Lighthouse Bay

by Kimberley Freeman

  The weather has been growing worse. Perhaps she is feeling it is worse because she has been shut in her cabin for two days now. She could sit in the saloon where there are salt-splashed windows, but that would mean sitting with Meggy and Arthur. The seas are very stormy and the rain is unrelenting. She has glimpsed Mr. Harrow and the Captain in the corridor, both soaked to the bone even with the protection of their moleskins, their shoes squelching, and she fights the superstitious fear that the bad weather has come because she has stopped making her daily pact with the sea.

  The Captain in particular looks haunted. She can’t imagine why; he has surely been through bad weather before. She wishes she could ask Mr. Harrow what is going on, but she dare not in case Arthur sees. She could ask Arthur, but that would mean talking to him.

  Isabella sometimes tries to remember a time when she didn’t hate Arthur, and perhaps there was a brief moment, when she was expecting Daniel. For a few months, he softened. He was pleased that she had a child on the way so soon. Pleased in the way that somebody might be pleased with a dog who has fetched his slippers, perhaps, but pleased nonetheless. He’d brought the enamel pansy brooch home from work one day, on a whim, to give her. She’d even worn it for a while, so relieved was she that his sternness seemed to be dissipating. Hopeful, even, that being wedded to him for life might not be the misery she anticipated.

  Yes, she liked him for a little while. He still seemed remote and terse, but she thought she saw in him the makings of a good father: one who might dote upon the baby with her. When Daniel was born, he didn’t live up to that fond dream.

  The first time Arthur saw Daniel, Isabella was in bed, dozing. It was late afternoon and Daniel was sleeping peacefully, three days old, his tiny fists lying soft around his ears, his little mouth puckered up and sucking on an imaginary breast. Arthur came in with a thump and a clatter at the door, and said to her, “Why are you in bed at four o’clock?”

  She startled awake, but Daniel slept on. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” she said. “I am so very tired. The little one wakes all through the night.”

  “Then you should have a wet nurse as I suggested. You can’t lie around in bed all day like a slattern.”

  The idea of somebody else feeding her child was abhorrent to her. She sat up, trying to gather herself: a difficult task as she’d given birth only a few days before and she was sore and seemed to leak from everywhere at once. “Please, Arthur. Just let me mother him the way I choose.”

  “Well, if you are determined, and I see you are, ensure that you speak to my mother. She raised two sons and I wager she never once slept in the daytime.”

  Isabella would sooner eat poison than ask his mother for advice. The first Mrs. Winterbourne has all the outward appearance of an angel: soft curves, fair curling hair, wide blue eyes and a bovine smile, but beneath that surface she is made of wire and stones. Isabella has never told Arthur how, on the evening of their wedding dinner, Mrs. Winterbourne took her aside and told her she thought Arthur had married beneath him, and she’d best paddle as hard as she could to catch up with the manners and comportment that her sons were born to. She has never told him because she suspects he would probably agree. Every one of his family would agree, especially unctuous Percy and the trembling mouse he calls his wife.

  Arthur paced over to the cradle. A late-afternoon sunbeam fell through the shutter and lit the creamy lace sheets, and illuminated her son’s impossibly soft cheek. “I don’t want him to be soppy,” he said.

  “He is only new in the world,” she murmured. “Let him be soft awhile.”

  Arthur folded his hands behind his back, as though fearful he would be tempted to pick the child up otherwise. He pushed his lips into a pout as he surveyed his son, much the way she’d seen him consider the cut of a diamond. “He is smaller than I thought he would be.”

  “Just under seven pounds,” she said.

  And that was it. He turned, hands still folded behind his back, and left the room. She rose and leaned over Daniel’s cradle, stroked the fluff on his warm head, breathed his milky sweetness and vowed that she would love him enough for both his parents.

  Isabella opens her eyes. It is too much: the memory of Daniel—warm and breathing, not cold and still—has turned a knife in her heart. How she wishes she could open up the walnut chest and retrieve her black ribbon, and spend the afternoon rolling each link on the coral bracelet between her thumb and forefinger, milking it of the last impression of her baby’s living warmth. But she daren’t. It must stay hidden until Sydney. In Sydney she will get it back and she will somehow get out of this miserable marriage and away from Arthur and his poisonous family. Then this wretched storm would stop, and calm seas and sunshine might be hers once more.

  Two mornings later, Mr. Harrow seeks her out, clever enough to do it while Arthur is otherwise occupied up in the cargo hold with the Captain and Meggy, sorting out a dispute about marble tiles. As well as bringing the mace to Australia, Arthur is exporting expensive tiles and carpets. The less Isabella knows about business, the happier she is. But Arthur is quite tense about the deal, and tense too that the crew will steal or damage the goods.

  When Mr. Harrow knocks on her cabin door, her heart startles a little. She doesn’t want to endure another of Arthur’s lectures.

  “Mr. Harrow?” she says, warily.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Winterbourne. I shall be very quick. Is it the case that you have been confined below deck because of our . . . interaction in the galley the other day?”

  Isabella knows a woman of her standing should dismiss him lightly, never drawing attention to the private matters of her husband. But she sees little point in such manners. “Yes. I did explain, but he’s an angry fool.”

  “I feel terrible,” he says. “Do you want me to speak to him?”

  “No, it will only make matters worse.”

  He glances around. “If there’s anything I can do . . . I was touched deeply by your loss.”

  “And I yours,” she says, and she means it. A little glimmer starts in her heart, and hope rises. Perhaps the ice is not permanent after all.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize what has happened. We’ve been rather run off our feet by the weather.”

  Mention of the weather picks at a little thread of unease in her gut. She realizes that last night she dreamed of the gray sea rising up and up, through the boards, through the cabin, engulfing Arthur’s bunk and then sloshing around her blankets, carrying the black ribbon away while she tried to reach for it with hands as slippery as fish fins. Yes, the weather has been on her mind. If only she could get above deck and talk to the sea.

  “The weather is normal, though? For this part of the world and this time of year?”

  Mr. Harrow shakes his head. “I must say, Mrs. Winterbourne, that the Captain and I are in dispute. It seems to me there must be a hurricane nearby. He argues that it’s too late in the year for a hurricane but . . .” He drops his voice low. “Captain Whiteaway does not like bad weather.”

  Tingles of hot ice lace her skin. “So then why does he persist in the journey? Should we not come to port until we are certain it isn’t a hurricane?”

  “He deals with his dislike of bad weather by insisting it isn’t happening.” Mr. Harrow snaps his mouth shut at the end of this sentence, an outward sign that he believes he has spoken too much, and too contrary to the Captain. “Don’t concern yourself. We are all good men, and we will be safe.”

  “The Captain drinks too much,” she says plainly.

  He replies in a near-perfect impersonation of the Captain’s voice. “‘It’s how I unravel the knots in my stomach.’”

  “The amount I’ve seen him consume at dinner would indicate a large volume of knots.”

  Mr. Harrow tries a smile. “As I said, don’t worry. Let the men aboard mind the weather, and you mind your own affairs below deck.” Then voices from the other end of the corridor have him backing out quickly, with no word of farewell.

&n
bsp; Isabella ventures into the saloon and stops to look at the map spread out on the Captain’s desk. Captain Francis Whiteaway has traversed the globe, from north to south and east to west, for twenty years. So far as she knows, he has always drunk heavily, he has negotiated much bad weather, and he has always returned to England safe and whole. If he says it is too late in the year for a hurricane, then perhaps he is right. Mr. Harrow is, after all, a scant few years older than Isabella herself. She eyes the half-empty whiskey decanter. How many times has she seen it filled, then emptied again? Her fingers trace the east coast of Australia, pale pink against a turquoise sea. They are here, somewhere. But there are no storm clouds on this map, and the sea is as flat and still as the lid of a tomb.

  Isabella thinks herself alone. It is after breakfast, and the weather is making her sick. The sea lifts them and dumps them, over and over. She is confined below deck but can’t bear another long day in her cabin, and needs to avoid Meggy and Arthur, so she takes the walk down to the dark end of the ship. She carries her fountain pen and her list. She hopes to find somewhere quiet and away from the eyes of others to add up the worth of her jewelry, and budget how much she will need for her voyage to New York, food, coaches . . . There seems so much to organize and at night the swirl of thoughts keeps her awake. Pinning them to the page will help. It will also give her something to take her mind off the weather.

  All the crew are on deck, managing the sails. She goes down to the cargo hold and sits on a stack of tiles covered with a rope net. The light is dim, but she smooths out her list on her lap and starts to jot down notes.

  The ship shudders and shakes. She takes a deep breath and keeps going.

  Her senses prickle. She is suddenly aware that she’s not alone. She looks up, her hand instinctively covering the page on which she writes.

  “Writing a love letter, Mrs. Winterbourne?” says Captain Whiteaway.

  Isabella quickly folds the list. “No, I’m not. I’m making a list.”

  “Of what?”

  “Private thoughts,” she replies. “Nothing to concern yourself with.” She peers at him in the gloom. He is drunk already. “Why are you not on deck with the others?”

  “I came to see if the cargo had moved. We hit quite a bump back there.”

  “I felt it.” She wants to ask why he came himself, rather than sending a crewman, but the answer would be that he was drunk, or lazy, or afraid of the bad weather and pretending it wasn’t happening. He is here because he is incompetent, and no man will ever admit that about himself.

  His eyes haven’t left the piece of paper in her hand. “What secrets are you hiding in there, Isabella?” he says.

  “No secrets.”

  He holds out his hand and makes a “give it to me” gesture.

  “It’s private.”

  He looms over her, a six-foot slab of meaty man with hot brandied breath, and now the horrible memories are awakening again in her mind. Her mouth moves to protest, but only a little popping noise comes out.

  The flash of remembrance: the conservatory at her mother-in-law’s house. Early in the morning before anyone was awake. Her heart still shredded with grief, her breasts still swollen with milk. And Percy Winterbourne, Arthur’s younger brother, forcing himself on her.

  Frost on the grass outside, the sour smell of ashes in the fireplace. His hand clamped over her mouth, the taste of his skin, her frantic breath searing her nostrils. “A little of this?” he had said, roughly squeezing her tender nipples through her gown. Pain and shame in equal measure. Her struggles had made him angry, rougher. Then the maid had come in and he’d leaped away from her, smoothed over his waistcoat and pretended nothing had happened.

  And when she told Arthur later, he had called her a liar.

  “Leave me be!” Isabella shrieks, frightened and, bafflingly, ashamed.

  Captain Whiteaway stands back. His conscience has been pricked awake; Isabella is pale and trembling. He drops his hand. Saves face by saying, “I’m not interested in your women’s nonsense anyway. But if I find out you and Harrow are writing love letters to each other, I’ll fire him and put you out at the next port. Arthur is my good friend.”

  “It’s not a love letter,” she manages. “It is a list. Just a list.” But her words may as well have not been spoken. He is stroking his hand over his beard, turning away.

  And after all it isn’t “just a list.” It is a plan, it is a ticket out of misery, it is a first step in escaping her husband.

  It is three in the morning, the deepest hour of sleep. Isabella hears knocking and shouting, but it takes a few moments for her to realize this knocking and this shouting is meant for her. Arthur’s voice. “Isabella, wake up!”

  She opens her eyes. Everything is moving. She sits up, trying to steady herself. The ship is moaning. It pitches, then it yaws. Howling wind outside. Fear kicks her heart. “What is happening?”

  “Get dressed. Francis is taking us into sheltered water. He’s going to try to beach us.”

  “Beach—”

  “Just get dressed, woman!” he roars. “I’ll be back for you in two minutes.” Then he is gone, slamming out of the cabin. She hears his voice outside in the saloon, Meggy’s voice. She hears them go up the ladder while she is still lacing up her dress with shaking hands.

  The sea has teeth. Isabella always knew it: she never became too enamored of the sea’s beauty to see its cruelty. The sea has teeth and they are snapping at the ship. Arthur should never have confined her below deck. She was keeping them safe with her morning prayer, showing her respect, reminding the sea that she never once took her safety for granted. Isabella is cold at the center. This can’t be happening. This ship has been at sea for decades: why would this happen now, while she is on board? It is too unfair. Isabella bends to fasten her shoes. The ship lurches, stands for a moment as if on its beam ends, then slams back onto the water. Everything around her falls down; she falls down. The hatch above the saloon bangs closed. She picks herself up and runs out of her cabin and up the ladder, pushes on the hatch and finds the way blocked. She thunders with her fists on the wood. Around her feet are shards of broken crockery.

  “Help!” she shouts. “Help! There is something blocking the fore hatch.”

  But how could they hear her over the thundering sea?

  “Arthur!” she screams. “Arthur!”

  “Isabella!” His voice is muffled through the wood. “Bring the mace. A beam has snapped and is blocking the hatch. We are removing it now. Be ready and bring the mace.”

  She returns to the cabin and yanks the chest from its hiding position. She hefts it unsteadily. The key to the chest is in Arthur’s pocket, so she can’t open it and remove her precious prize. But she hauls it to the bottom of the ladder and waits. She tells herself not to panic. They are beaching the ship. They will stand on land. The wind and the rain will not be so frightening on the land. Again, the ship pitches violently. All the windows on the leeward side suddenly shatter, and the sea pours in. Isabella yelps. The lantern light has extinguished. Dark cold water swirls around her feet, pulling off her shoes, and her heart slams in her chest.

  “Help me! Help me!” she screams. The sounds above her are terrifying. The snap of wood and the twang of ropes stretched past breaking point. Every time the ship pitches, more water foams in, but they are not sinking.

  Not yet.

  “Push on the hatch, Isabella!” Arthur calls.

  Isabella pushes, the sinews in her arms straining. On the other side, the grind of wood on wood, then the hatch shoots up.

  Arthur’s hands are there. “The mace!” he says. Isabella understands that, for the first time in their relationship, they are fixed on a common goal: save this wooden chest from being swallowed by the sea.

  She hefts it up the ladder, bumping the walnut chest on every step. Pushes it towards Arthur, who pulls it through the hatch, then offers her his left hand. She is on deck now, and it is chaos. Foaming sea, sails in ribbons, ropes knotted chao
tically by the wind, the sky screaming in the rigging.

  “What’s happening?” she asks.

  “Francis is bringing us to the beach. But he needs to get the ship before the wind.”

  Isabella looks around. Rain fills her eyes. The sea surrounds them. “I see no land.”

  “Over there.” Arthur gestures widely. “Somewhere.” He stands with an ankle on either side of the walnut chest.

  Then a man screams. “Breakers! Breakers!”

  Isabella has only a moment to turn her head and see the white foaming breakers before the sickening grind of the ship on the rocks vibrates up through her ribs and heart.

  “Abandon ship! Abandon ship!” This is the Captain, standing at the wheel, surrounded by shredded sails and wooden debris. “Every man for himself!”

  All Isabella’s joints turn to water. Arthur is already hefting the chest towards a lifeboat. She scrambles after him amid chaos and noise and salt water and rain. He fumbles with ropes and she helps. People are crawling into lifeboats on the starboard side. She searches faces, looking for Meggy or Mr. Harrow, when a huge wave turns the ship suddenly forty-five degrees and it slams onto the reef again. With a huge plume of foam, the wood disintegrates. Where there were men and movement, now there is only gushing sea. Her heart is too big for her body.