She liked to stand and stare out to sea. She strolled along the harbor front, where the old fishermen mended their nets and sat talking over pipes. She could remember her mother doing the same, and that saddened her. I should have married him, she thought. I should have married him, and then at least I would have had the right to welcome him home.
***
And then it was autumn, and in the second week there was a storm. The east wind had been building all day, sending clouds scudding across grey skies, making mockery of women’s skirts and bonnets, and tossing the shutters wildly upon the windows. Night came suddenly, as though a hand had been put over the town. She ate her supper, alone by the fire, glancing at the darkness beyond the window panes and shivering as the wind moaned. Oliver was away again. He was often away these days. So many people wanted to see him, and there was always work to be had from it. Foolish not to go, he said. And she agreed readily. Too readily, perhaps.
The wind unsettled her with its banging and moaning about the house. She could not sleep and sat sewing by the light of the candle, straining her eyes beyond its flickering, inconsistent light. It was very late when the knocking came.
Her fingers trembled upon the bolts. Then the door was flung open, the wind bursting in so furiously it snuffed the light and sent her stumbling back before its blast. Far down the hall the back door rattled and something went clattering along the floor. She put her shoulder to the door, forcing it closed—it took all her strength—and stood leaning against it, catching at her breath.
“I’m sorry.”
She started violently, dropping the candle. “You frightened me,” she told him accusingly, and stooped to find the stub. Instead she encountered a warm hand that clasped hers and helped her back to her feet.
“I came to fetch my jacket,” he said softly, still holding her hand.
She paused, and suddenly the fear was gone on a rush of relief and joy. “I still have it,” she breathed. She thought she heard him laugh, and wondered if he knew why she had kept it so carefully folded away, how she had been thinking of him all this time. “I hoped you would come back.” There! It was out in the open. Let him make of it what he willed.
“I would have come sooner, but I had to wait on the wind,” he told her, and there was a longing in his voice that made her skin tingle.
She led the way into the parlour. The candle was soon relit, and she glanced at him, the shadowed face, the dark hair. “Will you have some wine?” she asked. “Something to eat?”
He smiled and accepted, and her heart turned over in her breast. But he did not seem hungry, and only sipped at the wine. He seemed content to sit there, gazing at her in the faint, flattering light until she began to fidget with her hair, with her shawl.
“Oh Tom,” she whispered, and her throat was harsh and aching. “You should not have come back. I should not have let you.”
His smile was a grimace. “Sometimes it takes a man a long time to realize what he has lost. My ship went down,” he added softly, and bowed his head. “It was a gale like tonight, and we were blown off course. We founded on rocks. Men were drowned within yards of the beach. The ship broke herself to pieces and sank within minutes, and then the surf rolled the bodies over and over . . .”
She stared at him in horror.
“So many lives wasted. I knew then that I had wasted mine by letting you go. I loved you, and I still do.”
Her heart was thudding. “I am married to Oliver!” she cried. But the words were empty. She heard their hollowness in her own ears. Suddenly she felt so stifled that she rose and went to the window, peering out into the dark gale beyond. She thought she saw the moon, and then it was gone, covered by the swirling mass of cloud that the east wind had brought.
He came up behind her. She saw his reflection dark upon the pane that suddenly rattled so wildly that she thought it would shatter. She started back. He caught her arms and turned her gently about, and his eyes searched hers. “Oh Tom,” she whispered. “Oh Tom,” and his mouth closed on hers. Darkness swirled about her. The wind vanished, and she clung to him as if she were drowning. The kiss left her beyond thought, and when he picked her up in his arms she pressed her face to his shoulder. She did not see his eyes, glowing like jet, as he glanced towards the storm outside.
“It’s not too late, is it?” she asked him, and reached up to touch his cheek with her fingers. He bent to kiss her again, and their shadow wavered on the wall beside the stairs, as he carried her up them. “We can be together, can’t we?”
“Yes,” he murmured softly. “We can be together, love. But you have to wish it to be so.”
His handsome face smiled down at her, his eyes searching hers, and she felt her body tremble. “I do wish it,” she told him firmly. “Tom, I do.”
“Then, we’ll seal our bargain, my dearest,” he told her, and lay her trembling and eager on the bed. But she hardly heard him; she was already drowning in his passion. Their love, she thought afterwards, was like the east wind—too strong to withstand.
She woke in the morning, stretching like a cat. The scent of the sea was still upon her. It was not until she turned, her long dark hair spilling about her, that she found he was gone. The sunshine leaked between the curtains, warm on her face, but in her heart she was chilled. He was gone again, and yet she had given her love to him, given him her body to seal the bargain. Suddenly she knew it had been no light thing between them. The power of it made her tremble.
She could not tell Oliver. She could never tell Oliver. But suddenly Oliver did not matter. All she could think was: When will Tom come again?
***
It was a mild autumn. Gradually the colours changed to oranges and reds and sunshine golds, and the streets seemed golden too, mellowing with the season. She sang as she worked and found herself, more often than ever, gazing towards the harbour or waking in the darkness to the slightest sound out in the narrow street. Oliver said she was nervous and smiled. “Has that fellow been back again?” he asked her, and when she shook her head, he looked relieved. He was losing her, like a boat that has sprung a slow leak, the water seeping gently in, hardly noticed, until suddenly the boat begins to heel and slowly, slowly, to sink. He felt that she was sinking beyond his reach, and he could not prevent it, no matter how he tried.
With winter, the weather changed. The skies were blustery grey and the rain trickled between the houses and drummed upon the slates of the roof. And with the change, and the east wind, he came.
She heard the banging on the door in the darkness and was up and out of bed before Oliver woke. The dark, lashing rain stung her cheeks as the door opened, and she was in his arms, his cold lips on hers, touching her face, her hair. “My love, my love . . .” And, gasping under his kisses, “I’ve missed you so . . .”
And then the light of a candle, and Oliver’s voice, rising with irritation and a sort of fear, “What is it? Who is it? For God’s sake come out of the storm!”
She pressed her face to Tom’s shoulder, and whispered, “Oliver is here. You must come in. Please, don’t go yet. Not yet.”
Even in the darkness she saw the pain flash in his eyes. Then he nodded and, putting her before him, stepped inside the house. Oliver held up the candle, and she saw the frown in his eyes, the grim turn of his mouth. “My dear, you are quite soaked,” he said quietly. “Go and change, while I see to our guest. I take it, sir, you are Tom Harte?”
He knew. Tom nodded, the glow of the candle in his eyes. He was younger than Oliver, and taller and leaner. He was beautiful, and she kept glancing at him over her shoulder, as she climbed the stairs. Hurriedly she changed, and as she descended again could hear their voices in the parlour.
“What is the name of your ship, sir?” Oliver’s ponderous tones, the clink of the decanter.
“I have sailed on many—” Tom replied.
But Oliver would have none of it. “The one you are with now will do,” he said.
“Then it is the Hermosa, sir,” Tom
replied.
She opened the door and they both looked up. She smiled. She looked flushed and beautiful, her hair still damp and curling about her face. The two men stared at her, both loving her, and she smiled again and moved to the fire. “Will you stay, Tom?” she asked him. “We have a spare room to put you in?”
He hesitated, and then nodded. “That would be kind, thank you. I must be done by dawn. We sail in the morning.”
Her happiness faded. In the morning. How could she bear it? And yet there was still tonight. The men spoke together, and she listened, warming herself by the flames. Oliver began to yawn—he had been busy this past week. “You must be tired as well, Tom,” he said.
Tom smiled and nodded and stood up. “I am tired,” he agreed. “I will retire, if . . .”
She rose, too, saying, “I will show you the way.”
But Oliver was there before her, his smile concerned, his hand hard on her arm. “I will show our guest to bed, my dear. You go now. You look quite exhausted.”
There was nothing for it. She smiled, and wished Tom goodnight, and went up the stairs before them. Outside, the wind was crashing a loose tile on someone’s roof. She heard it smash on the street below. Her heart was beating in anger and dismay. She must see him, if only for a moment. Nothing else mattered, nothing!
When Oliver came to bed, she was lying with her eyes closed, pretending sleep. He did not wake her, and for that she was grateful. After a long time she heard his breathing grow slow and heavy beside her, and with cautious, careful movements eased herself out of the bed. The floorboards creaked, but the storm outside covered any sounds, and she slipped out of the door and onto the landing.
The spare room was in darkness, and she blinked at the bed, realizing it was empty. A wave of despair fell over her, and she pressed her hand to her mouth, thinking: he’s gone! He’s gone already! And then a movement near the window caught her eye, and she saw him standing there, staring into the night. “Tom?”
She was in his arms in a moment. “Your husband knows,” he said softly.
“I don’t care,” and she pressed her face to his shoulder. “You’ve woven a spell on me,” she said, half laughing, half crying.
He put his arm about her, drawing her down onto the bed with him, and his mouth closed on hers, hard and demanding. “Come with me,” he said, when he lifted his head. “We will run away together, and neither of us will be lonely ever again.”
She caught her breath and stared into his face in the half dark of the bedroom. “But . . . come where?” Her heart was thudding with excitement and terror.
“Does it matter?” he asked her. “As long as we’re together?” He put his hand to her cheek, his fingers cool and gentle. She put up her own hand and traced the tattoo on his arm without thinking—the savage sea god—and her fingers shook. There was something holding her back, something she didn’t understand. Why, why? When she had wanted him so, why did she hesitate?
“Must I decide now?” she asked him in a whisper. “I need time to think, Tom.”
He sighed, deep and long, like the sighing of the wind in tall riggings. “Come with me, my love. I do not have much time . . .”
They were so intent upon each other they hadn’t even heard the door open. Oliver’s voice was heavy with pain and anger, but not surprise. He had known where he would find her, when he woke up alone. “So, this is how you repay my hospitality, Tom Harte?”
She stood up with a cry, but Tom said nothing, looking back at the other man with dark, expressionless eyes. Oliver came closer, and set the candle down on the table. His hand was shaking.
“I remember once I spoke with your father, my dear,” he began, and she stared at him in amazement at the turn in conversation. “He was joking me. He said, The east wind is the wind of the dead. One day I’ll join that vast army. Never thinking he would, of course.” And then he looked again at Tom Harte, and his eyes were unblinking. “What was the name of your ship again?”
Tom said nothing, as if there was nothing to be said. His dark eyes were fixed on Oliver’s.
“What if I make enquiries about your ship, sir? What if my wife and I make enquiries? What do you think we would find?”
She looked at Tom, frowning. “What is it?” she whispered. “What does he mean?”
Tom shook his head. “He is clutching at straws, my love. He knows he has lost you and he thinks he can trick you into staying.” Suddenly his voice rose, and there was triumph in it, like a wave cresting. “Your wife and I sealed a bargain, Oliver!”
But Oliver shook his head, moving closer. She watched him come, puzzled by his expression, as though he were frightened. More than that. There was a gleam of sweat on his face, and his brown eyes held a look of anger and despair. “Get out of my house,” he breathed.
Tom smiled. He looked at her for a moment, and she saw the promise in his eyes. And then he had gone. They heard the door slam hard behind him, and then the rattle and moan of the wind in the street. She ran to the window, but he was already beyond her sight in the darkness. “Tom!” she cried, and her voice was shrill with sorrow.
Behind her, Oliver was saying, “He is better gone. Don’t you see? Can’t you see? He isn’t Tom Harte—he can’t be Tom Harte!”
But she shook her head, her hair falling about her shoulders, and put her hands over her ears. And ran into the bedroom and locked the door. After that, her mind was like a whirlpool, twisting and turning this way and that, swirling around and around into darkness. She couldn’t sleep, but tossed and turned. In the end she became ill, lying upon her bed for weeks with a fever and aches in her bones. The doctor called every day. Delirium pulled her again and again into the memory of his arms, until she called out for him, shivering on the damp sheets while the doctor shook his head. Oliver brought in an elderly woman to tend her, while outside the savage gales lashed the coast and the fishermen stayed home. And if someone came knocking upon the door, Oliver did not let them in.
Eventually, she began to recover, although it was very slow. Oliver watched her begin to resemble again the woman she had been. Her tentative smile, her eyes, full of apologies. As though she had been in a long dream and was finally waking from it. Perhaps the illness had been a good thing after all, he decided, if it has woken her from this nightmare. He did not mention Tom Harte. He had learned things he did not want to share with anyone, least of all his wife. It was better it was all forgotten.
“I thought we might move to the city,” he told her one evening. “I have a chance of a better house there. And you would have more to do and see. A new beginning for us both.”
She seemed pleased at the prospect, and began to make plans. She would be sad to leave the old house of course, she told him, and yet perhaps it was time.
He bent and kissed her cheek. He loved her, he told her. She should know that.
“I do,” she smiled. “How could I not know it, Oliver, when you have been so good and kind to me? So patient.”
He felt so pleased with her, he was able to travel away on business that evening with a peaceful heart. The old woman was still there, and he had been careful to instruct her to admit no visitors, no matter who they were. She had nodded, eyeing him curiously, but he didn’t care. It was best to take no risks. Not that he felt there was a risk. The weather was calm; not a storm in sight. A still, hot day. Everything, he felt sure, would be all right.
But later, in the strange bed in the inn, he woke suddenly and smelt the change in the air. It was after midnight, but he was up and dressed, calling for his horse. Knowing that he would never get home in time. As he rode, the wind came, with a suddenness that caught the town unawares. Gusting in single file down the alleyways, the vanguard of the army, and then in great rolling battalions, falling upon the houses. Tearing away shutters and smashing window panes, ripping at roofs and walls, ruffling neat thatching and snatching at chimney pots.
***
She had been sleeping restlessly and woke with a start, sitting u
p in bed. The window was rattling and hail pounded on the pane like a dozen or more fists demanding entry. But it wasn’t that which had awoken her. It was someone outside, calling her name in a voice that struck her to the very heart. She climbed out of bed, realizing she was as weak as a kitten, and fumbled for the candle. And then she heard it, the knocking on the door, the rattle of the straining bolts. Her legs were shaky from the illness, and she stumbled out onto the landing, clinging to the banister for support. Her breath hurt in her chest, and she had to stop and catch at it before making for the door.
It was locked.
The bolts were stiff, difficult to grip and pull across. She managed the bottom one, perspiration dampening her face, and then leaned heavily against the door, her fingers weak and painful. She called out for him to wait, not to go without her, while the tears ran down her cheeks and she fumbled helplessly with the top bolt. Outside, she could hear the wind shifting, whirling, and then suddenly it stopped.
She stood listening for some sound, some sign that he was there. But the stillness was absolute. Desperately, sobbing now, she flung herself against the door, tugging at the bolt. It came with a rush and a crash that bruised her knuckles, and the door opened wide.
Outside the street was dark and silent. Rain had plastered the ground so that it gleamed in the fitful moonlight. She stepped out, legs shaking, hardly believing. She called out for him to come back. And heard the wind rattling the shutters further down the street, as though beckoning her to follow. She began to run, bruising her soles on the cobbles, slipping and sliding in the dampness. In front of her a door shook, a window chuckled, a slate went spiralling through the air to clatter onto some steps below. She pushed herself onwards, tossing her hair from her eyes, struggling to draw breath into weak and aching lungs. Her legs were heavy, so heavy . . .
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