by Jody Hedlund
Mr. Finick paused in his slow, meticulous note-taking to pick at a loose thread on his too-tight, white-and-gray plaid trousers that coordinated with his white coat and gray silk vest. “You heard me, Miss Taylor. You have exactly one week to pack your belongings and leave the lighthouse.”
The shade of the tall tower on the cool September morning left Caroline chilled through her shawl, down to her bones. “That’s absurd, Mr. Finick—”
His sharp gaze cut off her protest before he tipped his head back and peered up and down the tower several times. Then he bent his head again and added another note in his book. His white derby hid his perpetual frown, the frown he wore every time he came to Windmill Point for an inspection.
Caroline glanced up the height of the forty-four-foot tower. The white paint had peeled away from the stone in numerous places, revealing large gray patches. The bright sunshine of the fall morning only highlighted the dilapidated condition, particularly the low crack she was about to repair when she’d heard the approach of a horse and realized Mr. Finick was nearly upon her for one of his infamous surprise inspections.
“I meant to paint the tower over the summer,” she hurried to explain, “but time got away from me.”
“You know women are not allowed to paint the tower, Miss Taylor. Lighthouse regulations strictly forbid it.”
She opened her mouth to object, but then quickly clamped her lips closed. She’d painted the tower in years past, and she’d never had any trouble. But she knew her experience wasn’t the issue. The real trouble was that she was a woman. And women were prevented from painting the tower because they wore skirts.
Of course, she agreed that standing on a ladder in a skirt was inappropriate and immodest. But she couldn’t tell Mr. Finick that she always changed into a pair of her father’s trousers when she painted. Mr. Finick would likely fall over with a heart attack if she even hinted that she donned men’s clothes.
Besides, she already had enough trouble pleasing Mr. Finick whenever he made one of his surprise visits. She didn’t need to earn any further disapproval, especially with his news about her needing to leave the light.
“The superintendent of Detroit Lighthouses named me as acting keeper,” she started.
“You are being replaced.”
“But he told me I could stay.”
“He did it out of sympathy.” Mr. Finick’s tone rose, and his perfectly groomed black mustache twitched like an irritated cat’s tail. “At the time, there were no other men available to take your father’s spot.”
Caroline glanced out to the calm blue waters of Lake St. Clair in the direction where her father had disappeared that horrible day four months ago. Sometimes she could still picture him desperately grasping at the hull, fighting against the spray of waves, his muscles straining beyond endurance to save himself and the doctor.
But on calm sunny days like the one that stretched before her, it was difficult to understand why he’d died, not when the lake was so peaceful, calm enough that even a toddler could dog-paddle to shore.
Eventually the lighthouse boat had washed up onshore a mile down at the mouth of the Detroit River. It had been wrecked beyond repair from the ferocity of the storm.
But they’d never recovered the bodies of either her father or the doctor.
She’d resigned herself to the fact that his grave was at the bottom of the lake. That he’d gone home to heaven. Maybe now he was rowing the celestial lakes next to his beautiful wife, who’d met her end in very much the same way, by drowning when they’d lived at the lighthouse in Massachusetts. Mother had gone out to help rescue several drowning sailors and had ended up drowning with them.
“Now that all of our Union men have been discharged from duty,” Mr. Finick said, “we have plenty of qualified applicants who can take over the position here as head keeper.”
He snapped his notebook closed and spun away from the tower. Without waiting for Caroline’s response, he strode with his quick but jerky steps toward the walkway that connected the keeper’s dwelling to the tower.
Caroline scrambled to make sense of what Mr. Finick was telling her. The news was the worst she could possibly get, and she refused to believe he could be serious.
“I don’t know why you’d need to replace me.” She bolted after him. “I’m qualified to run this light. I’ve been doing it for quite some time without any problems, haven’t I?”
Mr. Finick didn’t stop to knock at the walkway door. He swung it open and proceeded inside as though the home belonged to him. She raced through after him and found herself almost crashing into his backside. She pulled herself up short just in time to avoid offending the man further.
He’d stopped abruptly in the middle of the passageway and was running his fingers along the edge of the desk where she kept her logbooks. He lifted his pointer finger and, at the sight of dust on his lily-white glove, scowled. “When is the last time you’ve cleaned the inside of this watching room?”
“I clean once a week, Mr. Finick,” she said, her chest starting to tighten. “It’s due for another cleaning on the morrow.”
He lifted his nose and sniffed. “What’s that awful smell?” He snuffled into the air like a dog on a hunt. It took him only a few seconds to trace the source of the aroma. The jar of purple loosestrife she’d picked earlier in the week from the marshy meadows of Windmill Point. The narrow reddish-purple flowers had begun to droop, shedding petals and leaves in a light coating across the wood floor.
Caroline swiped up the broom propped next to the door and whisked the mess toward the door.
“The condition of this room is deplorable,” Mr. Finick said. “Absolutely deplorable.”
Caroline sighed inwardly. She knew it would do no good to argue with the man. From past experience she’d learned he expected perfection. Anything less was unacceptable. He wouldn’t care what she’d done right. He’d only see the wrong.
“This is exactly why you may not stay on as keeper,” he continued, opening his ledger and removing the pencil. “You’re too busy doing men’s work to have time to keep up with the duties God has assigned you as a woman—the upkeep and maintenance of the home.”
“I don’t think God expects me to keep a perfect home,” she said, unable to hold back her caustic retort.
He bent his head to make a note in his book. “He does require you to mind your place as a woman and stick to the work He’s given you, which is being a keeper of your home, not of the light.”
She’d heard his protests before. In the two years he’d been the inspector, he’d never approved of her helping her father with the lighthouse duties, had always said it was “man’s work.” Her father, being an honest man, had never hid from Mr. Finick the fact that he relied upon his daughter, especially when his rheumatism had made it all but impossible to climb the tower stairs that last winter and spring.
When Mr. Finick had visited after her father died, he’d wanted her to leave then too. But when the superintendent of Detroit Lighthouses had suggested that she keep the vigil, Mr. Finick had grumbled but finally assented.
“There’s no need to change your mind about me now,” she said.
“I’m not changing my mind. I’ve never approved of your taking over the position.”
“I’m more than qualified to take care of the lighthouse.”
“You’re qualified to get married, bear children, and manage your household.” His words had a clipped finality to them that made the muscles in her arms tense.
He pivoted abruptly toward the door that would lead into the cottage. His immaculately polished black shoes tapped against the floor as he made his way out of the passageway and into the storage area and washroom of the keeper’s cottage.
“Don’t you want to check my logbooks?” She followed after him. “The records are in perfect order.” She’d done a meticulous job recording the daily weather, the number and types of vessels that passed through, a summary of daily activities, visitors at the station, and
any local happenings of note. If Mr. Finick examined the books, he’d see for himself how well she was doing as lightkeeper.
Mr. Finick paused to scrutinize the shelves that she’d recently replenished with the tomatoes, beans, and pickles she and Tessa had preserved in preparation for the coming winter. The tang of dill lingered in the air.
He traced a finger along the edge of a shelf, pulled it back, and then held it out for her inspection. “Do you see that, Miss Taylor?”
She squinted through the meager light in the back room coming from the open doors on either end. “More dust?” she guessed.
“Precisely.”
“But what is a little dust when I haven’t failed a single time to light the lantern these many months?”
“You know the rules, Miss Taylor.” He bent his head to write another note in his ledger. “The official lighthouse guidebook for keepers states that you must keep the light and the house clean. And that includes dust.”
“A little dust doesn’t disqualify me from continuing my position here.”
“The undeniable fact that you are a woman disqualifies you.” He gave a pointed glare at her hair falling in disarray about her shoulders.
She combed back the strands of her straight dark brown hair. There wasn’t an ounce of life to the strands, not even a wave. Not like Tessa’s. Sometimes she thought when God had made her, He hadn’t quite stamped hard enough. The imprint He’d made on her was faded, thin, and inconsequential next to Tessa’s vibrant and curvy beauty.
Perhaps God had thought to give her father a firstborn son, but at the last minute had changed His mind. It was too bad He hadn’t gone through with His original plan. Being a woman seemed to offer so few benefits compared to those of men.
If she’d been a man she’d have no problems getting a job so that she could provide for her siblings. Who would take care of them if not her? And how would she be able to provide for them if she lost the keeper job? Where would they live?
More important, how would she take care of Sarah and afford her increasingly expensive medicine if she lost the keeper job? Caroline’s breath pinched within her chest. She had to do something. She couldn’t stand back and let Mr. Finick drive her from the only source of employment she knew.
He clomped down the hallway past the two bedrooms. As he passed Sarah’s room, he didn’t even give the girl a cursory glance. In fact, he looked in the opposite direction, into the bedroom her father had once occupied but that Caroline was now using.
The man obviously had no pity on a poor sick girl. And was calloused to the fact that if he evicted them from the house, Sarah would become homeless.
As Mr. Finick strode into the kitchen, Caroline paused at Sarah’s doorway, trying to keep the dejection from bending her shoulders.
From her mound of pillows and the colorful cushions Tessa had sewn, Sarah was like a pale trillium among a bouquet of striking cardinal flowers. Even though she had the vibrancy of Tessa’s darker hair and green eyes, the rest of her body was translucent and lifeless.
The bed was positioned so that Sarah could look directly out the window into the sprawling flower garden that Caroline had planted at the back of the house. Though many of the plants had already lost their blossoms, Caroline had made sure to include some varieties that bloomed in late summer and fall just so Sarah would have a beautiful view for as long as possible.
Sarah gave Caroline a smile that rivaled the bright morning sun. “I see Mr. Finick is here,” she whispered in her raspy voice.
Caroline tried to push down the worry that was drawing its noose tighter about her chest. She couldn’t burden Sarah with Mr. Finick’s attempt to evict her from their home. Instead, she returned Sarah’s smile and tried to lighten her voice. “As usual, he’s finding every speck of dust.”
Sarah’s smile dimmed and turned infinitely gentle, reminding Caroline of her father and the way he used to smile at her. The ache in Caroline’s heart gave an unexpected pulse.
“Don’t worry, Caroline,” Sarah said, her lips tinged with the usual blue. “We’ll be fine, so long as we’re all still together.”
Caroline’s shoulders slumped. Had Sarah managed to hear everything Mr. Finick had spoken? In the little one-and-a-half-story cottage, the sounds often carried to all parts of the house.
The glimmer in the girl’s eyes told Caroline that she knew everything, and so much more. Sarah might only be thirteen, but she had the insight of one much older and wiser.
Silently Caroline berated herself for not being more careful with her conversation with the inspector so that Sarah wouldn’t hear. Now she had no choice but to go to the man, fall on her knees before him, and beg him to let her stay. Perhaps if she started weeping and pleading and using some of Tessa’s dramatic flair, Mr. Finick would have pity on her and change his mind.
She peered down the hallway into the kitchen, where he stood next to the table taking more notes.
Her entire body revolted at the thought of bowing and scraping to him. But she closed the door, hoping to protect Sarah from the words she must exchange with Mr. Finick. Then she took a deep breath and forced one foot after the other down the hallway until she entered the kitchen.
Thankfully, Tessa had walked the mile and a half with the twins to school in Grosse Pointe that morning and had planned to stay and sell some of the apple butter they’d canned over the past few days. No one but Sarah would be there to witness her utter humiliation.
The cheerfulness of the room, from the bright blue curtains in the window to the potted plants she kept on the windowsill, did nothing to assuage the swarm of bees that began to buzz in the pit of her stomach.
“Mr. Finick,” she began in a loud whisper, “I sincerely ask that you reconsider your decision. This is my only job, my only means of providing for my family.”
He removed a shiny gold watch from his vest pocket. Its brilliance only served to remind Caroline that she hadn’t been paid for her lighthouse duties since early in the summer. The proprietor at the Grosse Pointe General Store had begun to complain to Tessa about the size of their long-overdue tab.
Mr. Finick glanced at the watch and then quickly tucked it back in his pocket. “I don’t have time to listen to your whining, Miss Taylor. I suggest that instead of wasting both of our time with needless complaints, that you instead put your effort into packing your belongings and securing your future.”
“But what future do I have if not working in a lighthouse?” She hated the desperation in her voice. “That’s all I know how to do.”
“Get married.” He stepped to the window, rubbed a finger against the glass, then bent to make a note in his book. “Find a husband to take care of you. That’s what most women your age do. And quite frankly, it’s what you should be doing too.”
She had no response to give Mr. Finick that would keep her from embarrassing herself even further. She hardly knew any single men. With so many having enlisted in the army, there had been very few unmarried men left behind. And living so far out of town at the lighthouse didn’t exactly afford the opportunity to socialize with men.
Besides, even if there had been an eligible pool of men who’d wanted to come courting, the truth was she didn’t have time for that kind of frivolity. She was too busy trying to take care of her family and the light.
“Surely there are other women acting as keepers at other lighthouses,” she said. “Why must it be a man?”
“Men are much more capable of handling the rigors of the work. If a woman is in a lighthouse, it is strictly to act as a helpmate to her husband.”
Most people would agree with Mr. Finick that women shouldn’t be doing men’s work. She’d never questioned it herself, had always just accepted the different roles assigned to men and women. But such a division of labor didn’t seem quite fair. Not when she was as equally qualified to handle the lighthouse as any man.
Mr. Finick snapped his book closed and proceeded across the kitchen.
She swallowed her mo
unting frustration and chased after him. She had to do her begging now, before it was too late.
Without allowing herself to think twice, she grabbed his coat sleeve and pulled him to a halt. Then ignoring his murmurs of disapproval, she fell to her knees before him and grasped his free hand. He scowled at her hand touching his and immediately yanked it free of her grip.
“Please, Mr. Finick. I’ll work harder to keep the house and tower just the way you like them. I’ll take a pay cut. I’ll do anything you want. Just please let me stay.”
He reached inside his white coat and drew out a crisply folded handkerchief. He unfolded it one corner at a time and then proceeded to first dab his sleeve where she’d touched him and then finally to wipe the gloved hand she’d held.
She stayed on her knees before him even though everything within her heart rose up in protest of having to degrade herself simply because of her gender.
“I never liked your father,” he said in a clipped tone. “He was always causing too many problems with the locals.”
The only problem her father had experienced with “the locals” was with Mr. Simmons and his illegal smuggling. Father had confronted the man, had even threatened to get the law involved to stop him. But since she’d taken over the light, she’d turned a blind eye to Mr. Simmons’s illegal activities. Though there were times when she felt guilty about it and knew her father would have done more, she used the excuse that she just didn’t have the energy or time to fight that battle right now.
“I’m not having any trouble,” she stated. “Ask anyone. They’ll tell you I’m doing a good job.”
“It’s too late, Miss Taylor.” Mr. Finick’s sharp footsteps echoed against the whitewashed walls as he started toward the sitting room. “Even if I wanted to consider your request—which I don’t—I’ve already found your replacement. And he’ll be here at the end of the week.”
“My replacement?”
