“What do you think they want?” he asked.
Libby was stumped for a moment. She had never even thought of it; she had been too busy being afraid and angry. “I don’t know. To scare me?”
“But why? And if they wanted to scare you, they could do it more effectively.”
Libby thought a little harder, then her skin started to crawl. “Maybe they’re looking for something.” And if that were true, perhaps they wouldn’t stop until they found it.
“Maybe. But don’t worry. I’ll listen out. And if you’re ever frightened, just come knock on my door.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Can I just ask, though, that you don’t tell anyone I’m here?”
Libby shrugged. “Of course. I have nobody to tell.”
“Well, not Juliet. You know.”
“Ah, I see. Okay.”
“It’s not forever, and I will eventually send all these papers to a museum or a library.”
Libby opened her mouth to ask for more details about his life, about why he was squatting in a lighthouse, but then she closed it again. “Sure,” she said. “Your secret is safe with me.”
That night, she dreamed she was on a ship. The waves were rolling up sickeningly high beneath her, and she was convinced that somehow Mark was in the water and she had to rescue him. But every time she got near the side of the ship to try to winch down the lifeboat, a huge wave would boil up and throw her backwards, until the deck was almost vertical and she had to drag herself along with aching fingertips.
Her own sobs woke her in the deep of the night. The sound of the sea in the distance. Emptiness walking her ribcage. Mark long gone from her reach.
Eleven
Libby got an early start on her e-mail the next day. At last, a swag of material came through from Emily. Eighty photographs that looked like they’d been taken on a mobile phone. Libby recognized many of the pieces as classic Winterbourne designs, but there were a handful of new and surprising designs among them. She flicked through them, then turned to the e-mail Emily had sent.
I want the catalog to honor Mark and the Winterbourne history, but I also want it to reflect new hope, a way forward. I think you’ll agree that some of our new designs are very forward-focused, so I would like to make those the centerpiece of the catalog. But I will be guided by you. What do you think?
Libby realized that Emily was using the catalog, the new line, as a way of pulling herself out of grief and towards whatever came next. Mark would never have made such an artistic decision. Winterbourne, in Mark’s eyes, traded on its history, as stuffy as it sometimes made them seem. New designs, especially experimental ones, were always hidden at the back of the catalog. Libby felt a pulse of real affection for Emily for being able to see beyond tradition, and for finding the positive in overwhelmingly negative circumstances. She shot back an e-mail with enthusiastic support for the idea, and started to sketch ideas in her notebook. Then she sent off e-mail enquiries to some of the photographers she’d worked with in Paris and London, and began to draw up a schedule for the catalog’s production. She was mad: she should have let Emily pay her extra for coordinating the project. It was going to be a lot of work.
The sound of the postman’s motorbike roused her, and she realized she hadn’t stretched her legs for hours. She rose and went outside, taking deep gulps of the sea air. The work, she realized, was making her feel better. She still missed Mark, of course, but, because of Emily, she knew today that there was something beyond sorrow. She didn’t know what it was, but she would never find out unless she began to move in that direction.
She flipped open the mailbox and pulled out a large yellow envelope from Winterbourne Jewelers in London. She peeled it open as she walked back to the house, and found inside the unopened mail for her that Cathy had discovered in Mark’s office.
Libby sat at her desk and sorted the letters into date order: all from Ashley-Harris Holdings. They dated back two years. She opened the oldest one and read it. It opened with the line, Thank you for your correspondence. We do understand the reasons you won’t sell. I would like to introduce myself still . . .
So, this wasn’t the first letter. Mark had intercepted one previously, in which they had offered to buy the cottage, and he’d knocked them back. She quickly tore into the other letters. Over two years they wrote again and again, asking to meet with Libby, offering to fly to London, wanting to send plans and drawings. They were all signed by the same sender: Tristan Catherwood. He was persistent but not pushy. The last one was dated four months before Mark’s death.
Libby sat back and turned all this over in her mind. A small part of her, not a part she was proud of, was irritated that Mark had never passed these letters on. Of course she never would have sold the place, but he had passed everything else on: the rates bills—after he had paid them, of course—and the yearly land valuations. Did he suspect she would sell to the first developer who offered? But then, could she blame him for being wary? She had been so reluctant to come here. She had probably seemed ungrateful. He had bought her a house and she had seen it as a burden rather than a blessing.
She was curious too. Why did Ashley-Harris Holdings want her cottage so badly? There were plenty of other places to build hotels.
Still, Tristan Catherwood had been waiting for a reply for a long time, so she sat down to write him a letter of refusal. Then she realized the number on the bottom of the letter was local. Ashley-Harris Holdings was based in Noosa. So she phoned him instead, on his mobile.
“Tristan Catherwood.” He had a soft voice, not deep and brash as she’d been expecting.
“Oh, hello. My name is Elizabeth Slater. I—”
“The cottage by the lighthouse! How lovely to hear from you, Elizabeth.”
“Look, I’m sorry that you’ve had to send so many letters. I didn’t get the last six until just now, for reasons too complicated to explain. But I just wanted to say that I’m not interested in selling, so you needn’t send any more. I’m very happy here now and I’ll be staying.”
“You’re living in the cottage?”
“Yes, I’ve been here a few weeks.”
“It’s a beautiful part of the world. The view from the lighthouse makes my heart stir. Elizabeth, seeing as you’re in town, let me take you to lunch. Are you busy at one tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I . . . I don’t know what I might be doing tomorrow.”
“Today, then. It’s just after twelve. I can swing by and pick you up at one, bring you back down here to Noosa. There’s an Italian place down on Hastings Street that makes the most incredible puttanesca.”
Libby was being schmoozed, she knew it. But she was drawn to the idea of being chauffeured to an expensive lunch, and she was curious about Tristan’s plans for Lighthouse Bay.
And Juliet never needed to know.
“All right,” she stammered. “I guess it can’t hurt.”
He arrived in a black Audi right on the dot of one. From the crack between her bedroom curtains, Libby watched him walk down the front path. He was not at all what she expected. For one thing, he was younger than she’d imagined: around her age. For another, he was casually dressed in an untucked button-up gray shirt and a pair of washed-out jeans. He knocked, and she took her time going to the door. She didn’t want him to think she’d been waiting for him, even though she had.
“Hello,” she said.
He took off his sunglasses and smiled warmly. He had deep brown eyes that were soft and friendly and Libby found herself smiling back just as warmly. “So, you’re Elizabeth?” he asked, extending his hand.
“Libby,” she said, shaking it. He smelled wonderful, of some musky, woody cologne.
“For some reason I thought you’d be older.”
“Likewise.” She was glad now that she had put on her deep red blouse. She knew how it flattered her pale skin. She was enjoying his appreciative gaze.
“Let’s head off, then, shall we? I’m starving.”
&nbs
p; Libby followed him up to his car and settled into the cream leather seat. He started the car and soon they were following the beachfront road south. Past Juliet’s tea room. Libby shrank into her seat for a few moments, and Tristan didn’t seem to notice. Then they joined the traffic on the main road.
“So, you were in London?” Tristan asked.
“Paris, actually. The address in London was a friend’s address. He didn’t pass on your mail.”
“He did in the end.”
“He died.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tristan said, his voice dropping gravely, then he moved on smoothly. “And how long have you been in Australia?”
“A few weeks. I’m from here originally. My sister owns the B&B.”
“Juliet? Of course. I should have realized. You have the same surname.”
“I’m surprised you know Juliet.”
“I know a lot of people in town, but for all the wrong reasons, I’m afraid. I’ve been the person who’s had to read through the community submissions when we’ve gone for approvals, so I know how much some of them hate me.” He grimaced, but then laughed. “It’s not much fun being the grim reaper.”
“Why do you persist, then? If you know the town really doesn’t want a high-rise?”
“A high-rise is off the cards,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “The people have spoken. The community doesn’t want it, and we’re an ethical company. We won an award for ethics in property development last year, actually. We take pride in it.”
“Then you don’t want to buy the cottage?”
“I absolutely do. But look, let’s wait and talk about this over lunch. I don’t want to come across like a pushy salesman, and I’m more interested to hear about you and Paris and why you came back.”
Libby gave him a brief history, leaving out all the most important things—the twelve-year affair, the long feud with her sister—but still proudly letting him know that now she was freelancing for Winterbourne Jewelers when she wasn’t painting.
“I’ve always admired creative people,” he said. “I’ve done nothing creative since writing bad poetry in high school. My background is geotechnical engineering.”
“And is there no poetry in that?”
He pressed his lips together, thinking. “I suppose there is. The geology of building foundations, finding a point of harmony with the earth. Though I’d never thought of it as poetic. And mostly I work in an office these days. Not much poetry in working with money.”
He talked a little more about his personal history—it turned out his high school and her high school had been mortal rivals for soccer trophies in the late 1980s—and soon they were driving into Noosa and parking outside an Italian restaurant that gleamed with chrome surfaces and was tastefully lit.
“Ah, Mr. Catherwood!” exclaimed the head waiter. “Your usual table? For you and your lovely guest?”
“Please, Mario. And a bottle of my favorite wine.”
Soon they had settled and ordered, and Tristan was pouring her a glass of wine. He reminded Libby a lot of Mark, with his easy confidence. The staff were certainly fond of him, and she found herself drawn to him too. He wasn’t doing the hard sell on her. He was relaxed and upbeat. A few mouthfuls of wine and the soft jazz made her relax and feel light, and soon she realized she was enjoying herself.
As they ate, he finally got down to business. He’d worked for Ashley-Harris Holdings for ten years, and had worked his way up to co-manager of development. His dream was for a boutique ecoresort at Lighthouse Bay, on the promontory where the lighthouse cottage stood. If they could buy the cottage, they would invest money in buying and restoring the lighthouse, to add to the distinctiveness of the resort and, in his words, “give something back” to the community. He pulled out of his briefcase photographs of a similar resort he’d built in Tasmania, and Libby had to admit it was impressive.
“This resort caters to a particular kind of clientele,” he said. “We charge nine hundred dollars a night, and it’s rarely empty. Even in winter.”
Libby nodded. “Why do you want my cottage?”
“Because it’s my last chance. The shire council and public opinion have stopped me building anywhere else. But there’s only scrub across the road from you: nobody to reasonably complain about blocked views. And it’s out of the central business district, so those by-laws won’t apply. I’ll admit we were too ambitious at first. A fifty-room complex won’t work here, nor will a high-rise. But a boutique eco-resort with only eighteen rooms? Lighthouse Bay is made for it. It will be good for business. Good for tourism. Good for everyone. It will put Lighthouse Bay on the map.”
Everyone? She tried to imagine what Juliet would think.
“I can tell by that expression that you’re still not going to sell.”
“Thanks so much for taking the time to show me all this,” she said. “But perhaps you should look elsewhere.”
“Lighthouse Bay is perfect for it. It’s going to be the next to develop. It has to be.” Then he put his hands up, a defeated gesture. “I understand. Will you at least let me put some sums together and e-mail you an offer?”
Again, Libby was curious. But a little current of fear ran through her. With the money problems she was facing, it could be too tempting.
“Please?” he said.
She looked at him. He had such a genuine smile. “It can’t hurt. But please do brace yourself for disappointment.”
“Of course. Once you’ve refused a formal offer, I’ll leave you be. I’ll still get my gold star for meeting with you. That’s something my boss has been trying to achieve for years.”
She smiled back. “Thank you for lunch.”
“The pleasure was all mine.” He caught her in his gaze a moment, then looked away almost shyly and, inexplicably, Libby’s heart lurched. “I have a three o’clock meeting. I’d best get you home.”
That evening, she checked her e-mail and the offer was waiting, attached to a message from somebody named Yann Fraser. Tristan’s name wasn’t anywhere in evidence. Libby felt strangely let down. Then she opened the file and her heart stopped.
They were offering her two and a half million dollars.
Twelve
1901
Matthew gravitates towards the woman, again and again. He works the lamp, he times the signal, he cranks the weights, he listens to the mechanism make its familiar clunking noise as it turns the prism that sends the pattern of light out across the sea. In the telegraph room, he writes in his journal by the light of the lamp and he fills out the forms the government and the shipping companies require. But in between these tasks he returns to the side of the bed and looks down on her, and a sadness stirs inside him. No, she is not Clara, but she is so very like her. The fair hair, the soft bow of her mouth. But more than that. The wildness in her eyes, the sense that she is somehow a trapped bird who requires kindness and the gentlest handling, and eventually—inevitably—release.
A trapped bird, but a very pretty bird.
But perhaps he is a fool. Twenty years alone can bend a man, even if the isolation is chosen by him rather than thrust upon him. He knows nothing about this woman. Where has she come from, barefoot and bleeding? How far has she traveled? From one of the inland gold-mining towns? Then why not simply take the train to Brisbane? Why is she here, and what has she left behind?
The long wooden chest—and the way she leaped on it like a wildcat defending her young—makes him curious too.
Matthew pulls up a stool a few feet from the bed and watches her in the flickering lamplight. She looks peaceful now, her chest rising and falling softly. Tomorrow he will have to coax her out of the lighthouse before anyone knows she was here. He rises and goes to the window, looks out at the sea. The light from the big prism above him flashes out across the waves, running from north to south, then going dark again, but the sea is quiet tonight. No ships, no storms, no high winds. Light, then dark, light, then dark, the familiar pattern in which he has found comfort these many
years at Lighthouse Bay. But even though the light still runs to its rhythm, he can feel that his own has been disrupted. And he both longs for his familiar loneliness and dreads it in equal measure.
Isabella wakes in the gray before dawn. The room is filled with the aromatic punch of tobacco smoke. Matthew stands by the narrow window. He puffs on his pipe and it illuminates his face momentarily. She blinks rapidly, adjusting her eyes to the dark. There is something peaceful about his countenance. Matthew means her no harm. He is her beacon in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I left you nowhere to sleep.”
He turns. “I don’t sleep at night. I sleep during the afternoon,” he said. “I’m very busy at night.”
The horrors of her recent past come back to her, but a good night’s sleep in a warm bed has taken the edge off their cruelty. The future hasn’t come yet, the past is behind her. Just now, she is safe.
He withdraws his pipe from his mouth and taps the ashes out into a clay saucer on the table. “Sleep a little longer, Mary,” he says.
“My name isn’t Mary,” she replies, though she doesn’t know why. It is as though she cannot stand Matthew to be fooled in such a way. “My name is Isabella.”
“I see.”
“Please don’t ask me to tell you anything else.”
He presses his lips together, and it makes his face look grim in the dark. Then he says, gently, “And so I shall not. Not of your past. What I do need to know, so I can help you, is what you intend next.”
What does she intend next? Just a week or so ago she had been so sure: escape her husband, sell her jewelry, find her sister in New York. Now she has already escaped her husband. Back in England there is a house for her, wealth, a life of ease, but those things would come at a high price: continuing attachment to his family. Old Mrs. Winterbourne would be there at every opportunity, looking for a way to make Isabella’s life a misery. Percy . . . Well, what wouldn’t he do? Given how he had treated her when his brother was still alive.
“I’m running away,” she says. “I’m running away to America to find my sister.” And as she says it, she is filled once again with purpose. “I have escaped a loveless marriage. I lost an infant, and my husband sought to punish me for my grief. I am running away to New York, where I can find some comfort, and be of some use to my sister Victoria, who is expecting a child of her own. And I will be free to feel . . .” Isabella realizes she is sitting up, fists clenched on the blankets in front of her. Her voice has become shrill. “I will be free to feel whatever is in my heart,” she finishes in a whisper.
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