can he not forget her? She was not especially pretty, not half as pretty as Eliza in fact, but there was something about her, something more than her appearance. Miss Darling had struck George as entirely unique, as individual as the patterns on the seashells she had shown him. The truth is, he has never met anyone quite like her and it is that—her particular difference—which makes him realize how very ordinary Eliza is. It had long been expected that he would marry his cousin, so he has never paused to question it. Until now. Miss Darling has given him a reason to doubt. To question. To think. Cousin Eliza and her interfering mother have only ever given him a reason to comply.

The rain hammers relentlessly on the carriage roof as the last of the daylight fades and the wheels rattle over ruts, rocking George from side to side like a drunken sailor and sending the lanterns swinging wildly beyond the window. Exhausted, he falls into an uncomfortable bed at a dreary tavern where the driver and horses will rest for the night.

Disturbed by the storm and his fears for Sarah, George thinks about the cruel ways of the world, and how it is that some are saved and others are lost, and what he might do if he found himself on a sinking ship. He closes his eyes and prays for forgiveness for having uncharitable thoughts about Eliza. She is not a bad person, and he does not wish to think unkindly of her. But his most earnest prayer he saves for his sister and her children.

“Courage, Sarah,” he whispers into the dark. “Be brave.”

As if to answer him, the wind screams at the window, rattling the shutters violently. A stark reminder that anyone at sea will need more than prayers to help them. They will need nothing short of a miracle.

CHAPTER TEN

GRACE

Longstone Lighthouse. 7th September, 1838

IT IS A different home we return to.

I have never been more grateful to see the familiar tower of Longstone emerge from the mist, but I also know that everything has changed, that I am changed by what has taken place. Part of my soul has shifted, too aware now of the awful fact that the world can rob a mother of her children as easily as a pickpocket might snatch a lady’s purse. But it is the sight of Mam—steadfast, resourceful Mam—waiting loyally at the boathouse steps that stirs the strongest response as I become a child, desperate for her mother’s embrace.

Her hands fly to her chest when she sees the coble. “Oh, thank the Lord! Thank the Lord!” she calls out as we pull up alongside the landing steps. “I thought you were both lost to me.”

“Help Mrs. Dawson, Mam,” I shout, trying to make myself heard above the still-shrieking wind. “Father must go back.”

“Go back?”

“There are other survivors. We couldn’t manage them all.” Mam stands rigid, immobilized by the relief of our return and the agony of learning that Father must go back. I have never raised my voice to her, but I need her help. “Mam!” I shout. “Take the woman!”

Gathering her wits, Mam offers Mrs. Dawson her arm. Too distraught to walk, Mrs. Dawson collapses onto her knees on the first step, before turning as if to jump back into the water.

I rush to her aid, speaking to her gently. “Mrs. Dawson. You must climb the steps. Mam has dry clothes and hot broth for you. You are in shock. We must get you warm and dry.”

Again, she grasps desperately at the folds in my sodden skirt, her words a rasping whisper, her voice snatched away by grief. “Help them, Miss. Please. I beg you to help them.”

I promise we will as I half carry, half drag her up the steps. “My father is a good man. He will bring them back. But he must hurry. We must go inside so that he can go back.”

The two injured men limp behind, while the other, refusing any rest and insisting he is quite unharmed, sets out again with Father to fetch the remaining survivors. I catch Father’s eyes as he takes up the oars. Without exchanging a word, I know he understands that I am begging him to be safe, but that I also understand he has to go back. I pray for him as I help Mrs. Dawson into the lighthouse.

Inside, all becomes urgent assistance and action. While Mam tends to the injured men, patching them up as best she can, I fetch more wood for the fire and fill several lamps with oil, it still being gloomy outside. I set a pot of broth on the crane over the fire and slice thick chunks of bread, glad now of the extra loaves Mam had made yesterday. I pass blankets and dry clothes around the wretched little group huddled beside the fire, grateful for the light and warmth it lends to their frozen limbs.

Having dealt with the most pressing needs, my attention returns to Mrs. Dawson. I fetch a screen to save her modesty before helping her out of her sodden clothes, peeling them from her like layers of onion skin before hefting them into a wicker basket. How broken and vulnerable she is, standing in our home without a stitch on her. She shivers and convulses, her skin almost gray in color, her fingertips and toes badly wrinkled from the salt water. I dry her as quickly and gently and respectfully as I can before helping her into the dry clothes. Our eyes meet only once during the long process of undressing and dressing. It is a look that will stay with me for a long time.

“How long is your father gone?” she asks, glancing anxiously at the window.

“He is a strong rower,” I assure her. “He’ll be back soon.”

She stands then, as if in a trance, staring at the collection of seashells and sea glass on the windowsill. “Matilda will like the glass pebbles,” she murmurs, rubbing her fingertips over them. “And James will admire the patterns on the shells. He loves patterns. He likes the repetition in things.”

I curl her shaking hands around several small shells. “Keep them,” I say.

Her eyes are glassy and swollen from her tears. “They were too cold,” she says in desperate hitching sobs. “I couldn’t keep them warm.”

Kneeling at her feet to lace a pair of old boots, I blink back tears that prick my eyes. I have to stay strong, have to suppress whatever fears I have about my father, still out there at the mercy of the sea.

I startle as Mrs. Dawson places a hand gently on my shoulder. “I don’t know your name, Miss. I’m Sarah.”

“Grace,” I tell her, looking up. “Grace Darling.”

Sarah Dawson smiles a little through her pain. “Thank you, Grace Darling. I will never forget your courage and your kindness.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Mrs. Dawson,” I say, standing up. “We only did our duty as light keepers. I thank God for enabling us to save at least some of you.” I drop my gaze to my boots. “I only wish we could have done more.”

I fetch bread and broth, watching closely as Sarah Dawson eats, just as a mother might watch its child, swallowing every mouthful with her, knowing that with each spoonful her strength will return, and that somehow she will find a way to endure this. As I watch her, I notice a pretty cameo locket at her neck. It reminds me that someone must be waiting for her, perhaps already missing her.

“Do you have family, Sarah? A husband? Sisters?”

“I have a brother,” she says, as if she had forgotten. “Poor George. He’ll be ever so worried. He’ll be waiting for me. We were traveling to Scotland to spend a month with …” Her words trail away. “I don’t suppose it matters now.”

I press my hands against hers. “We can talk later. Try to get some rest.”

Eventually, she sleeps, exhausted from shock and numbed a little from the good measure of brandy I’d added to her broth. While she rests, I take the sodden clothes to the outhouse, where I put them through the mangle, sea water spilling onto the floor until half the North Sea sloshes about at my feet. I am glad to be occupied, but it is tiring work for arms that are already sore from my efforts rowing the coble. With each turn of the handle I imagine myself still rowing, bringing Father safely home.

The clothes are put through the mangle three times, and still Father doesn’t return. I think about the bird flying inside and how he’d joked about it. “Which one of us do you think it is, Gracie, because I’m not in the mood for perishing today, and I certainly hope it isn’t you …” Scolding myself for being maudlin, I carry the heavy basket of damp clothes back to the lighthouse, where I hang them on the line above the fire. Glad to see Sarah Dawson still sleeping, I place the letter I’d found in her coat pocket on the hearth to dry. I will remind her of it when she wakes.

IT IS ELEVEN o’clock—almost two hours after Father set out again—before he returns with the remaining survivors. My heart soars with relief when the lighthouse door opens and the bedraggled group stagger inside. Not for the first time this morning I have to blink back tears, rushing to assist, keeping myself busy to stop my emotions overwhelming me. This is not a time for sentiment. It is a time for common sense and practicality.

“The children?” I whisper as I help Father out of his sodden coat.

“Not enough room,” he replies, shaking his head. “They are secured on the rock with the other lost soul.”

“Secured?” The puzzled expression on my face demands further explanation.

“Placed high above the waterline,” he explains. “Where the sea will not reach them. I will go back when the storm abates.”

We both glance over to Sarah Dawson. I can hardly bear to tell her.

Once again, our living quarters become canteen, laundry, and hospital, and Mam and I become cook, nursemaid, and counsel.

I place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’ll manage, Mam. At least Father is back safe.”

“Aye, pet. I suppose we must be thankful for that. I only wish your brother was here with us.”

Brooks has been on my mind, too. I tell her I’m sure he is safe on dry land, and silently hope I am right.

Nine survivors in total are rescued and brought back to Longstone. Eight men and one woman. Five crew and four passengers. Of all those aboard the steamer when she’d set sail from Hull, it hardly seems anywhere near enough. Mam is pleased to discover that in addition to the Forfarshire’s carpenter, trimmer, and two firemen, we have also rescued Thomas Buchanan, a baker from London, and Jonathan Tickett, a cook from Hull. Mr. Buchanan and Mr. Tickett soon have fresh loaves baking and a stew bubbling over the fire. The lighthouse is so full of people I can hardly remember the quiet harmony the room usually holds. As always, dear Longstone plays its own part, somehow expanding to accommodate everyone. I take a moment in the stairwell to offer my gratitude to this place I am so proud to call home. I can imagine nowhere safer, or more welcoming, for the poor souls below.

A little later, while they are seated around the fire, the five rescued crewmen talk in hushed voices, each recalling his own version of events, remembering moments of good fortune that had seen them at the front of the ship when it struck the rocks, or moments of great despair when they had been unable to help others. I am troubled to hear them debating their captain’s decision not to seek repairs in Tynemouth, shocked by their willingness to apportion blame and point the finger so soon after the tragedy. It doesn’t sit well with me, especially not with the captain believed lost to the sea and poor Sarah Dawson close beside them, foundering in her grief.

I offer the men a tray of bread and cheese, putting it down on the table a little too roughly so that the plates clatter against each other. “I will leave you, gentlemen. You must have many things to discuss.” There is no smile on my lips. No softness to my voice.

Realizing they have been overheard, the men lower their voices, shuffling their chairs closer together. Guilt clouds their faces as I step from the room. I am happy to leave them to their ill-judged discussions.

By late morning the light is still that of evening and the many candles and lamps scattered about the place burn their wicks hungrily. After the initial melee of organization and the rush to tend to our guests’ needs, a strange calm falls over the lighthouse as the hours wear on. One of the crewmen takes up a lament, a haunting tune which we all join in to the best of our ability. Playing its part in the performance, the cacophony of the storm rages on outside. It is impossible to even contemplate making the journey to the mainland to seek help or much-needed supplies. As the waves crash relentlessly against the rocks and the wind howls at the windows, my thoughts turn repeatedly to Mrs. Dawson’s children, alone on Harker’s Rock. At a point when I think the storm has abated a little, I ask Father if he might consider returning for them.

He shakes his head, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, pet. It is still too dangerous. We must pray for their souls. That is all we can do for them now.”

“But I can’t get them from my mind, Father. How can I ever forget their still little bodies, or poor Mrs. Dawson’s suffering?”

“I’m not sure you can, Grace. Nor that you should. We all must face our maker when the time comes and those of us left behind must somehow find the strength to carry on. Our duty as keeper of the light is to warn, but it is also to rescue and to offer a place of shelter for those in need. We did our best, Grace, and you showed tremendous courage. I will write a report for Trinity House and make a note in the Log, and we will trim the wicks and inspect the lenses and the light will turn as usual tonight, and the world will turn with it. That, my dear child, is what we must do—carry on. Today, we have seen the very worst of life, and the very best of it.”

“Best?”

He sees the surprise in my eyes. “Yes. The best. Look at these people—strangers—in our home, in our clothes, eating our food. Look at how they comfort and help each other. Look how much you care for Mrs. Dawson and her children, all of whom you’d never even heard of until a few hours ago. There will always be someone willing to save us, Grace. Even a stranger whose name we don’t know. That is the very best of humanity. That is what puts my mind at ease on a day like today.”

His words, as always, fly to my heart, giving me the strength to keep going. Pushing all thoughts of tiredness from my mind, I tend to the fire, fill the kettle with water to heat for tinctures and tonics. As I work, the door blows open, the wind rushing inside, snuffing out lamps and sending yesterday’s newspaper skittering along the floor.

The storm has brought unexpected visitors.

FROM HER CHAIR beside the fire, Sarah Dawson observes the new arrivals with a strange detachment. Where were all these people when she was struggling to stay afloat? Where were they when her children were still alive? Too late, she wants to call out to them. You are all too late. But she says nothing, only wraps her arms around herself, rocking backward and forward, singing to herself of lavenders green and lavenders blue and muttering how sorry she is that she couldn’t tell Matilda about the lighthouse, and that James never got to use his uncle’s paintbrushes.

Reaching up to scratch an itch at her throat, her fingers knock against her locket. With trembling hands, she unhooks the chain around her neck. The filigree clasp is already undone, the two sides of the locket as open as butterfly wings. Inside, there is nothing. No lock of pale barley. None of darkest coal dust. The sea has robbed her of the last piece of her children. Her past has been erased, her future stolen, her whole world shattered into fragments of what was and what might have been and what can never be again. Like Matilda’s rag doll, she folds in on herself, head to knees, her grief so all-consuming she cannot imagine how she will ever move on from this moment.

Eventually she sleeps, her fingers unfurling like a summer rose until the locket falls into her lap and the piece of emerald sea glass Miss Darling had given to her drops from her hand and rolls a little way along the floor, where it waits patiently for some other hand to find it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MATILDA

Cobh, Ireland. May 1938

AS I STEP forward to board the tender, I curl my fingers around the piece of lucky emerald sea glass I keep in my pocket. The pier creaks ominously beneath my feet, the noise tugging at my nerves like fingers worrying at a loose thread. A portly gentleman in front of me bends awkwardly to retrieve his dropped ticket. As I wait for him to move ahead I glance at my fellow passengers, wondering how many of them conceal shameful secrets beneath their boiled-wool coats and the stiffened brims of trilby hats. Behind me, Mrs. O’Driscoll chirps incessantly on about how wonderful America is, and how she hopes the rain will hold off for the departure, and Blessed Heart of God, would yer man ever hurry up. Already weary of her endless commentary, I’m thankful the crossing will only take five days.

Our tender, reserved for those with tickets in Cabin or Tourist class, is half-empty as it slips its moorings and heads out into the harbor. I can feel Mother’s eyes burn into the back of my neck, demanding me to turn and wave to her one last time. I fix my eyes dead ahead and focus on the horizon, trying to ignore the rising sense of nausea in my stomach.

“Departures always make me tearful,” Mrs. O’Driscoll clucks, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief as we move along the deck to find a seat. “The Lord bless us all,” she adds, crossing herself and saying a Hail Mary. Rumor has it that a relative of hers perished on the Titanic, so her prayers are entirely understandable. Still, I wish she would stop. Prayers and tears make me uneasy.

Settling in a deck chair, I pull a blanket over my legs and take a book from my traveling bag. Mrs. O’Driscoll sits in the chair directly beside me, despite the fact that there are a dozen others she could take.

“I’m not going to fall in,” I snap, a little more harshly than I’d intended. “You can leave me as soon as we’re out of Mother’s sight.”

A shrewd smile crosses her lips as she raises an eyebrow in a knowing arch. “Well now, Matilda. You see, I promised Constance—your mother—that I would see you safely to America, and I intend to do just that. The sooner you accept that I’m here for the duration, the better the journey will be for the both of us.” She rummages in her handbag and lifts out a small paper bag. “Humbug?”

I shake my head, and then wish I hadn’t. With a tired sigh I tell her I will take a humbug, thank you.

She makes a satisfied harrumphing sound and passes me the entire bag. “Keep them. They’re a great help with the seasickness.”

A recently widowed bridge-playing friend of my mother’s, traveling to visit a relative on Long Island, Mrs. O’Driscoll had been appointed as my traveling companion despite my insistence that I didn’t need anyone to accompany me, especially not a turkey-necked woman with a taste for tweed coats and velvet hats. Of course, my mother wouldn’t hear of my traveling alone, accusing me of being deliberately obstinate just to upset her. “If you’d been this uncooperative when it came to ‘other matters’ we wouldn’t be in this dreadful mess in the first place.” Her words had stung far worse than the accompanying slap to my cheek. In the end my protests, like everything else I had to say about this trip, were completely ignored.

As the tender slips its moorings I open my book, hoping Mrs. O’Driscoll will take the hint and leave me in peace.