Summer Darkness, Winter Light

by Sylvia Halliday

  He scowled. “Why do you always call him Wickham, not Ellsmere?”

  Her lip curled in scorn. “Wickham is the name of the whole low-born, accursed family. ’Tis how I shall always think of them. Ellsmere is a dishonest title for an unworthy line.”

  “And so you’ll kill him?”

  She felt the bile in her mouth, bitter with her hatred. “I’ll follow him to the ends of the earth. Until I stand at last on his grave.”

  He grabbed her savagely by the shoulders. “In the name of God, why?”

  “Please, Grey,” she begged, “let me do what I must.”

  “Choose life,” he said fervently. “Choose the future and forget the past, as you so often urged me to do.”

  He mustn’t sway her. He mustn’t! She had her honor and her duty. “Don’t you understand? I have no future until the past is laid to rest.”

  She saw the warmth fade from his golden eyes, until they were like hard amber. “Until Wickham is dead?” he asked angrily.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you persist in your folly? By God, Allegra, if I must, I’ll have you dragged back to the Hall in chains. For the theft of my knife.”

  She glared at him. “If you do, you’ll live with a wraith. An empty shell of a woman, and nothing more.”

  He sighed, momentarily defeated, and held out his hands. “Come to bed. We’ll speak of this in the morning. Perhaps I can persuade you at last to trust me, to open your heart to me. Come to bed, fair Allegra.”

  Despite the warm comfort of his arms, she slept fitfully, waking just before dawn to the violent heave and pitch of the ship. The light was gray at the window, and the panes rattled against the rising wind. She could hear the creak and groan of the ship’s timbers, and the squeak of straining ropes and tackles. The captain’s augur had spoken truly: there was a storm brewing.

  Allegra eased herself from the bunk and quietly donned her garments. If it wasn’t blowing too hard yet, perhaps she’d walk on deck for a while. Her brain teemed with confused thoughts; the fresh air might clear her head. If she told Grey, if she trusted him, would he urge her to turn from her course? Or, having learned her family’s dire story, would he instead understand and give her his blessing?

  She moved along the passageway and stepped out onto the deck, drawing in a surprised breath at the force of the wind that assailed her. It tugged at her skirts and whipped tendrils of hair around her face. The air was chill; she thought at first to fetch her cloak from her cabin, then changed her mind. She wouldn’t stay out that long.

  The sky was still quite dark; she could see only dimly the forms of seamen in the masts above her, as they hastened to trim the sails against the wild wind. The seas were high; cresting waves crashed into the bows, sending up sprays of briny water. Allegra tasted salt on her tongue.

  Clinging to the railings and handholds, she made her way down to the main deck. The wind was quieter here. She found a thick coil of rope, well sheltered by the forecastle, and sat herself down. The main deck was a ferment of activity, with seamen hurrying to stretch canvas over the open hatches, or tighten ropes and stays, or scurry aloft at the mate’s bidding.

  The growing storm was as busy as the sailors. It rattled the yardarms in their chains, blew fiercely through the rigging, lifted the ship to each surging wave and tossed it down a moment later. Allegra felt as though she were a serene island in the midst of all this turmoil and hubbub; if she sat here quietly, perhaps the world and all its troubles would pass her by.

  “Begging your pardon, Mistress Mackworth, but you’d best seek your cabin.” The mate, Baines, stood before Allegra, his frowning face crusted with salt. “’Tis not likely this blow will stop anytime soon.”

  “Are we in any danger?”

  “Lookee.” He pointed across the port bow. In the brightening dawn, Allegra could just make out the dark outline of flat-topped cliffs. “Cap’n’s afeared we be too close to land. We was blown in at Winterton Ness. And now we be forced to run west. If the wind don’t turn, we could run aground. Or be driven in at Cromer Bay.”

  “Is that so dreadful?” Somehow, the thought of a bay didn’t seem very threatening.

  He laughed sharply. “They don’t be calling it the Devil’s Throat for nothing! Go below, ma’am. ’Twill be safer.”

  She nodded and rose from her perch. The ship was now tossing violently on the stormy seas. She made her careful way across the deck to the ladder that led up to the quarterdeck. She was reluctant to go inside; she would have to deal with Grey, and her own roiled emotions. Slowly, she climbed the ladder, then paused, her hand going to her bosom.

  Wickham was there. His eyes were squeezed shut and he inhaled great gulps of air, as though he hoped to placate his queasy stomach by the act. He had buttoned his waistcoat carelessly, his wig was askew, and his cravat flapped in the strong breeze. Clearly, he had only just reached the deck in time. Sweet heaven, thought Allegra. Was there ever a more sorry figure of a man?

  No! She mustn’t pity him! He was her family’s sworn enemy. She slipped her hand into her pocket and fingered Papa’s handkerchief; she knew by heart the shape of every dark stain on it. The feel of the old fabric gave her courage. Let it be done and over. Let the door to the past be closed, once and for all. Then, perhaps, she could find a future with Grey. She squared her shoulders and reached for the knife in her bodice.

  But, wait! Why risk a thrust with her dagger? If she didn’t kill Wickham at the first blow, he could raise the hue and cry. She glanced around her. The quarterdeck was deserted. The dim gray light of dawn would shroud her dark deed. And the quarterdeck railing, against which Wickham leaned for support, was invitingly low. A quick push, and he would be gone. She hesitated for a moment and breathed a prayer. For you, Papa. Mama. Lucinda and Charlie.

  She moved toward her quarry then, her heart pounding in her breast. He opened his eyes as she reached him; he smiled warmly, without the slightest hint of embarrassment at being found in such a low state. She noticed his eyes were a clear blue, as guileless as a child’s. “Mistress Mackworth,” he said.

  No, she thought. Baniard, you villain.

  “In the name of God, Allegra! No!” Grey stood, shirt-sleeved, at the cabin door. With an angry growl, he raced across the quarterdeck and captured Allegra in his arms. She had only a moment to register shock at his sudden appearance. Then a huge wave crashed against the ship. The vessel shuddered like a living creature, and she and Grey were toppled overboard into the boiling seas.

  She choked and gasped, flailing her arms wildly to keep herself afloat in the turbulent water. Curse her tight stays—she could scarcely move, let alone breathe! And her skirts were growing heavy with seawater, dragging her down. She felt panic building within her; then Grey’s arm was around her waist, strong and reassuring.

  “I’ll not let you go!” he cried over the hiss of the foam.

  “I can’t…” she gagged on a mouthful of salty water, “I can’t swim very well!”

  “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. You’ll not sink.” He looked up at the ship; the wind had shifted, and the vessel was slowly turning away from the looming shore. “Ellsmere!” Grey called out. “Get help!” The snap of the wind carried off his words.

  Wickham cupped one hand to his ear, straining to hear, and raised his other arm in a gesture of helplessness. Then, his face brightening with a hopeful smile, he clambered onto the railing and dived into the water, splashing into the churning waves at some distance from them.

  Grey began to shout as loudly as he could, striving to hail the ship. It was a futile effort; the vessel was already moving rapidly away from them. He turned about and pointed toward the distant shore. Wickham, floundering in the water, nodded his understanding.

  Grey smiled grimly at Allegra and turned his face toward the water. “Grasp the top of my breeches,” he gasped. “And hold tight! God willing, we’ll reach the shore before the full blast of the storm!”

  The tempest hit when they were halfway t
here. Rain and savage winds buffeted them; they were at the mercy of the furious elements. Allegra’s fingers were numb from the cold water and the effort of clinging to Grey. She lost all sense of time, of reality. There was too much water, too much wind, too many merciless waves.

  After a little while, the darkness closed over her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She woke to a cold mist on her face. She sat up and rubbed her arms; her gown was damp and covered with fine sand. She felt chilled to the very marrow. She frowned down at her feet. Her shoes were gone. And her hair combs as well: she was aware that her wet locks hung loose to her shoulders, tangled with bits of seaweed. But she was safe. She was on land. Thanks to Grey.

  Grey! She jumped to her feet, staring in panic at the empty, mist-shrouded beach before her, the swelling waves that rolled up on shore. “Grey!” she cried.

  “Peace, Mistress Mackworth. He’s safe.”

  She turned to see Thomas Wickham smiling behind her. He had lost his peruke; the pale red-gold of his own hair, hanging in matted curls, made him appear even younger and softer than before. He pointed up the beach to where the sandy expanse gave way to jumbled rocks and chalk cliffs. “Ridley lies yonder. Just beyond that cluster of rocks. And sleeping like a babe.” He gave an apologetic laugh and tugged at his earlobe. “’Tis all on my account, I fear.”

  “How so?”

  “He brought you in to shore. Then, weary as he was, and seeing that I was foundering, he swam out again to help me. It was doltish of me to have jumped in after you. I suppose I thought you’d be swept away before I could fetch help.” He shrugged good-naturedly. “Lack of common sense, I suppose. I never made a good planter in the West Indies. I’ faith, I always grew the wrong crops!”

  She looked up at the sky. It was still leaden and stormy, though the rain had stopped. The heavy mist made it difficult to see more than a short distance in any direction. For all they knew, Captain Smythe’s ship could be somewhere out there, just beyond their view. Searching the coast for signs of them. “Do you know what time it could be?” she asked.

  “By my stomach, I’d say it was well after noon.”

  She shivered. Though the wind had died, the air was cold.

  Wickham gestured vaguely toward the water. “The North Sea. ’Tis never warm. I remember coming to Yarmouth in July, as a child. My mother kept a fire going the whole time.”

  “Begad, we could use your mother and her fire right now.”

  Allegra whirled at the dear voice, and found herself enveloped by Grey’s arms. Heedless of Wickham’s presence, he pressed his lips to hers. “You taste of salt,” he murmured, gently plucking the seaweed from her hair.

  Wickham chuckled. “Perhaps the captain was deceived, but I knew it was an affair of the heart. For all your fanciful tales of a runaway bond servant, Ridley!” He held up his hand, forestalling Grey’s reply. “We’ll speak no more about it. ’Tis none of my concern. As to fire…” he fumbled in the pocket of his coat, “I have a tinderbox, if we can find some dry wood.”

  Grey scowled at the sparse vegetation that grew among the rocks and crowned the low cliffs. “’Twill take a powerful big fire to warm us and dry our breeches. And as for Mistress Mackworth’s skirts…”

  A fire seemed vastly unimportant to Allegra. Sooner or later, her clothes would dry on their own, no matter how many skirts she wore. “But how are we to be found?” she asked with some trepidation.

  Grey put his arm around her in reassurance. “To begin, they will have charted where we went overboard. Or thereabouts. I met Jagat Ram in the passageway, not five minutes before I came out on deck. I have no doubt he’ll persuade Captain Smythe to turn about and search for us. And then, for all we know, we may be nigh onto a village. Ellsmere and I can climb the cliff to look around.”

  “I’ll come with you,” she said.

  He looked down at her stockinged feet. “Not without shoes.”

  “Oh, but…”

  “Will you forever be stubborn?” he growled. “The rocks would cut your feet before you’d taken half a dozen steps. Foolish creature!”

  She glared back at him. He might have resolved to be sober, but he hadn’t yet resolved to be civil!

  “Come now, Ridley,” scolded Wickham. “No need to be sharp with the girl.” He smiled at Allegra. “I saw a shallow cave, just down the beach. The sand is dry, at least. And you’ll have shelter from the wind.” He handed her his tinderbox. “And if, by some miracle, you should find a few dry twigs…”

  She watched the two men start off for the cliffs, searching for a cut in the pale rock face that would lead them to the top. Then she moved down the beach until she found the cave that Wickham had described. It was a small hollow, perhaps nine or ten feet wide, and only a little taller than an ordinary man. She wondered if Grey would be forced to duck his head when he came in. The walls were irregular, toward the rear of the cavern, where the daylight scarcely reached, she thought she could discern a narrow opening.

  Godamercy, but it was cold! She was half tempted to strip off all her soggy garments, then changed her mind. There was an odd kind of warmth in the snug embrace of her stays, damp or not. But perhaps if she took off her petticoat, the skirt of her mantua would dry a little more quickly. She stepped out of the petticoat, then sat and made herself comfortable on the sand. It was blessedly dry; that alone made it seem warm. She sat back and sighed, trying not to notice that her stomach, which had enjoyed neither breakfast nor dinner, was beginning to grumble. She was cold, and she was wet, and she was hungry. She sighed again. Perhaps she’d sleep until the men returned.

  She sat up suddenly. Surely she didn’t have her wits about her today. There was a small clump of reeds growing out of a crevice in the cave. She’d been staring at it for the past quarter of an hour without really thinking. But it was dry. And there was another patch, now that she came to notice it, that grew near the rear of the cave. If she could collect enough of the dry grasses, she might start a fire. She’d seen several pieces of driftwood on the beach; even damp, they might catch, if they had enough of a start.

  She stood up. Perhaps there were other caves, similarly blessed. She moved to the rear of the cavern, meaning to gather the reeds here first before she explored the beach. She stopped and peered into the gloom. Upon closer examination, she saw that the narrow opening made a sharp turn and widened suddenly into a roomy passageway, perhaps five feet across. And there seemed to be a glow of daylight coming from a great distance. Another opening in the cliff? Better and better. She might find more reeds, even a sturdy bush or two, untouched by the rain. She started down the dark passageway, keeping one hand on the wall to guide herself.

  It was sheer good fortune that she trod upon a stone, which dug into her stockinged foot. She winced, stopped, and knelt to toss the offending pebble out of her path. God save her! She gasped in alarm, blinking her eyes in the dimness to be sure that they weren’t deceiving her. Not one pace in front of her, the floor of the cave vanished. Completely. With shaking hands, she examined the space, discovering a pit that extended the whole width of the passage, from one side to the other. She cast the pebble into the hole and was dismayed to hear the hollow splash of water far, far below.

  A dangerous place, my girl! she thought to herself. And one that only bore exploration with a lighted torch. Carefully, she made her way back to the outer cavern, determined to venture afield no more without the company of the men.

  She hadn’t long to wait. She heard a cry and a clatter of stones, and raced out of the cave. Several yards up the beach, Wickham lay sprawled on his back, surrounded by branches and twigs. The knees of his breeches were scraped white from rubbing against the chalky stone, and the palms of his hands were covered with scratches.

  In another moment, Grey appeared at the top of the cliff—his arms filled with a like amount of wood—and scowled down at Wickham. He tossed his burden to the beach, piece by piece. Then, unencumbered, he scrambled easily down the slope of the c
liff to where Wickham lay.

  “You bloody fool,” he growled. “I told you to drop the wood first!”

  Wickham smiled sheepishly and rubbed at his red palms. “There was scarcely a day as a child when I didn’t come home like this.” He rolled onto his knees, then awkwardly attempted to stand. He flinched in pain. “And once a month I’d sprain this very ankle.”

  “Damn it, man, can you walk?”

  Wickham took a tentative step forward. “Not easily, but…” He shrugged. “’Twill be better in a day or two. It always is.”

  With Grey’s arm around his waist, he limped to the cave and sank to the ground. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his cravat, which was folded into a small packet. “Here you are, Mistress Mackworth,” he said, handing it to her. “I thought you’d enjoy to have this.”

  She unwrapped the linen and found a branch clustered with gooseberries, and two small pieces of fruit besides. They seemed to be a sort of shrunken apple—stunted by the cold easterly wind, no doubt. “How kind of you,” she said, staring in surprise. “But you?”

  “Ridley and I can wait to eat. I have a plan for supper.”

  Allegra frowned at Grey. “Supper? Are we to stay here, then?”

  “You can’t walk far without shoes. And now, it would seem that Ellsmere, here, can scarcely walk at all! Besides, there’s too much fog up and down the coast. We could see nothing from atop the bluff. As soon as the mist lifts, I’ll climb again.”

  Allegra held out the filled cravat to Grey and Wickham. “Please. I’ll not eat alone. I shall take the berries. You share the rest.” Though the two men were stubborn, insisting that the food was for her, Allegra prevailed at last. “We’re comrades in mutual distress,” she said. “And I warrant I’m more able to endure hunger and suffering than the two of you.”

  They ate slowly and silently, savoring every mouthful. The apples were consumed—stems, seeds, and all—and Allegra gnawed on the gooseberry branch to get the last of the flavor after the fruits were eaten.