The White Gull

by Laura Strickland

  “Now she truly is far wealthier than the rest of us.” Lisbeth gazed away through the front door, which stood open, for a glimpse of the sea. How pretty and innocent it looked today—not like an enemy that would steal a woman’s husband.

  “Wealthier, that’s all!” Frannie protested. “The money and that fine house don’t make her better than everyone.”

  “She tried to give me that dress, once it’s a hand-me-down, in payment.” Lisbeth’s voice hardened with indignation. “As if I’d have any use for it.”

  “Not surprising. She always did act like the queen of Lobster Cove, and treated the rest of us like servants. I confess I cannot abide the woman.”

  “I need her custom,” Lisbeth said baldly. She focused on her friend. “Are you sure Rab didn’t send you to try and persuade me to move to town?”

  Frannie looked uncomfortable. “He might have mentioned he thought it a good idea. You have to admit, Lisbeth, it would make things easier. Do you really want to spend another winter out here? And it would be lovely having you near.”

  “I can’t just up and leave, though, Fran.”

  “Why not? Is it because of Declan, because his memory’s here, I mean?”

  Lisbeth’s gaze sharpened. “Just exactly what did Rab tell you?”

  Frannie pushed the seed cake aside and leaned across the table, her brown eyes full of compassion. “He told me you think you saw Declan.”

  “I confided that to him, not to be bandied about.”

  “And he told no one but me. He’s worried about you, Lisbeth, out here on your own, having wild fancies. Now I’m worried, too.”

  “I’m not sure it was a wild fancy. He stood right there in the doorway of the bedroom, Frannie, in his oilskins.”

  “It had to be a dream, though, didn’t it, dear? Had you been asleep?”

  “Yes, but something woke me—the storm—”

  “You thought you woke; plainly you didn’t. You dreamt it, Lisbeth, a dream of longing. Because he’s gone, isn’t he?”

  “Is he?” Lisbeth challenged. “His body was never found.”

  “Many fishermen who die at sea are never found. The pieces of the boat came ashore; how could he survive in such a storm if his boat broke up?”

  “He spoke my name. I heard his boots scrape on the floor.”

  “You know how real some dreams can be.” Frannie drew a breath. “I think Rab’s right; you need to get away from here.”

  Lisbeth tangled her fingers together on the surface of the table. “What if he comes back here looking for me and I’ve gone? How will he know where to find me?”

  Frannie’s eyes filled with ready tears. “Love, he’s not coming back. And you need to get on with your life. It’s been a year—time enough for your heart to heal.”

  “Is it? Who says so?”

  “Listen, why don’t you look for a room in town, just for the winter? Come spring, you can always come back here and open this place up. That’s a fair compromise, isn’t it?”

  “I promised Rab I’d think about it, and I will. I’m grateful to both of you for your concern, truly I am. I just wish you believed me when I tell you what I saw.”

  “I believe what you think you saw—and that you want to believe it. I think that’s what worries me most. When will Mignon’s gown be done?”

  “She needs it for the dance this Saturday.”

  “When you take it to her, stop by and see me. We’ll talk again. Meanwhile, I’ll leave the seed cake. Promise you’ll eat some.”

  “I will, with the greatest delight.”

  “Then I’d best go before Ed’s ma tears her hair out.” Frannie rose from the table, glanced about, and shivered. “There’s just something about this place, even on a sunny day. Can’t you feel it?”

  Lisbeth could.

  ****

  The bright sunshine did not last. Well before sundown, clouds began to gather over the sea, and the wind freshened. Lisbeth smelled the rain.

  She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and went to walk the shingle, staring out into the water and beseeching all the gods who held it in their sway, “If he lives—if you have not stolen him—return him to me.”

  She paced until it grew too dark to see and the clouds closed in. Rain began to fall, cold and sharp, as she went inside and lit the lamps, blessing Rab under her breath for the oil he’d brought. She didn’t know how she would ever be able to repay his kindness.

  The cottage, like the clouds, seemed to close down around her, stifling. She changed into her nightclothes and sat by the fire, listening to the rain strike the windows, unwilling to go to bed.

  Not wishing to waste the precious lamp oil, she at last blew out all the lights but one that she left burning deep into the night. She must have dozed beside the fire, for the sound of the latch lifting roused her from sleep.

  She raised her head just as the door swung open. Rain entered first, shedding onto the floor and preceding the figure of a man.

  Lisbeth’s heart leaped sickeningly in her chest. She came out of her seat as if hauled up by strings.

  “Declan.”

  Once more his head lay bare, the flame-red hair drenched and dark from the rain, or as if he had just come out of the deep. Raindrops ran down his cheeks like tears, and his tawny eyes looked wide and vacant as if he did not know her.

  “Declan!”

  He halted as if she’d struck him. His body jerked like that of a man coming out of a dream. He whirled and went out the door, back into the darkness.

  “Declan! Wait!”

  Without a thought, Lisbeth followed him, leaving the door ajar. Outside, the wind seized her and dashed rain into her eyes. She strained for sight of him and caught just a glimpse of the yellow oilskins on the path that led toward town. Heedless, she followed, still calling his name, head and shoulders bare and with nothing but house slippers on her feet. She ran up the slope in Declan’s wake, where the wind buffeted her more strongly. It tore her hair loose and streamed it across her eyes. When she could see once more, Declan had disappeared from view.

  “Come back!” she screamed. “Come back to me!”

  When he did not answer, she ran on into the darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  Rab eyed the lad who stood before him: shoulder high, thin as a string bean, and trying hard not to show his trepidation. Emily Cooper had sent her student, Dougie Grier, by after school, and Rab had just finished showing him the forge, during which the boy had not uttered a word.

  He remembered himself when Tip Howard had taken him on—every bit as thin as this lad, not as tall, and twice as frightened. Tip had been firm and kind; one of the best things he’d done for Rab was feed him.

  Dougie Grier appeared a mongrel, for sure, with a dusky hue to his skin and dark, careful eyes. He didn’t look like he’d been sired by anyone from Lobster Cove, and Rab wondered where his mother had come by him.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked. “Do you suppose you’d like to work here?”

  Dougie wetted his lips and cast his eyes about doubtfully. “Looks like hard work—sir.” He added the last word as an afterthought. Not a bad thing.

  “It is hard work: man’s work. But that’s what you’ll want to be, isn’t it—a man?”

  Dougie nodded.

  “Mind, if you apprentice with me, you’ll be the dogsbody. All the dirty jobs at first, that’s how I started out. That’s how you learn. But if you apply yourself, you’ll have a trade you can use anywhere to make a living.”

  “Yes, sir.” The respect came easier this time. Dougie brightened. “I like your dog. I wouldn’t mind looking after him.”

  Kelpie liked the lad too—a good sign.

  Rab made up his mind. “What do you say we give it a trial, say, three weeks? You come every day after school and on Saturdays. Sundays, no doubt, your ma will want you to go to church.”

  Dougie gave him an incredulous stare. “Never been in church, me.”

  “No? Well,
we’ll give it the three weeks. If you hate it, you quit; no hard feelings and I won’t waste my time with you. If I don’t think you’re going to work out, same thing.”

  “All right, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “This is all with your ma’s permission, mind.”

  Dougie’s face fell. “I don’t know as she’ll care.”

  “All the same, I’ll just walk you home now, shall I, and ask her.” Rab put his hand on the lad’s bony shoulder. “Come along.”

  Dougie’s mother lived in a tiny house out back of the Hogshead Tavern. Rab wondered if the stories about Maggie Grier were true, and if so whether she ever took her clients to the house when Dougie was there.

  She opened the door to Rab’s knock clad in nothing more than a chemise and a robe which hung open in the front, and eyed Rab up and down.

  “I know you: the blacksmith.” She jerked her head at Dougie. “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing wrong.” Rab launched into an account of his intentions, explained how Dougie’s teacher had pointed the boy in his direction and that he was willing to try training him.

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “You want to ’prentice him?”

  “Aye, if he works hard.”

  “What’s in it for me? Do you pay him?”

  “No, ma’am, I can’t afford to pay him. He’ll get his training and fed when he’s with me.”

  “Ma?” Dougie tugged at her arm. “Ma, I want to.”

  “Well—I still think there should be something in it for me.”

  “There’s something in it for him, ma’am. He’ll be able to earn a steady living someday, maybe help you out.”

  “’Bout time he paid me back for all the food he’s shoved down his piehole. I’d need him home in the evening, mind, when I take my shift. He has to watch his brother.”

  As if at a signal, a baby began to wail somewhere in the house.

  “Just a minute,” Maggie said and went off in response, leaving Rab at the door.

  Dougie looked at Rab uneasily. Before he could speak, Maggie came back with a squalling infant. “I can’t talk now,” she said. “This one wants to eat. You can take Dougie after school and make sure you give him supper before you send him home.”

  Rab did not reply, being far too busy staring at the infant in her arms, who sported a crop of flaming red hair and stared back at him with Declan O’Shea’s tawny eyes.

  ****

  “Mr. Sinclair! Mr. Sinclair!”

  No sooner had Rab returned to the shop, still half stunned by what he had seen and struggling to find a ready excuse for it, than a lad came in calling his name. Rab recognized him as Frannie’s neighbor.

  Breathless, the boy paused in the doorway of the shop and said, “Mrs. Becker sent me. She says come quick to Doc Stevens’. A friend of yours is there.”

  Rab’s heart dropped to his toes. “A friend? Did she give a name?”

  The lad shook his head. “She only said to come.”

  Rab ran with Kelpie at his heels and soon left the neighbor lad behind. Doc Stevens kept his surgery down the other side of Main Street, and folks stared as Rab and the big dog jogged by. Last night’s rain had cleared, but the afternoon remained gloomy with cloud, as if threatening to let loose again any time, and the air held a chill.

  Frannie met him at the outer door of Doc Stevens’ surgery, her face pale and her soft, brown eyes full of worry.

  He spoke but one word. “Lisbeth?”

  Frannie nodded. “She was found lying up on the path that leads down from her cottage, senseless and soaked to the skin.”

  “When?”

  “Brought in less than an hour ago. Fortunately, she was spotted from the water by a couple of lobstermen. It took a while to collect her and get her here to town.”

  Rab cursed under his breath as Frannie led him into the waiting room, using words he did not usually employ. The waiting room stood empty; it must not be regular hours for the doctor.

  “She hurt?” he asked shortly.

  “Wet, as I say, and very cold. She wore only her nightclothes, and her slippers were in shreds. Thing is, Doc is having trouble rousing her.”

  “In her nightclothes?” Rab repeated. “Never say she was lying there since last night!”

  “I fear so. Nobody much uses that path. There’s a small bump on her temple. Doc thinks she may have hit her head when she fell.”

  The surgery door opened, and Doc Stevens appeared. A man in his forties and a typically crusty New Englander, he had a long face like a horse and shrewd, blue eyes.

  “Come on in,” he bade them.

  Bidding Kelpie to wait, Rab followed the doctor, who led them through an examining room to another small room beyond. This had been furnished with a cot, and in the bed lay Lisbeth, looking small as a child.

  Rab’s heart quivered in his chest and fell again, sickeningly.

  “Mrs. Becker tells me you’re a good friend to Mrs. O’Shea,” Doc Stevens said.

  “Aye, since childhood.”

  “I did not like to leave her alone,” Frannie said, “but I must get back home. I left the children with a neighbor and have to collect them.”

  “I’ll stay,” Rab said hoarsely, his gaze touching Lisbeth everywhere, and Frannie went out.

  Doc Stevens cleared his throat. “She has a bump on her forehead, as you can see, but that’s no reason for her to remain unconscious so long. She was dangerously chilled when brought in, but my main concern is in rousing her.”

  “How long do you think she lay up there on the path?”

  “Must have been a good time, judging from her attire when found, and the rain never let up till midmorning.” Doc Stevens shook his head. “I’ve got her out of the wet clothing and warmed her. Now she needs to wake and tell us what happened.” He slanted a look at Rab. “I understand she lives on her own up the shore.”

  “Ever since her husband died—Declan O’Shea, who drowned last year.”

  “Hmm.” Doc Stevens made an indeterminate sound; Rab wondered what it meant. Did the good doctor have an opinion about Declan O’Shea?

  Still haunted by what he had seen at Maggie Grier’s house—Declan’s distinctive hair and eyes on an illegitimate bairn—Rab could only shake his head. Doctors knew things—often things they were unable to divulge.

  “Sit with her and see can you rouse her,” the doctor told him. “She may respond to your voice. I’ll be through here in the surgery. Call me if she wakes.”

  Rab nodded and sank into the chair beside the cot even as the doctor went out.

  “Ah, bonny lass,” he murmured. He reached out one big hand and caressed her head where a livid bruise stood out, let his fingers slide very gently down her cheek. “Lisbeth, angel, list to me.”

  Her eyelids, thin and pale as paper, stirred but did not open. Throat tight, he took her hand in both of his in an effort to warm it—to warm her.

  He feared he knew what had taken her down the shore in the night: she would have thought she saw Declan again, and probably tried to follow him. Rab cursed once more under his breath. Damn the man anyway. He had never deserved her love.

  And now Rab might have stumbled on proof of that, might he not? He had long suspected Declan O’Shea of unfaithfulness. Rumors about him had run rife both before he wed Lisbeth and after, when tales were whispered about him being in the ale house when he should be out hauling pots. The ale house where Maggie Grier worked.

  Talk was just talk, as Rab well knew. But Maggie’s bairn might well be evidence. If Lisbeth saw the child, would she then accept the fact that the man she idolized might not have been all she believed? Might that be enough to free her from the spell under which Declan held her yet?

  Rab contemplated his motives as he chafed her fingers very gently. Aye, he wanted to free her—but why? Was it for her sake, to open her eyes at last so her heart could begin to heal and she would stop chasing will-o-the-wisps? Or was it for his, in the hope she might choose to marry again?

  Chapt
er Eight

  “Declan!”

  In her dream, Lisbeth still followed her husband through the wind and the rain. A glimpse of his yellow slicker, which had disappeared into the darkness, reappeared again ahead, just beyond a cluster of rocks. Breathless now and aching, she ran on, her slippers in shreds.

  “Declan, wait for me!”

  Miraculously, he did. When she reached the rocks he stood there, his head bare to the elements and his eyes still holding that wide, vacant expression.

  “Declan, oh, thank God you’re alive!”

  She reached for him, caught his hands, and they felt colder than hers. He might be dead for all the warmth of him. His eyes stared like those of a dead man.

  “Declan, do you know me?”

  “Lisbeth.”

  Her name came in a gurgle as it had that first night when he spoke it at the door of her room.

  “What’s happened to you? Where have you been?”

  “Dead. I am to say I was dead.”

  “But that’s not so.” She jostled his hands. “You’re here with me now.”

  “Belong to another now.”

  “Another? Who?”

  He tore his hand from her grip and gestured wildly at the sea. “My mistress. She has claimed me for all time.”

  “But we were married before God—”

  “No. No, Lisbeth, no more. Go about your life. ’Tis what I came to tell you. Go about your life.”

  Pain blossomed in Lisbeth’s head as the stony path came up to meet her. She found her face pressed against the ground while the rain beat at her. She wanted to move, longed to raise her head and see whether Declan had gone, but she could not.

  She heard no step on the ground, no sound other than the hard patter of the rain, the crash of the waves below, and the wind rushing over all. But her heart told her he had gone.

  Or maybe not. A soft touch skimmed her temple and her cheek, the merest brush of fingers that trailed warmth. But no, that couldn’t be Declan; Declan had never touched her that way. With beguiling charm, yes, with confident seduction, and on occasion with demand. But never with this pure tenderness.

  She could feel love emanating from whoever sat beside her, pure and strong. The warmth of it flowed into her and penetrated to her very bones. To her heart.