Lighthouse Bay (32 page)

It is a small shop with a strong smell of wax and polish. The
only light comes through a narrow window with the jeweler’s name painted on it: from the inside it reads backwards. In glass cabinets sit jewelry and watches and decorative clocks. An elderly man with a thick mustache sits behind the counter at a table where jewelry is spread out to be cleaned. He looks up as she enters, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “Good morning, madam,” he says in a deep voice. “How may I help?”

“I am Mary Harrow,” she says, extending a gloved hand.

“Max Hardwick.” He takes her hand and gives it a brief squeeze before dropping it. “I know your name. Abel Barrett was in here several weeks ago, selling a brooch to me that I suspect you made.”

“You have a good memory, sir.”

“Am I right? It wasn’t a family heirloom. Far too modern.”

“Yes. I did make it, and I have brought more in the hope that you will take them too.” She lifts the case onto the counter. “Would you like to see?”

“Well, then,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron. “Open it up.”

She opens the case and pulls out three brooches and three bracelets. They are a tasteful concoction of dazzling gems and natural materials, made feminine with lacquered ribbon and lace. He pores over them with his jeweler’s glass to his eye.

“The wire wrapping is most unusual.”

“My father taught me the method, as a girl.”

“Where did you get these rubies and sapphires?” he asks.

She doesn’t show that her pulse has quickened. “I bought them with the small inheritance my late husband left me,” she lies smoothly. “I had always wanted to make jewelry, and he had always encouraged me. I create these pieces with him in my mind and it makes me feel close to him still.”

The jeweler nods sadly. As he looks over the jewelry, Isabella
glances around the room. She notices an entire cabinet of Winterbourne jewelry.

“They are lovely and I do want them,” he says at last. “However, I haven’t the money to buy them all from you. I’ve not yet sold the first one. But if you want to leave them here I can sell them for you and take a small commission.”

Isabella’s heart sags with disappointment. “No money?”

“Eventually there will be money, dear. Where can I contact you to let you know they’ve sold?”

This is not the plan. The plan is he buys them all, for as much or more than he paid for the last piece; that she leaves here a rich woman who needs to wait only a little while for her young charge to accompany her to New York. Who knows how long it will take to sell all the pieces? Dare she leave them here with him? What if he is not honest? What if the gems are recognized?

Her brain is full of blackbirds now. She cannot decide what to do. The desolate feeling, repressed under so fine a veil, has returned. What will become of her?

She imagines Matthew is here. What would he advise? A warm calm steals over her.

“I will leave you half the pieces,” she says, pushing forward two bracelets and a brooch. “You may contact me via the telegraph office at Lighthouse Bay.”

He hesitates. She knows he is wondering what she will do with the other pieces, but then he relaxes and says, “As you wish. Now, may I sell these under your name? I will have more luck if I promote them as an exclusive handmade line.”

“I can only trust your judgment,” she says, enjoying the small thrill of knowing her jewelry will compete with the Winterbourne pieces on display.

Her jewelry, made with their gems. A fine jolt of heat to her
heart. Stolen, all of these gems are stolen. And here she is bringing them into the world so publicly.

But it is too late now. Wheels are in motion. She says her good-byes and returns to the sunny street, curious but excited about spending more time with Lady McAuliffe.

“I
thought you’d never get here, dear,” Berenice says, grasping Isabella’s arm and drawing her into the sitting room. “I have such a surprise for you. Meet Adelaide. She’s my dressmaker.”

“Hello,” Isabella says curiously, removing her gloves. She has been lost for a good half-hour, unable to follow the hastily scrawled map that Berenice gave her. She notices that the long, overstuffed couch is strewn with dresses.

“These are all old dresses of mine that no longer fit. Adelaide is going to measure you up and take them all in for you.”

Isabella is already shaking her head by the end of the sentence. “I can’t possibly accept such—”

“Oh, nonsense. Of course you can. I’m not ever going to wear them again and they are just sitting in the cupboard gathering dust.”

Isabella gapes. There must be a dozen dresses. “I can’t. I would feel too obliged.” But she wants them. She wants them so much. She has been wearing the same old dress for months, and the one she made for going to town is already falling apart at the hems: she never was taught to be a seamstress. “I would be so grateful for a new dress.”

“Choose three or four, then,” Berenice urges. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but a beautiful young woman needs more than two ill-fitting dresses.”

Isabella cannot hide her smile as she searches through the dresses. She can see herself on the ship to America in some of
these: elaborately trimmed tea gowns, shirtwaisted dresses with flouncing trains, gauzy white summer dresses with wilting sleeves and white embroidery. Then Berenice locks the door behind them and has Isabella strip off to her chemise for Adelaide to measure her. Berenice chats the whole time as Isabella is pinned and turned and stripped and re-dressed four times. Finally, she climbs back into her own clothes and Adelaide leaves with arms full of expensive fabric.

“I’ll need them by tomorrow morning,” Berenice says in a warning tone.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Adelaide. “I won’t let you down.”

Berenice turns to Isabella. “We’re having tea tomorrow with some friends. You’re invited, of course. I’d love for them to meet you.”

“I’d be delighted.” The inkling of a plan. Berenice’s friends are all wealthy and all do what she says. If she wears a Mary Harrow bracelet and brooch, she might be able to persuade somebody to buy one of the pieces she has left.

Berenice turns her head on the side, smiling her pretty smile. “There’s something so sweet about you, Mary Harrow. I can’t put my finger on it.”

Isabella smiles in return.

“Come. Let me show you about the place.” She folds Isabella’s arm in hers and they leave the sitting room and head down the parquetry corridor. “My husband collected paintings,” Berenice explains, pointing out the row of elaborately framed portraits that line the corridor. “I don’t much understand the appeal myself. Painted people are never as interesting as real people.”

“Are these people known to you?” Isabella asks.

“They were friends and relations of my husband,” Berenice says. “I’ve forgotten who most of them are. Though come with me and
I’ll show you the best one.” She leads Isabella through two heavy wooden doors and into a library. One wall is dominated by an enormous portrait of a sweet-faced man with a half-smile on his lips. “There he is,” Berenice says. “My dear departed husband.”

“He looks kind,” Isabella says.

“Oh no, he was a rascal. Hadn’t a kind bone in his body. He frightened children. But I did love him and I still mourn him. How about you? Do you still mourn your husband?” Berenice fixes Isabella in her gaze. “No, don’t answer that. I can tell.”

Isabella’s face burns with shame. “We each mourn in our own way,” she mutters.

“Indeed. I miss my husband every day, but truthfully I am better off without him. He was terrible with money.” Berenice grows quiet a few moments, studying the portrait. “I don’t think I’ll remarry, Mary. I think I’m better off alone.”

“You’re hardly alone. You have so many friends.”

“Do you think you’ll ever remarry?”

Isabella thinks about Matthew.

Berenice has a gleam in her eye now. “There is someone, isn’t there?” she says with a smile. “I can see it on your face.”

“I’m not sure what the future holds,” Isabella replies.

“Another of your enigmatic replies.”

“I don’t mean to be enigmatic,” she says.

“Well, whoever he is, he will have his faults. And you, as a woman, will have to overlook them. He’ll be angry, or vain, or he’ll treat your body as though it belonged to him. None of them are different, dear. None of them.”

Isabella considers Berenice’s words, and knows that she is wrong. Matthew is different. He is good. He is too good. He is so good that she will have to leave him secretly one day soon, because he cannot ever know about her plans. The thought makes her sad, but
then Berenice is chatting again and Isabella is distracted enough to forget it, at least for a little while.

T
he lighthouse is empty without Isabella. Before he met her, he never realized how empty it was, or how lonely his existence: sleeping, working, eating. Easy and comfortable, yes, but empty. Matthew finds himself moping, something he has never done. The smell of her imprinted on the pillow is enough to make him sit still for a full ten minutes, his face against the pillowslip, breathing deeply.

Matthew sits out on the deck, looking at the moon and smoking his pipe. He is in love. He admits it and he knows he is a fool. Isabella cannot be held in one place. He has known from the moment he met her that she would leave him. But still he has gone and fallen in love. The thought of her alone in Brisbane makes him ache. It is so far away, it is such a big place. She cannot possibly be safe.

And yet, she does as she pleases. He knows better than to try to control her. The moment he tries to control her, disaster will come. That was how it was with Clara. He draws on his pipe as he remembers her shouting at him, running from him. He can’t even remember the argument that sparked it: something about attending a neighbor’s party without making it obvious she despised them all. She hid for four days in the woods outside town, returned bedraggled and grubby, laboring with a cough that sank deeper and deeper in her lungs until, six weeks later, it finally claimed her. For a very long time he had blamed himself for her death. Taking his first lighthouse post was a way of punishing himself: he didn’t deserve society. But the prolonged
isolation also allowed him to reflect and settle his guilt. She had said herself, in her dying moments, that he wasn’t to be sad, that being sad was pointless, when the sun kept shining and the sky brightened every morning.

Matthew exhaled forcefully, leaning his head back against the outer wall of the lighthouse. Out there, across the ocean, Isabella’s new life waited. And he would be here long after she was gone, as quiet and enduring as a statue, wishing he had never let her go.

P
ercy stands on the beach, wondering if his eyes will ever adjust to the light in this empty place. It dazzles off the sand and it bites his lily-white skin. The constable stands a respectful distance away. He thinks Percy has come here to grieve his dead brother. Perhaps he has, in a way. But after nearly three months, the sting of losing his brother is fading. He is now more interested in scouring through the wreckage. Barrels and boards have been washed up by a high tide and left on the beach. There is nothing of value here, but Percy is very interested in the upturned lifeboat on the bar of rocks farther up the beach.

This hasn’t been washed up as these incompetent colonial police told him. This has been deliberately placed by human hands. Which means the police are wrong, and not everyone is dead.

Percy flips the boat over and drops to his hands and knees, sifting through the sand with his fingertips. The ocean draws and falls in a constant rhythm behind him. First he turns up a shred of white lace, and he knows that whoever escaped in the lifeboat was a woman. Either Meggy or Isabella.

His gut tightens. Meggy Whiteaway was a seagoing woman. Had she survived, she would have known whom to contact and
what to do. It was Isabella. He knows it was Isabella and the thought inflames him. He takes a moment to breathe.

Was Arthur with her then? Had Arthur survived? If so, where was he now?

Percy beckons the constable to come forward. “This lifeboat indicates somebody survived,” he says. “Why did your lot tell me the opposite?”

“Because nobody has reported themselves. Certainly, somebody may have made it to the beach in the storm, but between here and civilization there are snakes and wild dogs and vicious natives. And none of these things put together is so dangerous as sun, exhaustion and thirst.” The constable’s eyes go to the bushland that hems the beach. “He may as well have walked into the mouth of a monster.”

Percy turns this thought over in his mind, still on hands and knees, still tracing fingers in the sand. He considers the piece of lace in his hand and tries to imagine Isabella walking into the woods, looking for civilization. It has taken hours in a horse and carriage to get here, in blazing sun. Would she survive?

Damn it all. He
can
imagine it. There is something about her—a core of overweening self-regard that some might mistake for nobility—that gives her strength. She thought herself better than them and she would survive just to spite them: he knows it. How he longs to crush the arrogance out of her.

“Did you search in the woods?” he asks the constable.

“Yes.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. I’m terribly sorry, sir.” And as the constable moves out of the direct sun, something glints under a fine layer of sand. It is in his hand a moment later. The brass clasp from the walnut box made for the mace.

He feels his face flush and turns it away so the constable doesn’t see it. In a flash, his mind has built the picture. Isabella escaped with the mace. Perhaps she caused the shipwreck. Perhaps she pushed his brother overboard. The conviction that somehow all this is true clenches in his guts. And the idea that she somehow got away, that she is free somewhere in this empty country with infinite places to hide, causes him physical pain.

“I’m sorry,” the constable says again. “I’ll leave you alone with your thoughts.” Percy watches him trudge back up the beach. What now? Look in the woods for her? Go home and do nothing? She has the mace. He wants it back.