The Sea Sprite

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  For the space of several seconds he struggled to find the words. Then, looking up, he glanced at Darcy. “I heard talk in the village, lass.”

  “Talk?” She set down her cup with a clatter. Her eyes went wide as a smile curved her mouth. “Gray. Oh, Newt. You’ve heard from Gray.”

  “Not exactly, lass. But I’ve heard about his ship.”

  “Aye?” Without realizing it, she touched a hand to her heart. “What’ve you heard, Newt? When will he be home?”

  “I heard from a man whose brother sailed aboard the Carrington with Gray. They were off the coast of Wales when they found themselves in a gale. Some say it was a hurricane, but they thought they could ride it out. Then there was a terrible fire aboard ship. They’re not sure how it started. Maybe a brazier tipped during the storm. At any rate, all hands were forced to abandon ship.”

  Darcy shoved back her chair and stood, gripping the edge of the table. Her eyes looked suddenly too big for her face. “What about Gray, Newt? Tell me…tell me he made it to shore.”

  The old sailor shook his head. “His cap’n was wounded in the fire. Gray saw to it that he was loaded into a skiff with the rest of the crew. But Gray himself refused to abandon ship until he was certain all the others were safely away. They saw him, enveloped in flame as the Carrington went down.”

  “They?” Her eyes narrowed. “Who are these who carry such wicked tales?”

  “Gray’s shipmates, lass. Only three men made it. The rest were lost at sea, including the cap’n and those with him in the skiff.”

  “Nay.” The word was torn from her lips. “Gray is a strong swimmer.” She looked around at the others, daring them to argue. “Nothing would stop Gray from making it to shore. Nothing. Not even fire.”

  “Lass…”

  “Nay, Newt.” She pushed away from the table. “I would know it, here in my heart.” She stared hard at her grandfather, then at her older sister, begging them to understand. “I would have felt the pain if he’d drowned. My own breath would have ceased.”

  “Darcy…” Ambrosia started to stand but her sister shook her head fiercely.

  “He’s not dead. He’s not. I won’t accept that. I can’t.” Her eyes went wild, like an animal caught in a trap. “Gray survived. I know he did. He had to.”

  “But lass…”

  She held up a hand to stop Newton’s words. “I don’t care what others have told you. How can I still be alive if Gray isn’t? Don’t you see? It isn’t possible for me to live without him. We’re…one. We’ve always been one. We share the same heart. The same soul. The same spirit.”

  “Ye may think that, lass. But in fact, ye’re two separate lives. And no matter how painful it might be, it’s possible to live without Gray.”

  “Nay. Stop, Newt. It isn’t possible. Gray’s alive, I tell you.”

  While the others watched helplessly, she fled the room.

  There were no tears. Nor would there be. Darcy refused to allow them. For if she permitted herself to weep, to grieve, she would be admitting that her beloved Gray was dead. And that she would never do.

  Instead she returned to the widow’s walk, to pace, to stare out to sea. To wait. He would return. She could see it in her mind’s eye, the tall masts, the gleaming white sails, the skiff returning the crew to shore. And Gray, striding across the beach, that wonderful smile lighting his handsome, rugged face as he scooped her into those strong arms and swung her around and around.

  She closed her eyes and smiled at the image.

  She loved him. Had always loved him. And had always known, with some sixth sense, that they would spend their lives together. She’d been born for him alone. And if he had ceased to exist, she would somehow know. She would have felt his spirit touch hers as he passed.

  As darkness blanketed the water, the wind picked up. It was then that she heard it. A low moaning sound that caused the hair at the nape of her neck to bristle.

  Newton had always told her the sea was a woman. A woman who called out to sailors, causing many to risk their lives for her. But this was a man’s voice, low, tormented and filled with suffering.

  She covered her ears and dropped to her knees with a sob. “Oh, Gray. Please, Gray. Nay. I can’t bear it. You must stop, before you break my poor heart.”

  But the moaning went on and on, tearing at her heart, searing her mind and soul. Shattered, she slumped to the porch and drifted into unconsciousness.

  It was Newton who found her and carried her down the stairs and into the parlor.

  “Oh, sweet heaven.” Miss Mellon took one look at that still, pale figure and indicated the chaise. “Set her here, Newt.”

  “Aye.” The old man lay down his burden with the greatest of care, fearful that she might shatter like fragile crystal.

  “Geoffrey,” the old woman called. “I think some whiskey is called for.”

  “I quite agree.” Captain Lambert poured a generous tumbler and held it to his granddaughter’s lips.

  As the fiery liquid slipped down her throat, she coughed and choked, then opened her eyes.

  “What were you thinking? Your hands are cold as ice.” Ambrosia began rubbing her sister’s hands between her own.

  “I heard…” Darcy swallowed. “I heard Gray calling out to me. He’s in terrible pain.”

  Ambrosia glanced at the others, who were peering down at Darcy with matching looks of concern. “You only thought you heard him, Dar.”

  “Nay.” Darcy shook her head vehemently. “I heard him. As plainly as I’m hearing you now.” She turned to Newton. “I heard him, Newt.”

  “Lass.” He closed a gnarled old hand over hers. “Ye know the tricks the sea can play on our minds. She can sigh and moan and even talk, when she’s a mind to. But it’s the sea talking. Not Gray.”

  “It was Gray.” One big wet tear squeezed from the corner of her eye and began trickling down her cheek. “He’s in pain. He needs me. And I don’t know how to help him.”

  “Here now.” Geoffrey Lambert pressed the tumbler of whiskey into her hand. “I want to see you drink this. All of it. It’ll warm you and help you sleep, lass.”

  “I don’t want to sleep, Grandpapa.”

  “Then drink it for me.” He sat beside her on the chaise and closed a hand over hers, forcing the tumbler to her lips.

  She drank, feeling the whiskey burn a path of fire down her throat. Within minutes the tremors that had rocked her began to ease. She became aware of the uneasy looks that passed from one to the other as her family remained around her.

  “I’m…fine now. You can all go up to bed.”

  “Not until you’re ready.” Ambrosia glanced toward her husband, who nodded his agreement.

  “I…suppose I could sleep.” Darcy handed the empty tumbler to their housekeeper, then got unsteadily to her feet.

  At once Ambrosia put an arm around her sister and began to walk with her toward the stairs. As they climbed to the second story, Ambrosia pressed her cheek to her sister’s. “You’ve had a terrible shock, Dar. It’s no wonder your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  Darcy swallowed back the protest that sprang to her lips. There was no point in upsetting the others.

  “If you’d like—” Ambrosia paused outside her sister’s room “—I could come inside for a while and we could talk. Or maybe you’d like me to stay with you through the night. We’ll sleep together the way we did when we were little, and one or the other of us was feeling fearful.”

  “Nay.” Darcy glanced beyond her to where Riordan Spencer stood. “You have your husband now.”

  “Riordan doesn’t mind…”

  Darcy shook her head. “I’m weary now. I’ll sleep.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Aye.” She brushed her lips over Ambrosia’s cheek. “But I thank you for your offer. Good night.”

  She stepped into her room and closed the door, then leaned against it and listened to the footsteps receding along the hallway. When the house grew empty she walk
ed to the big window overlooking the sea and knelt down, resting her arms along the wide sill.

  Sleep, she knew, would be impossible this night. She needed to remain alert and awake, in case Gray called to her again.

  She rested her chin on her hands and peered into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of white sail.

  Was she slipping into madness? Was she simply denying what she knew to be the truth? Was this the way other people dealt with the loss of a soul mate?

  “Oh, Gray.” She felt the tears threatening and blinked hard and fast, then was forced to swallow the lump in her throat. She mustn’t allow them to start. If she gave in to the weakness, it would shatter her last thread of control. She bit back the sob that tore at her throat. “Gray, how can I live without you? I can’t bear it. Oh, I can’t bear to think of my future without you.”

  She pressed a hand to her stomach and fought the rush of sickness that left her lying weakly on the hard wooden floor, her body damp with cold sweat. With a throat raw from unshed tears, and a head throbbing from the effort to stem them, she lapsed into a deep sleep. A sleep filled with visions of a flaming ship sinking slowly beneath the churning black waves of the Atlantic.

  “Darcy?” Old Miss Mellon crept into the room, dismayed at the sight of sweet Darcy crumpled beneath the window.

  “Aye?” She lifted her head and ran a hand through the hair that hung in tangles around her face. A face pale and tormented.

  Sunlight streamed through the window. Already the sun was high in the sky.

  “We didn’t wake you for Sunday services. We thought it best to let you sleep.”

  “Thank you, Winnie. I…” Darcy glanced around and realized she’d spent the night on the floor. “That was kind of you.”

  “Vicar Thatcher Goodwin broke the news to the congregation. He’s planning a memorial service this evening for all the lads of the village who served aboard the Carrington and were lost at sea.”

  When Darcy said nothing the old woman took a deep breath. “You must attend, child.”

  Darcy was already shaking her head. “To do so would be an admission that I believe Gray is…”

  “I understand. But the others in the village of Land’s End won’t understand. They’ve long known that you and Gray—” she chose her words carefully “—planned a life together. If you should avoid this service, they’ll think you don’t care enough to come.”

  Darcy sighed. “I don’t care what others think, Winnie. I never have.”

  The old nursemaid straightened her shoulders. Over the years she’d learned when to yield, and when to fight these obstinate young women. She had come prepared to do righteous battle.

  “You may not care what the villagers think. But you owe it to Gray’s memory to be there.”

  “But I—”

  Miss Mellon held up a hand. “You listen to me, Darcy. You’ll put aside your own feelings this evening. You’ll endure the Bible readings and the hymns, even if your heart is broken beyond repair. You’ll do it because it’s the right thing to do. You’ll do it because your family and your friends expect it of you. And most of all you’ll do it to honor the memory of the fine young man you’ve always loved.”

  Darcy swallowed back the many protests that sprang to her lips and merely nodded.

  “Fine.” Miss Mellon patted her shoulder. “That’s fine, child. You pull yourself together now, and prepare for the service.”

  She turned away and let herself out of the bedroom. At the bottom of the stairs the rest of the family stood waiting. She gave a terse nod of her head and watched as they sighed their approval.

  Without a word she kept on walking and managed to hold her tears in check until she was safely in her own room. Only then did she allow herself to weep for the child who had given her so many frightened moments all those years ago. To grieve for the graceful young woman she’d become. To ache for the heartbroken lass who now would bury the man who had pledged to make her his bride.

  Every pew of the little village church was filled. From all over Land’s End the people came to pay tribute to the sailors who had been lost aboard the Carrington. The women were somber in their dark gowns and bonnets, the children unusually quiet. Men, old and young, nodded with each word spoken by the old vicar, Thatcher Goodwin. Every man, woman and child in Cornwall understood the perils that all sailors faced each time they challenged the Atlantic. She was a demanding mistress. A fickle, often fiery mistress, who stole a man’s heart, and often his life, on a whim, leaving widows and orphans to grieve and mourn their losses.

  Darcy sat, surrounded by her family, struggling for composure. Throughout the endless prayers and readings, and the hymns that pulled at her heart, she stared straight ahead, refusing to glance at those around her who were weeping. For to do so would be to open herself to pity. And that would only lead to sorrow, which in turn would unleash a floodgate of tears.

  She would not join this maudlin crowd in their mourning. Could not. And so she sat, hands tightly fisted in her lap, eyes dry and staring, without really focusing on anything.

  She had turned inward. There was her strength. There was her salvation from this mass hysteria. She imagined herself alone, on a cliff, staring down at the foaming sea. It could not touch her. It could not hurt her. And soon, when it realized her strength, it would deliver up the man it had tried to take from her.

  When at last the tedious service was ended, she breathed a sigh of relief and followed her sisters down the aisle.

  She was startled when her hand was grasped, and a high-pitched voice, like the sound of seabirds fighting over a morsel of fish, broke through her wall of reserve.

  “Oh, Darcy. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard that Gray was one of those who’d lost his life aboard the Carrington.” Edwina Cannon physically restrained her, and drew her arms around her even when she tried to pull away. “I know just how you feel.”

  The young woman noted with satisfaction that several people had paused to glance her way. Since she liked nothing better than finding herself the center of attention, Edwina continued in an even louder, higher tone. “It was the same for me when my beloved Silas was lost to me. He was far too young. And so was your Gray. I was devastated. Simply devastated.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “But I managed to pull myself together in time. And so shall you.”

  Darcy pushed herself free of Edwina’s arms, and felt her face flame as she realized how many people were staring at them. “Thank you, Edwina. Now I really must go.”

  “Nay.” Edwina’s fingernails bit into Darcy’s flesh as she clamped a hand around her wrist. “These good people have come to offer their sympathy.” She turned and gave a dimpled smile to those who were watching and listening. She was clearly relishing her role as chief mourner. “It is simply good manners to linger and accept the condolences of all who knew and loved Gray.”

  Darcy’s eyes grew stormy, a sure sign that she was about to explode. Seeing it, her sisters stepped between her and the other young woman.

  Bethany’s teeth were so tightly clamped, she could hardly speak. But she managed a thin smile. “Thank you for your concern, Edwina. But we really must leave now.”

  “But I—”

  The shrill voice was silenced as Bethany closed her arm around Edwina’s shoulder and dragged her into a pew. At the same instant, Ambrosia caught Darcy’s hand and pulled her toward the entrance of the church, where the congregation was now milling about.

  “This way, lass.” Geoffrey, seeing their dilemma, motioned toward a side door.

  Within minutes they’d slipped unseen through the door. Waiting just beyond the steps was Newton, with their carriage. As soon as everyone had climbed aboard, he cracked the whip and the team started off at a trot.

  Ambrosia and Bethany turned to see Edwina Cannon and her mother just stepping outside, surrounded by hoards of villagers.

  “Look at her,” Bethany muttered. “If I know Edwina, she’ll continue to hold the crowd enthralled for an ho
ur or more on the pain of her own loss.”

  “Aye.” Ambrosia lifted her voice in a perfect imitation of Edwina’s shrill tones. “Poor me. Nobody has ever suffered as I have.”

  As the others tittered at her sarcasm, she glanced at Darcy, who had retreated into her own dark silence.

  Chapter Two

  “That was a fine meal, Mistress Coffey.” Riordan Spencer could always make the old housekeeper blush with a simple compliment. “I think you’ll regret the fact that we’re building our home so close. Ambrosia and I will probably be over every night to sample your fine cooking.”

  “I should hope so.” Mistress Coffey circled the table pouring tea. “I only wish we could persuade Bethany and Kane to come more often.”

  “We would, if it didn’t make Mistress Dove so nervous.” Bethany sipped her tea and smiled at her new husband. “Every time we come here, we have to spend two days reassuring her that we still appreciate her.”

  “Well, it does my heart good to see my three lasses together again.” The old woman glanced at Darcy, so pale and quiet. She hadn’t spoken a single word throughout the meal.

  For the past several weeks she’d been like a ghost. At first they’d seen her spend hours on the widow’s walk, staring into the distance. But now, with the first biting slap of winter, she’d begun slipping off to her room instead, to stare out the window for hours.

  Bethany’s husband, the earl of Alsmeeth, glanced across the table. “How’s the house coming, Riordan?”

  “The workmen are doing a fine job. In fact, Ambrosia and I are hoping to move in before spring.” Riordan sipped his ale. “I should be glad. But it means I’ll have to pass up a lucrative offer to run supplies between Scotland and Wales.”

  “Ah, well.” Geoffrey Lambert smiled. “With winter winds howling, you’ll be happier sitting by the fire with your wife. And I’m sure Ambrosia will be happier knowing you’ll be home with her.”

  “True enough.” Riordan smiled at his wife. “That’s why I told the harbormaster to find another ship’s captain.”

  At that Darcy’s head came up. “Has he found someone yet?”