Return to the Island: An utterly gripping historical romance

by Hewitt, Kate

  Leaving the manicured gardens behind, she picked her way across the sinuous sweep of a sand dune to the pale stretch of beach, a few twisted pieces of driftwood cast upon its sands like strange sculptures. Sailboats and pleasure yachts dotted the slate-blue sea, and a woman’s laughter from somewhere—either the sea or the house—floated on the breeze.

  Ellen took a deep breath of the fresh sea air as the tension banding her shoulders started to ease.

  She belonged here even less than she did in New York, and the thought of spending an entire week rubbing elbows with the crème de la crème of New York society made her want to hightail it back to Amherst Island. She wanted to talk to Caro about her upcoming marriage, and sit on the front porch with Rose and Sarah and Gracie, shelling peas. She wanted to walk past the pond with its copse of birches, their leaves no doubt already tinged with yellow, to the Lymans’ farmhouse and visit with Jed, sitting at their kitchen table and drinking coffee served from an old tin pot.

  Jed. Her heart twisted as she thought of him. He hadn’t written, but then Jed Lyman had never been much of a letter writer. She thought of Rose’s quiet yet steely concerns when she’d found Ellen and Jed in the kitchen alone. Nothing improper had happened, of course, and yet, alone on the beach, Ellen could acknowledge that she had had such feelings, or at least the faint possibility of them, in her heart.

  Now that Jed’s marriage to Louisa was as good as over, could she even think of rekindling those feelings for him? Did she want to? As ever when it came to Jed Lyman, she felt confused, caught in a battle between old longings and more grownup sensibility. Sometimes she wondered if she’d made Jed into more than he’d ever been in her head and heart, simply because he’d chosen someone else. Were the feelings she remembered ever as tender as she thought them?

  But no matter what she felt for Jed, Ellen knew she wanted to go home. She’d had a lovely adventure and a good rest, but she was done exploring and experiencing. After they returned from Sands Point, she’d tell Elvira she needed to book her ticket for Ogdensburg, and then onto the island. Home.

  Ellen was just turning back towards the house when a lone figure coming down the beach called out to her.

  “I say, it isn’t Miss Copley, is it?”

  Ellen froze as the tall, lithe figure came closer, with his familiar wave of blond hair and eyes as brightly blue as the sea. Willian Hancock Turner the Third, wearing a white summer suit and doffing a straw boater with a little ironic smile.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted. She had given William Hancock Turner the Third more thought than she’d liked since she’d last seen him, unable to decide whether she liked his easy charm or not.

  “What a welcome!” William laughed lightly. “I’m a guest of the Guggenheims, as it happens. What are you doing here?” He spoke with gentle mockery, making her blush. What was it about this man that unnerved her so?

  “I’m a guest of the Guggenheims as well,” she admitted reluctantly. “Through the Framptons, that is. We were not personally acquainted before my arrival.”

  “Well, then! We shall have a splendid time this week, don’t you think?”

  Ellen could not think how to respond and William laughed again as he started to stroll towards the gardens, leaving Ellen with little choice but to fall in step with him.

  “Do you know, Miss Copley, I have an awful feeling that you don’t like me very much.”

  “I don’t know you well enough to say one or the other.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  Ellen shrugged. “How do you fill your time, if you don’t have a profession?”

  “Oh, but there’s any manner of ways to fill my time! Horse racing, hunting, card-playing, parties and balls…” He let a shout of laughter as Ellen could not hide her horrified expression. “What a louche and dissolute character I must seem to you.”

  “You are very different than the men I know in my regular life,” Ellen replied as tactfully as she could. She thought of Peter, of Jed, of Lucas. Yes, William was different from all of them.

  “And what is your regular life?”

  “I live on Amherst Island, in Ontario,” Ellen said a touch primly. “Really, I’m a simple farm girl at heart, as incredible as that might seem to someone who is used to all this.” She swept one arm out to encompass the Guggenheim estate.

  “Now that I don’t believe.”

  “Why not?” she asked, her tone sharpening.

  “Because our hostess has been telling tales about you, garnered, I believe, from your own hostess Mrs. Frampton.”

  Ellen faltered in her step. “Tales?”

  “You nursed the wounded during the war in France, and before that you lived in Glasgow and are the artist of a renowned painting, which I’ve actually seen, you might be surprised to know, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  Ellen was dumbstruck, even though her painting had been exhibited in New York for several months. It still seemed impossible to believe people actually viewed it. “You’ve seen—”

  “Why shouldn’t I have? Although really it belongs in one of the better galleries. It’s truly magnificent. I am most impressed by your accomplishments.” His gaze lingered on hers, suddenly seeming serious and making her blush.

  “Oh.” Ellen felt completely disconcerted. “Thank you. But, in truth, that all seems like a long time ago.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  They’d reached the house, and William bent lower over Ellen’s fingertips, not quite kissing them.

  “Until dinner, Miss Copley.”

  Ellen was still thinking about her conversation with Mr. Turner as she came downstairs for dinner, feeling more than a little self-conscious in her plain frock, with its simple pleats and a touch of lace at the collar.

  Dinner at Hempstead House was an elegant affair, and although Florence Guggenheim had assured her it was informal that evening, since they were not entertaining anyone but houseguests, Ellen soon realized that informal at Hempstead House meant her finest gown. She started to apologize as her hostess came up to her dripping in pearls, but Florence would have none of it.

  “But, my dear, you’re so charming! And I can’t tell you how absolutely thrilled I am to have a proper artist in residence! Do you know, Picasso visited here last year and I can’t make head or tail of his scribbles. I find him quite an enigma.”

  “Picasso,” Ellen repeated faintly. “I hardly think—”

  “Mr. Turner was asking all sorts of questions about you! Isn’t he devilishly handsome? It’s a shame, really, what happened to him.”

  “What happened to him?” Ellen repeated, knowing she shouldn’t gossip but unable to hide her curiosity.

  “In the war. He was a pilot, didn’t you know? He was shot down over enemy lines and kept as a prisoner-of-war for over a year. Ghastly. He refuses to talk about it. He only returned a few months ago.”

  “Goodness,” Ellen said faintly. “I had no idea.” She’d judged him on appearance and attitude, and he’d certainly given her cause, but perhaps she should have looked more deeply.

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you? He likes to act like the careless playboy, but he really isn’t. Before the war, he was studying physics at Columbia, much to his father’s chagrin. He wanted him to follow the family footsteps in banking, of course.”

  “Of course,” Ellen agreed, her mind whirling. Why had William Hancock Turner presented himself to her in a way that was sure not to appeal? If he’d spoken of his learning, or his war years, she would have had a much more favorable impression of him, something he must have surely known.

  The question kept her occupied throughout all six courses of the lavish meal; Mr. Turner was on the opposite end of the table that seated twenty and so Ellen did not have the opportunity to discuss it, much as she wanted to.

  In fact, it wasn’t until the next day, when she took her sketchbook out to the beach and saw him sitting alone on the sand, that she decided to broach the topic.

&nb
sp; “Someone’s been telling tales about you,” she remarked as she stood by him.

  William glanced up at her with a wry smile. “Ah, have I been sussed out, then?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me yourself that you fought in the war?” Ellen asked gently.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been a nurse?”

  Ellen considered the question. “Because people who haven’t been there don’t understand it, and it’s not really a time of life I want to dwell on.”

  “You have your answer, then.” He stared out at the sea, the wind ruffling his hair.

  “Why not tell me about studying physics at Columbia?”

  William shrugged. “I’m not anymore. I didn’t even get my degree.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t see the point, I suppose. I don’t see the point of much, if I’m honest.” He gave her the glimmer of a smile, but Ellen saw a bleakness in his eyes that she found all too familiar.

  “Then you’re like just about every other veteran I’ve encountered,” she said. “Everything seems frivolous after you’ve seen warfare.”

  “Especially my life.”

  “Is that why you spend your time in such pursuits? Because at least then it’s supposed to feel frivolous?”

  William’s smile deepened. “You’re far too clever, Miss Copley.”

  “Not really.” Ellen gazed down at him, feeling a mixture of sorrow and sympathy. Despite all his wealth and privilege, Willian Hancock Turner the Third was just as lost and grief-stricken as any other soldier she’d met. Some things money couldn’t buy—or take away.

  “Don’t feel too sorry for me,” William said lightly. “All in all, I’m quite a lucky guy.”

  “Yes,” Ellen said slowly, thinking of Jack Wilson, with his ruined face, Jed having lost his arm, and Peter in the military hospital in Toronto, recovering from shell shock. “Yes,” she agreed sadly, “I suppose you are.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The rest of the week in the Hamptons passed surprisingly quickly, in a blur of golden, sun-soaked days. Although there were plenty of entertainments for those so inclined—croquet on the lawn or sailing on the Sound—Ellen eschewed them for quiet days spent sketching on the beach, enjoying the simple pleasure for what it was and no more, or walks to the nearby village of Sands Point. On many of these lazy sojourns, William Hancock Turner—or Will, as he asked her to call him—accompanied her.

  Both Florence Guggenheim and Elvira had looked pleased, shooting each other knowing smiles that Ellen caught, as they observed the friendship that had sprung up unexpectedly between her and Will. Ellen couldn’t help but be surprised by it; the last thing she would have expected was to enjoy the company of one of New York City’s most eligible bachelors, or find him unpretentious and gently humorous.

  But, for her, that was all it was—friendship—and she hoped Will felt the same. After that first bit of flirting, he’d seemed content simply to spend time with her, and although she felt a surprisingly deep affection for him, she did not think she could ever consider him romantically. His life was in the city, and hers was on the island. She knew she could never be the wife of such a prominent man, as down-to-earth as he could seem, and she had no interest in a romance that didn’t lead anywhere.

  “Shall I see you back in New York?” he asked on the last day, as she stood by the Pierce-Arrow, ready to return to the city. Already the air felt a touch cooler, and the sky was the color of gun metal. Will’s smile was wry, a look of sadness in his usually laughing eyes, as he regarded her.

  “Perhaps, but I don’t know how long I’ll be staying with the Framptons.”

  “You’re thinking of returning to your little island, then?”

  “Yes, I am,” Ellen answered, but with a touch of hesitation. Even though she felt like a fish out of water amidst all this elegance, there was much she’d miss about her life in New York—Will included. Yet she had to go back. It felt almost like a compulsion, a soul-deep need, to be back on Amherst Island, among her friends and family, the only place where she’d ever felt as if she truly belonged.

  “Don’t leave without saying goodbye,” Will said, and Ellen shook her head.

  “Of course I’ll say goodbye.” Yet the thought made her sad, as much as she longed to return to “her little island”.

  When she broached the idea of returning to her hosts, however, Elvira would not hear of her leaving before the end of September. “You simply mustn’t, Ellen, because I’ve still so much planned.”

  “Elvira…” Ellen stared at her hostess, who had become a good friend, in amused exasperation. She felt as if she might never be free to return to the island, and yet she also knew she wasn’t protesting all that much. She was looking forward to being able to see Will a little while longer, as well as all the entertainments Elvira would plan. “I really should get back, you know.”

  “Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” Elvira said with a touch of coyness. “After our morning visit. Perhaps you’ll think differently then.”

  “Our morning visit?” Elvira had introduced her to a variety of people over the last month, but this sounded like something else entirely.

  “You’ll see,” Elvira said, her eyes dancing, and Ellen gazed at her with both curiosity and a touch of foreboding. What did her hostess have planned?

  When the Pierce-Arrow stopped in front of an elegant brownstone on West Forty-Eighth Street the next morning, Ellen was nonplussed.

  “Where are we?” she asked as Elvira alighted from the car. The tall, stately building didn’t look like someone’s house, or a museum, or any such building they would enter for whatever entertainment Elvira had planned.

  “The Spence School for Girls, one of the best institutions for female education in the entire city, and even the whole country! The headmistress, Miss Clara Spence, is really quite remarkable, and she’s keen to meet you.”

  “Meet me?” Ellen repeated in disbelief. “Why?”

  “You’ll see,” Elvira said, leaving Ellen only to wonder. “She has only just returned from The Willows, her summer residence in Maine, but she was insistent I bring you here as soon as she came back to the city.”

  “She did?” Ellen was completely flummoxed. “But why?”

  “You’ll see,” Elvira said again, and led her into the foyer of the school, where Clara Spence greeted them.

  She was a kindly and handsome woman in her late fifties, and she welcomed Ellen with quiet friendliness, talking about the summer she spent at her house in Maine, and the four children she’d adopted with her lifelong friend and companion, Charlotte Baker.

  She took Ellen and Elvira through the whole school, showing her the classrooms, the library, and then ending in the art studio, a large, square room on one of the top floors with long, sashed windows letting in the sunlight.

  “This is marvelous,” Ellen said as she studied some paintings done by current pupils. She’d been impressed by everything about the school, which seemed to have an academic yet friendly air. Clara Spence had founded the school and lived in an apartment above it with Charlotte Baker and her four children. “Your students clearly have a great deal of talent.”

  “And, unfortunately, they are without an art teacher at the moment,” Miss Spence said. “Which I believe is where you might come in, Miss Copley.”

  “Me?” Realization was slowly dawning as Ellen turned around to face both Elvira and Clara.

  “Can’t you guess, Ellen?” Elvira said with a smile, excitement lighting her eyes as she pressed her hands together. “Miss Spence would like to offer you a teaching position here. Isn’t it the perfect solution? You can live in New York City permanently!” Elvira smiled as if she’d handed Ellen a treasure, and Ellen stared back, unsure how to respond—whether to take it with both hands or thrust it away. She was honored, of course, and also thrilled… and appalled. Stay in New York?

  Stay in New York…

  “I don’t…” she began, and then trailed off helples
sly.

  “I can see you are surprised,” Clara said with a little laugh. “Why don’t we retire to my study for some tea, and I can explain it all a bit more to you?”

  Dazed, Ellen managed to murmur her agreement, before following Clara to a comfortable and spacious room at the top of the building, with views over Forty-Eighth Street. A maid brought in a tray, and soon they were all settled in armchairs with cups of tea.

  “I founded this school because I believe passionately in girls’ education,” Clara began without preamble. “And by education, I don’t mean finishing school—a bit of sewing, a bit of music, walking with a book atop your head.” Clara made a face and Ellen couldn’t help but smile. “No, I mean proper learning, book learning as well as discussion of ideas, exploration of every facet of the mind.”

  “It sounds… daunting,” Ellen said. She thought of her years at the one-room schoolhouses in Seaton and on Amherst Island, and then her single year of nurse’s training. She didn’t think she’d had anything like the kind of education Clara Spence was talking about.

  “Daunting? Yes. And so very exciting.” Clara’s eyes lit up and Ellen found her enthusiasm infectious. She couldn’t help but feel a tug of interest at the thought of being part of such an interesting community.

  “I have no experience of teaching art,” she confessed, and Clara raised her eyebrows.

  “You were offered a position at the Glasgow School of Art before the war?”

  “Yes, but I never took it up.”

  “And you have been tutoring students back in Ontario? Elvira mentioned the holiday she went on.”

  “Yes, but that’s hardly…” Ellen let out a little, embarrassed laugh. “I haven’t been to university or even high school, Miss Spence. I went to a one-room school until I was sixteen, and I attended nursing school in Kingston when I was eighteen. But I am hardly an academic. Far from it.”