Oh, Jonah, where are you? Why do you not come home?
I can’t stop my mind from wondering what might have happened if Thomas and I hadn’t gone to fetch water that morning. What if we hadn’t stopped to collect butternuts to roast? What if we had hurried home instead of lingering to enjoy autumn’s bounty?
When we finally opened the front door, excited to show you our find, you weren’t here. Only Molly was in the lighthouse, asleep in the crib you made for her.
If it weren’t urgent, you never would have left Molly on her own. You would have taken her with you, wherever you went.
Why didn’t you leave me a letter? Why didn’t you ring the bell to call me home? If you needed help, I would have come running to you.
I never should have stayed out for so long.
Chapter Seven
With her boots clutched in one hand, Elena cracked open her bedroom door with the other. Across the dark corridor, she looked at the hallway door that separated her from her mother’s room, searching for the thread of light that often escaped underneath. It was dark.
Perhaps Mama had finally gone to sleep.
She padded down the back staircase in her stockings, past her father’s room at the end of the hallway, and sat on the back step of their cottage. Quickly she laced her boots and then grabbed the dark lantern Claude left for her on a post. Hurrying down the steps, she rushed into the backyard before anyone, including Claude, saw or heard her. Claude might hide the bike for her at the far edge of their yard, but she never wanted to implicate him in her excursions. If Mama found out that he helped her—
Behind their cottage, a cobblestone pathway wound between Mama’s prized flower and vegetable gardens. Starlight turned the budding irises a steely gray color and washed silver across her path, glittering in the reflecting pool. Her heart leaped at the beauty of it and she moved even faster, trying to be quiet and yet feeling the urgency of her escape.
At the end of the path, a stone terrace led up into the trees, and she climbed it with ease. The bicycle was exactly where Claude had said he left it, hidden behind a hydrangea bush on the top terrace. She brushed the leaves and dirt off the bicycle and then looped the lantern over one of the handles.
Spindly arms of pine trees swayed above her and shadows danced around her feet as she unlatched the gate at the back of their property and pushed the bicycle toward the alley that wove behind the cottages.
A dog barked, and she stopped for a moment, holding her breath. Someone yelled at the dog but no one called out to her, so she hurried forward before the dog began barking again.
The inland roads along the east side of the island were a mix of rugged wetlands and treed knolls. Sometimes carriages brought tourists during the day, but most Mackinac visitors never ventured far into the forest. And the carriage drivers never navigated the island’s back roads at night.
Every once in a while she saw a soldier walking away from the fort, sometimes dressed in his uniform and other times in more casual attire. And sometimes a soldier would be accompanied by a young lady. The few times she’d seen the latter, she’d looked the other way without a word, assuming neither he nor his escort wanted her to see them either.
She put her leg over her bicycle, knotting her dress so it wouldn’t get caught in the spokes, and carefully pedaled up the narrow lane. Once she reached the last cottage on the eastern bluff, the road widened and she pedaled harder, every rotation taking her farther away from Castle Pines.
Her hair fluttered in the breeze. She was free of hats and pins, free of her bustle and corset and her mother’s critical eye. For a few hours, under the cloak of darkness, she was free to be who God made her to be.
The morning hours would be hard, no doubt, but it wasn’t like she had to be someplace after breakfast. And if this Mr. Darrington happened to see her tomorrow, perhaps the circles under her eyes would scare him away.
Elena shook her head, chastising herself for the thought of trying to scare away Mr. Darrington. It was her job to woo the man, not frighten him, but the unpleasant scheme of marrying a man for his money and status warred against her desire to do what was expected of her. One day she would have to marry for her family’s sake, whether it was to the mysterious Mr. Darrington or another man like him. With her father’s business affairs in ruin, she would have to bear the load of helping the entire family…but she hoped it would still be a few years before it became imperative.
At one time in her life, she’d hoped she would marry for love. It was an impossible dream; she knew that now…but in the quietness of the night, she still liked to pretend. One day, she would marry the man her parents chose for her, but until she did, she would enjoy these moments of freedom whenever she could.
Her legs burned as she climbed the inland hills behind her house. The rare times she biked in Chicago were on straight, smooth paths. It had been almost a year since she’d pedaled along these roads, but in spite of the aching in her thighs and calves, she was determined to reach the top.
After biking for ten minutes, the road leveled and she pedaled around a wide curve before turning off the lane onto a smaller trail marked by a faded ribbon. The hanging branches made it impossible to continue any farther on her bicycle, so she set it against a gray rock and slid the lantern off the handle. Then she dug into her pocket for one of her father’s new matches.
She eyed it for a moment in the starlight. Had Mr. Darrington truly invented this booklet? She didn’t want to be impressed, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
Her fingers shook as she ripped one of Mr. Darrington’s matches off the booklet. Funny, she hadn’t even realized her hands were trembling until now.
She hated running away from her parents’ home like a fugitive, hated knowing how much it would anger her mother and disappoint her father if they found out, but she had to get away on her own, even if only for a few hours. In Chicago, she could only run as far as the gazebo in their backyard, but here—here she could run into the forest, high above Lake Michigan’s shore.
It took several attempts, but finally she managed to light a match without the wind blowing it out. Her lantern light illuminated the branches of the beech trees, tall grasses, and moss-covered rocks scattered in the forest. Ahead of her was a high bluff, and she hurried toward it. Her breaths came harder the farther she climbed, but she didn’t slow her pace, nor would she slow it until she reached the top.
At the peak of the bluff, she stopped and leaned back. There in front of her, in all its glory, rose the beautiful stone tower that once lit Mackinac’s shore. Her refuge for the past six years.
A tear slid down her cheek and she felt completely silly, crying at the sight of a lighthouse, but she’d been so worried it had been destroyed over the winter. If it was gone—she hadn’t known what she would do without it. This was her sanctuary. Her safe haven in the storms. No one could destroy her peace and solitude here. Not even Mr. Darrington.
The wind blew up from the lake, rustling the trees. Her hair tangled around her head and a giggle bubbled on her lips. She tried to suppress her laughter at first, but then she remembered that no one could hear her, no one was out here for her to impress or fear.
The same wind that had taunted her on the pier delighted her now, as if it had been waiting for her to play.
She laughed into the wind. And she twirled once before she moved toward the door of the lighthouse.
He was here; she could feel Him. Not a man like her mother was seeking for her, but the God of the heavens and the earth. The mighty Creator. God was in the midst of the rugged beauty of the trees, in the light of the stars and the lapping of the waves. He was in the intricate designs on each leaf and in the clefts of the rocks. She could almost hear the faint sound of creation singing His praises.
The path to the doorway was overgrown with brush and branches, and she pushed them away from her face. It didn’t look like anyone had visited the place since she’d been here last year, and she was grateful for that.
As far as she knew, she was the only one who had come in the past six years.
Claude had helped her to find this place back when she was just starting her teen years. She’d confided in him that she wished she had a tree house like some of the other children, a place to escape, and he told her he knew of a place much better than a tree house. He’d brought her here one day, marking the trail with the same ribbon that was now battered by the rain and bleached by the sun.
She’d once told Parker Randolph about the abandoned lighthouse, but he didn’t seem the least bit interested in her find. She often wondered if anyone else except Claude cared or even remembered that it was here.
The heavy door creaked when she opened it, and she hesitated at the frame, listening for little feet scurrying across the floor. The people on Mackinac might not remember the lighthouse, but plenty of critters called it their home. When the sounds from the mice quieted, she stepped inside. They always stayed hidden during her visits.
At the base of the lighthouse was a small house where the keeper of the light once lived. Old furniture covered in dust and grime stood in the three rooms—a parlor, a bedroom, and a kitchen. The hearth of the kitchen fireplace was filled with twigs and leaves. Mice had destroyed the few books and quilts left in the bedroom.
The room closest to the door was the parlor. She stepped into it and smiled as she opened the roll top of the writing desk. Inside was the sketchbook she’d smuggled from Chicago two years ago, hiding it in her luggage. And a small set of pencils, wrapped in cloth. She couldn’t leave it at the cottage, but it was safe here.
She tucked the pad and pencils under her arm and began to climb the fifty-four steps up the tower. Her lantern light glowed on the rock walls cracked by years of age and neglect, and she wondered if the lighthouse had been as lonely for her company over the winter months as she had been for it.
One of the glass panels had broken at the top and shattered around the floor. Fresh air stole through the crack, and she breathed deeply. Others might find God in a church building, but this was her sanctuary. Her tabernacle. No one was watching her as she prayed and worshipped here. No one was criticizing her gown or her hair or whispering what they thought she should wear to services. As she looked out at the branches dancing in the wind, no one told her to bow her head.
At one time, the lighthouse would have shone its light out to steamers and boats traveling through the strait, but now the view was obliterated by the trees. Or at least she thought it was. She’d never actually been here during the day.
The old lighthouse lantern was behind her, the same one that used to warn ships of these bluffs before the war with the British. Outside the windows was a narrow platform the lightkeeper probably used to clean the windows or watch the waters below.
She stepped onto the platform and blew out her lantern.
Stars twinkled by the thousands, glittering and shimmering like diamonds encrusted in the wall of a dark mine. The chalky glow of the Milky Way blazed across the expanse of the sky.
With her eyes wide open, Elena worshipped her Savior.
A sliver of the moon was cradled in the sky, and she squinted at it.
Were there lakes on its surface? Mountains and forests? She often wondered what was out there beyond their planet, beyond the world they had created for themselves, in the universe that God had created for them. She’d never know what was on those planets, at least not in this life, but she could imagine the world up there. A world, perhaps, where people were free to make their own choices.
Where they were free to marry for love instead of for money or position.
She envied a woman like Jillian, who could marry someone she loved. But even if Elena didn’t love her husband, she prayed she would marry a man who understood her desire to worship God in her own way, in a place like this. God knew her heart and the desires harbored within. In the starlight, on her lighthouse, she prayed the impossible prayer. She didn’t pray for love or security or even for the freedom that she longed for, but she prayed that somewhere out there was a man who dwelled alongside their Savior, a man whom her mother would approve for her to marry.
The minutes passed, perhaps an hour, as Elena prayed and listened. Then she relit her lantern and began sketching the back of a woman in a plain dress whose hair flowed loose in the breeze. Her feet were bare, and she stood tall on the sandy beach as if she were searching for something on the lake.
When the drawing was complete, she reluctantly climbed down the stairs and hid her sketchbook in the desk. She didn’t want to leave, but it would be dawn in the next three or so hours. If she didn’t get home before the household staff began to wake, someone might stumble upon her and her secret.
She closed the door to the lighthouse and hiked back to her bicycle to begin her ride home. She was humming to herself, pedaling against the breeze, when she heard the clip-clop of horses. She veered off the road and hid behind the trees, the hem of her dress tearing on a tree limb. The air smelled of fragrant wild roses, and as she ducked into the thicket, thorns scraped her cheek.
She watched quietly, assuming a couple had snuck away from the village, until the carriage crept slowly by her. By the carriage’s lantern light, she could see the driver and one lone rider in the back. A man.
She watched the carriage until it rounded the next bend.
Who else was out exploring the island so late in the night?
Chapter Eight
Something pounded against Elena’s head…or, at least, that’s what it felt like. She rolled over on her bed, pulling the pillow over her head, but the feathers did nothing to stop the hammering.
“Elena,” her mother called from the hallway, “unlock this door right away.”
Elena opened her eyes, peeking out from under the pillow, and then squeezed them shut again. The bright light hurt her head almost as much as the noise.
“Claude!” Mama yelled.
Elena groaned into her pillow. She’d locked her door a few hours ago for one reason—so that no one would disturb her until long after breakfast. Her legs ached from the bike ride and her mind was still fuzzy, but the midnight hours at the lighthouse would be worth every pain today. There was hope for her as long as she had a place to escape to, a place where she could dwell in solitude with God.
Something rustled in the hallway and her doorknob rattled. Claude had probably retrieved the key.
She sighed and rolled over. They were supposed to be on vacation, away from the hustle of their life in Chicago. Surely she could sleep for a few extra hours in the morning.
“I’m awake!” she shouted toward the door even as she clung to the remnants of peace that had flooded her soul. The peace dissipated the moment her door slammed against the wall.
Mama whooshed into her bedroom. “Why did you lock the door?”
Her eyes were still closed. “Because I was hoping to get some extra rest.”
“You and your father have gotten plenty of sleep this morning. It’s already half past nine.”
“It was a long trip, Mama.”
“And that’s why I’ve let you both sleep so late this morning.” She pushed open the curtains. “But you have to get up now.”
“Did something happen?”
“Martha Grunier just sent me a message.” Elena cracked open her eyes and saw the envelope in her mother’s hand. “She heard that Mr. Darrington and his sister might be making calls today.”
Elena rolled over again.
“Elena.” Mama nudged her. “He could arrive at any moment.”
“He wouldn’t be calling until this afternoon.”
“You don’t know for certain. They may do things differently in Detroit.”
Her mother bustled around the foot of the bed and sat beside Elena. A look of horror crossed her face.
“What happened to you?” she exclaimed.
Elena looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Your face—it’s all blotched.”
Elena put her fingers
up to her cheeks. She remembered getting scraped when she hid from the carriage.
“And your eyes—” Mama continued. “It looks like you’ve been up all night.”
Elena smiled to herself. Not quite all night.
“Are you sick?” Mama asked, desperation lacing her voice.
“I feel perfectly fine. Perhaps the blotches are from the fruit last night.”
Mama wrung her hands. “I hope you’re not getting ill.”
“I’m not.”
“The dance is tomorrow night!”
“I’m sure I will be fine by then.”
“If Mr. Darrington and his sister stop by today—” Mama brushed her hands together. “We can tell him you’re ill.”
Elena inched up on her pillow. “But I’m not ill.”
“You’re right.” Mama stood up, pacing the floor. “We can’t tell him you’re sick. It might frighten him away.”
“You could tell him I’m sleeping—”
Mama shook her head. “We definitely can’t tell him that.”
Elena put the pillow over her face again, her voice muffled. “But I am sleeping.”
Mama snagged the pillow and tossed it onto the window seat. “If he calls today, you’ll need to smile and pretend there is nothing wrong with you.”
“There isn’t anything wrong with me.”
“Jillian!” her mother shouted. “Go fetch the almond oil.”
She heard Jillian’s voice on the other side of the door. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And powder.”
Jillian was already gone, so her mother rushed out of the room.
When Jillian returned, she handed Elena the tin of creamed almond oil, and Elena began rubbing it on her scrapes. She and Mama would sit around the house doing needlework or reading, just in case Mr. Darrington and his sister appeared. Or she could play the piano. She would like to draw, but Mama thought it quite unladylike to do so.
Love Finds You in Mackinac Island, Michigan Page 7
