The Lightkeeper

by Susan Wiggs

  The memories departed like the tide before an onrush of impulse far stronger and more urgent. She was starving. At the sideboard, she found a pitcher of fresh milk with the cream still on top. Drinking straight from the pitcher, she sated her thirst. Her weakened hands held the pitcher clumsily, spilling a little down her front and onto the floor. Like Goldilocks in the nursery story, she helped herself to what food she could find—hard-tack biscuits from a tin, and a jar of spiced apples so delicious they made her teeth ache.

  “Is that better, baby?” She stroked her stomach and, for the first time since she had washed up on shore, she smiled. Ah, there. It felt so fine to smile.

  Brushing the crumbs from the splendid gown she wore, she made her way back to the snug little bedroom adjacent to the kitchen. Sunlight streamed in through the square panes of the window and played across the floor, flowing like a river of gold. Surely it wasn’t just the trees that were enchanted. This whole place, this house, this strange and wild jut of land—all of it lay under a soft green enchantment.

  And to think she had almost stopped believing in magic.

  How foolish. Mum always said that magic happens when a body needs it the most. And so it had. She had needed a miracle in the most desperate of ways, and here she was in a distant place, feeling unaccountably protected. Though she had barely survived, bringing nothing with her save the babe in her belly, she felt a surge of hope.

  She picked up one of the quilts on the bed. Lovely, it was, with a mermaid and a sapphire sea. Now that she felt better, she wanted to explore. She wanted to make certain she and her baby were really and truly safe at last. But she couldn’t very well go about in a flannel nightgown. Perhaps there was a dress or robe somewhere.

  In the tall cupboard, she found a few bits of linen and gingham and cotton muslin. Some pieces had been cut but not stitched, as if the dressmaker had gotten interrupted long ago. Beneath the dry goods, she found a pile of inexpressibles—as Mum would call them—creased sharply along folds that clearly had been undisturbed for years. She selected a pair of sheer bloomers. Swiss dimity, they were, more dear than a season’s catch of herring.

  She burrowed deeper into the cupboard, and way at the back, she found a dress hanging on a hook. She let out a long, heartfelt sigh. How fine it was, a sprigged muslin of rich green and gold, with leg-of-mutton sleeves puffed at the shoulder and tapered down the arms. A beautiful, wide sash was looped around the waist. Behind the dress hung a long white shift. More Swiss dimity.

  Was he married? Whose clothes were these?

  The garments weren’t new, and judging by what she’d seen in San Francisco, the gown was quite out of fashion, too full in the skirts for current style. But the fabric smelled of lavender sachets, and she felt better having real clothing on. It hurt her shoulder to reach for the buttons in the back, so she simply tied the sash. She didn’t have much in the way of a waistline these days, but the dress, cut to accommodate an outmoded crinoline, fit reasonably around her middle.

  Putting a hand to her hair, she scowled at the feel of the tangled mess and went in search of a brush. This she found in another part of the house, the gentleman’s tiny dressing room adjacent to his chamber on the upper story. The smell of shaving soap spiced the air. She peeked into the bedroom at the massive bedstead. Though the headboard was intricately carved, only a single meager-looking pillow was visible. A blanket of rough olive-colored wool, frayed at the edges, draped the mattress. There was no coverlet.

  A little thrill of apprehension chased down her back as she pictured the man with the wintry eyes who had taken her photograph. This was where he lived. Where he slept. Where he dreamed his dreams.

  She knew nothing about him except that he had saved her life. That was enough for her to believe she was safe with him.

  Except for the photograph.

  Her brush strokes became agitated. She must remember to tell him that circulating a photograph was absolutely forbidden. Fear, which had been her constant companion since she’d made her escape, crept like a spider along her spine. She had to decide how much to tell her host, but she would make up her mind about that later. It would probably be wise to lie.

  By standing on tiptoe, she could see herself in a small, round shaving mirror affixed to the wall above the washstand. She looked like death eating a soda biscuit, as Mum would say. But she was alive, sweet Jesus, she was alive, and the baby was alive, and she wanted to crow with the sheer wonder of the miracle.

  The ecstasy of feeling safe, safe at last.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” demanded a gruff voice.

  She whirled too quickly, and for a moment, she saw stars. They swirled like a halo around the head of her dark angel. He stood at the top of the stairway, one huge hand resting on the newel.

  When she saw the menace in his face, the fear came roaring back at her, and a thousand times she called herself a fool for thinking she could ever be safe.

  “Well?” he said.

  Ah, that voice. Like the bellow of a windstorm, it was.

  But she had weathered a greater tempest and lived to tell the tale, so she squared her shoulders and blinked until the stars flickered and died. This was the man who had saved her. Why would he harm her now, after giving back her life?

  “I was brushing my hair,” she said.

  Carefully, deliberately, she set the brush on the shelf where she had found it and stepped out of the cramped dressing room. She walked past him and descended the stairs.

  He followed her and stood in the middle of the keeping room, right where an oval rug would have added a perfect touch of warmth. But there was no warmth here.

  The man seemed to fill the entire space, so tall and broad was he. He glared at her, his eyes blue flames behind a layer of ice. “Where the hell did you get that dress?”

  She touched the gown, lifting the skirt a few inches and admiring the fine print on the green and gold fabric. “Why, you left it in my room, so I supposed it was meant—”

  “I didn’t leave it,” he said. “No one left it.”

  Though he hadn’t raised his voice, she could feel his rage crackling like a brush of heat lightning in the air. What had sparked his fury? Wasn’t he pleased with her recovery?

  In the past weeks, she had grown adept at hiding her fear. She faced him squarely. “I helped myself to a few things from the tall cupboard.”

  A red curl fell across her face, and she tucked it out of the way. “You wouldn’t be needing the gown for anything, would you?” Her hand went to her throat as an unsettling thought struck her. “Blessed saints. Would these be belonging to your wife, then?”

  The icebound flames in his eyes seemed to burn colder. Every inch of this man radiated a threatening strength. The sheer contempt in his face should have alarmed her, but instead, she looked at him and felt curiosity edging out her fear.

  “I don’t have a wife,” he said.

  A simple enough statement, but she sensed turbulence beneath the rocklike surface. What would she find deep inside this man, if she dared to peel back the layers?

  “Then who do these clothes belong to?” she asked.

  “No one,” he replied. “Not anymore.”

  The tone of his voice made her wary of pursuing the issue. She simply stood there, showing no response save polite expectancy.

  He put both hands to his head and combed them through his long hair. “You’d better sit down.” Ungraciously, he added, “I don’t want you having another fainting spell on me.”

  She lowered herself to a wooden settle that faced the small fireplace. The fieldstone hearth had been swept clean. Not a speck of ash touched her bare feet as she swung them against the planks of the floor. “Faith, I don’t plan to swoon again. It was the hunger, I suspect. I helped myself to something to eat.”

  “I noticed.”
/>   Guiltily, she glanced through the open doorway to the kitchen. The apple jar was gone. The milk pitcher had been washed and put up, the biscuit crumbs cleared from the table. Hoping to improve his mood, she smiled. “Those were the most delicious apples I ever tasted.”

  He sat on a stool across from her. His face might have been carved in marble, so expressionless did he hold himself. “It’s from last year’s harvest. There’re a few apple trees at the station.”

  What a strange man he was, calling his home “the station.”

  She took a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell—”

  “-something I need to ask—” He broke off.

  They stared at each other for an awkward moment. She laughed. “We both spoke at once.”

  “I need to know your name,” he said, not only unamused but looking baffled by her laughter. “So we can set about contacting your family.”

  Mirth died a swift death. She sat very straight upon the settle and forced herself to look him in the eye. “My name is Mary Dare, and I have no family.”

  Ah, but it hurt to say it. He would never know how much. No family. It was like admitting one had no heart, no soul.

  “Mary Dare.” He leaned forward in a sort of grudging bow. Interesting to note that he had a small, miserly store of manners. “Your real name?” he inquired.

  Anger—and guilt—chased off her maudlin feelings. “And you are?” she asked defensively.

  “Jesse Kane Morgan. Captain of the lighthouse station.”

  “’Tis an honor to meet you, Captain. But I confess, you have the advantage of me. Where, can I ask you, is this ‘station’?”

  “Cape Disappointment.”

  “Sure and that’s a terrible name for such a lovely place,” she said.

  “Blue-water men trying to get their ships over the bar don’t think it’s lovely. We’re at the mouth of the Columbia, in the Washington Territory.”

  Washington Territory. Fancy that. She had traveled to a whole new region and hadn’t even known it until now.

  “Were you on the Blind Chance?” he asked. “As near as I can figure, it’s the only ship lost in the area on Sunday.”

  Sunday. It occurred to Mary that she didn’t even know what day it was. Nor did she know what manner of man he was, this cold stranger, or what the future held.

  All the information coming at her began to swirl like a fever through her mind. Sunday...Washington Territory...the Blind Chance... And through it all, the lighthouse beacon had guided her. With a harsh little cry, she launched herself from the settle and landed on her knees before him, clutching his hands. Her pose was that of a supplicant before a savior. “Captain Morgan, I’ve forgotten my manners. You saved my life. Our lives. Mine and the baby’s. That is what I should be telling you. How can I ever thank you?”

  He wrenched his hands away and stood. She heard an oath barely hidden in the harshness of his breathing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I don’t like being touched.” Each word sounded measured, as if doled out from a meager supply. He walked away from her.

  “Sure and if that isn’t the saddest thing I ever heard.” She followed him to the large front window, where he stood looking out at the distant bluff, his back to her.

  “Never mind that,” he said brusquely. “I need to know several things about you, Mrs. Dare.”

  “The first thing you should know is that—” she took a deep breath “—it’s not Mrs. Dare.” There. She’d said it. All along, she’d planned to lie to him and pretend she’d been a married lady and then widowed. Yet out popped the truth.

  He didn’t move, didn’t react. “Miss Dare, then, is it?”

  “Mary. Just Mary.”

  “Did you have friends or family on the Blind Chance?”

  “No.” The corners of her mouth curved up in an ironic smile. “I didn’t even have a ticket.”

  He turned then, eyeing her suspiciously. Lord, but he was fine to look at, and he had no notion at all of his appeal. In fact, he was put together and clothed like a man who didn’t care for his appearance in the least. He just was. She itched to comb his hair for him, to trim it.

  “I figured you were a stowaway.”

  The thought of the ordeal she had endured sapped her strength. Her bad shoulder began to throb, and she touched it gingerly.

  “Dr. MacEwan thinks you’ve hurt your collarbone.”

  “A doctor’s been to see me?”

  “Yes. You don’t remember?”

  “I’m...afraid not.” She tried to stifle a yawn, but wasn’t quick enough. The dizziness spun upward through her. She felt her eyes roll back, her eyelids flutter.

  “You should lie down and rest,” he said.

  She nodded. His voice had a different quality now. She still heard that undertone of impatience, but the edges sounded smoother, somehow. “Thank you. I think I will.” She reached for his hand, then stopped herself.

  I don’t like being touched.

  Aye, it was the saddest thing she’d heard.

  “Thank you again, Captain Morgan.”

  “Jesse.”

  “What?”

  “Call me Jesse.” He strode across the room toward the door. “Now, go and rest.”

  * * *

  It was all Jesse could do to keep from running when he left the house. And that, perhaps, was what he resented most about this whole impossible situation. That the presence of this strange woman, this Mary Dare—imagine, her bearing the name of a shipwreck—could drive him from his own house, from his refuge against the outside world.

  He walked across the clearing, heading for the barn. Whistling sharply, three short blasts, he didn’t even look to see if D’Artagnan obeyed. The horse came when summoned. It was the first lesson Jesse had taught him.

  Within minutes, he had saddled up and was headed along the sinuous path to the beach. The horse was always game for a run, and as soon as they reached the flat expanse of brown sand, Jesse gave the gelding his head.

  For a while, he felt something akin to exhilaration. The wind streamed through his hair and caught at his shirt, plastering the fabric to his chest and causing the sleeves to billow around his shoulders. The horse’s hooves kicked up wet sand and saltwater. Man and horse were like the skimmer birds, buzzing along the surf, heading nowhere as fast as they could.

  From the corner of his eye, Jesse could see Sand Island, then the vast blue nothingness beyond the giant estuary. This was his world, his life. It was where he belonged. Alone. Eternally. He needed to be rid of Mary Dare, and quickly.

  Because, somehow, her presence reminded him that his world was unbearably vast and empty.

  God. The sight of her in that dress had nearly sent him to his knees. The memory had cut into him like a dagger: as if it were only yesterday, he’d seen Emily twirling beneath the chandelier in the foyer of their Portland mansion, laughing as the skirt belled out across the parquet floor....

  “I put it on just for you, Jesse. Just for you.”

  “Oh, Em. I’d rather have you take it off for me.”

  She giggled and blushed. “That, my love, will come. We have plenty of time for that later.”

  Jesse dug in his heels and rode harder.

  He brought the horse up short at the boathouse tucked into a protected cove at the foot of Scarborough Hill. The rickety structure housed a pilot boat. Now that tugboats were common, the boat wasn’t used much to guide big ships out to sea, but Jesse kept the craft in perfect condition, varnishing the wood and caulking the seams, keeping oil in the lamps and the sails in good repair.

  It was a sickness with him, taking care of this boat. For after Emily’s accident, Jesse had never gone to sea again. He never would. He was too
afraid.

  Disgusted with himself, he headed back to the lighthouse station. What a majestic sight it was, the lime-washed tower standing proud on the overlook of the cliff. And yet how small it looked, dwarfed by the huge trees beyond and the waves curling over the black rocks almost to its base.

  When he reached the top of the trail, he heard a musical “Halloo!”

  He smacked D’Artagnan into a trot and went to greet his visitor.

  Lifting her navy blue skirts high above practical brogans, Dr. Fiona MacEwan alit from her buggy. “Good day, Jesse. I stopped in to check on our patient.”

  He dismounted and led his horse to the crossties in the barn. “She woke up,” he said tonelessly.

  “Is that so?” Fiona beamed, reaching to secure one of the wooden knitting needles that held her hair in place. “And is she all right? Did you learn her name?”

  He put up the saddle and tack and cleaned the sand from his horse’s hooves and coat. “She says her name is Mary Dare and that she has no family.” He decided to conceal the fact that Mary had been a stowaway. He needed to learn more about the situation before he went trumpeting that about. For all he knew, he had given shelter to a thief or a murderess.

  Or a hapless woman on the run from something she would not name.

  “It’ll be hard for her, then, to be alone in the world,” Fiona said.

  He turned D’Artagnan out to pasture. “Will it?”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Come on, Fiona.”

  Her gaze skated over him from head to toe. “Some people prefer human companionship. Crave it, even. I suppose you can’t understand that.” Showing nothing in the way of sympathy, Fiona patted him briskly on the cheek. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re the best-looking man in the Territory, Jesse Morgan?”

  “No.” He scowled furiously.

  Fiona smiled. “That sort of thing matters to some women.”

  “But not to you.”

  She sent him a mischievous wink. “Hardly.”

  That was one of the reasons Jesse tolerated her. There was nothing Fiona wanted from him.

  They walked together toward the house. “She claims she has no family. I assume that means no husband?” the doctor asked.