He motioned toward the sea. “For myself, I could never return to city life, or working indoors, or hearing doors slam to shut me in.
“But I could live at a lighthouse.” He did not look at me, this man who had charged the enemy, climbed through the granite hills and somehow used the magic of light, itself, to save a thousand lives.
“A lighthouse would be like living on the sea itself, with the wilds and waves all around.” I put one hand on his arm.
He hung his head. “You’re sure you would not pine for fine city life?”
I caught his hand. It was enough for me, but the poet in him would not be stilled.
He caught both my hands and said, “No cloud dare mar the skies as I dream of your bright eyes.”
I knew enough not to cast about for this quote, for these were his own words and composed for me.
We walked on, until, lo and behold, here came George, puttering along in the finest of Russell Motorcars.
Could I live in a lighthouse!
Chapter Fifteen
Accusations
A proper poem or any self-respecting tale would end right there; in the heartfelt moment with a nod to the future, but my story, our story now, carried forward on a most insistent current. Though we’d braved the high seas, a few waves awaited.
George, as it happened, had been sent by the very worried Alma, who had heard bits and pieces of our plans from Beryl. George, with the best of intentions, brought us to Oceanside’s front door.
We were met with varying levels on consternation.
“Utter disgrace.” Mrs. Brookeson reeled theatrically away as she turned us from the front door. She wouldn’t hear any argument. “Roaming all over forests and beaches with some rough local man, unescorted, overnight. Interrupting a brave, patriotic plan!”
I crept back from the hotel’s front stairs, telling myself I had no need to feel shame, but embarrassed and angry nonetheless.
Donnall spoke up. “Instead of accusing these two, we ought to be calling them heroes.”
I was glad he spoke, but still, I trembled to think about Mrs. Brookeson’s accusations. What would society think of me? Never mind society, what would my parents say?
“Heroes.” Madame Chatillon descended the stair toward Donnall. “Heroes?”
“They saved a passenger ship heading for port from wrecking.” Donnall pointed dramatically toward the sea, before continuing. “Me, as well. I’d have frozen to death, if I’d not got help.”
“Nothing to do with anything,” Mrs. Brookeson snapped. I stood there, wanting to argue but knowing—knowing—we had saved the ship. I could argue the point, and yet, here I was, in the same place I had been. Hero or not, my parents would still not approve of Daro.
The argument raged on, but I hardly heard.
Daro caught my hand, made a face, and suddenly, none of it mattered. We’d stopped the awful crime. People could think what they liked.
George, one foot on his running board, called, “We ought to give Daro the keep of the Trouble Cove light. He’d do double duty as keeper and coastal watcher. I intend to speak to the coast patrol.”
Bigger waves followed, as you’d guess. The tide carried in a lot of changes. Donnall’s testimony alongside ours got the Brookesons investigated. The curtain closed on Oceanside.
Mrs. Trumbull opened a Bed and Breakfast. Oceanside’s remaining guests, including the just-arrived Madame Chatillon’s grandson, became her first guests. Beryl went on up there too, to do for Mrs. Trumbull’s guests.
Ariel, practical to a fault, hustled her sister home to Halifax, but Gen easily weathered the changing tide and floated right back into the Halifax social scene.
Funny how things turned out. George did indeed convince the town to award the lighthouse keeper’s duty to Daro. The lighthouse made all the difference to me…as that final wave carried the two of us to the church. For my part, I think had been swept away from the day I had first set foot on the little sailboat, Thistle.
Epilogue
Christmas at the Cove
The morning of Christmas Eve arrived like a scene from the old artist’s brush. It might be framed somewhat differently from the rest of my story, but it mirrored real life well-enough. White-capped waves splashed onto snowy rocks while the diamond glitter of stars swirled about the sky. The island was as it always was, yet so much had changed…although not for each of us. I floated into a dream on the arm of my prince charming, almost oblivious to other’s stories…
Patrick strolled into the kitchen of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and settled into the chair by the window. “You’ve changed your hair.”
Alysa, who was not Alysa at all, but he knew her only by her assumed name, blushed as she patted the edge of her soft new bob. It was the latest—a wild shot at copying the looks she’d seen in the ladies magazines from oversees. “Almost sunrise,” she murmured. A predawn riser, like me.
“Best of the day,” he asserted. “The morning twilight makes the ocean’s depths darker and the crest of each wave all the whiter.”
“The sky is as often as beautiful as the ocean here.” Alysa set a tray of scones on the table and went to stand by the window, as well.
“Yes.” Patrick waved his hand toward the sky. “I’ve studied light, controlling light, worked on strengthening beams of light and yet, here among these strange clouds and fogs, I find I am constantly amazed by the light.”
“I am afraid I’ve simply admired it.” Alysa felt completely tongue-tied. Could this be it? Magic could happen at Christmas-time, surely, if ever it could. She clasped her hands and tried to focus. She must somehow manage to keep up a conversation with this most learned man!
“Indeed, light is worth study. These low clouds filter light in something of a kaleidoscope effect.” He gazed to the east. “I’ve spent such a long time, trying to improve the lens design on this new beacon to increase its reach. I wish I had thought to study the sky.”
“To warn mariners far out at sea,” she said. “To save lives.”
“Indeed, it is the greatest good I can imagine.”
The greatest good! One could not doubt the sincerity of his warm, deep voice. A brilliant man and yet so humble! Butterflies tumbled about her insides, but she managed to say, quite ridiculously given the seriousness of his objective, “I often look for the tiny twinkling of rainbows rolling in ahead of each wave.”
Patrick nodded. “The curve of the wave improves intensity in the same way we make an aperture collimate a beacon of light.” His voice resonated with perfect surety. “The works of nature are there, to teach us. If we are clever enough to interpret the magnificence before us. Design of improved optical systems demands no less.”
Alysa could only assume he had said something quite brilliant. “I suppose it is all a matter of atmospheric conditions and silly to see it as magical.”
“I find I am utterly swept away by the magical.” He extended his hand.
To me? How…amazing, impossible… She started to reach for him, in the midst of sunrise and rainbows and her heart beating louder than the crash of ocean waves.
Patrick said, “The practical applications make these conditions useful.”
Practical. Useful.
She dropped her hand. Who loves the practical? A voice amazingly like her mother’s chastised her at once. Abruptly, she spun back to the kitchen counter.
‘Practical’ ruined everything again!
Plainly, dear, wonderful Patrick found her eminently practical. She hadn’t meant to be. She’d bobbed her hair and even brought her hemline up nigh onto an inch. She’d added two feathers to her Sunday hat and wore earrings everyday now, to be in with the fashionable. She’d talked about magic and rainbows and yet, there it was. Practical.
“Let me get this coffee on.” Her words tumbled over themselves and she didn’t think he had even heard. She busied herself with the dishes and held her breath to hold back tears. After a moment, she managed, in quite a normal voice, “On
e day, it will be wonderful to see the new lighthouse lit.”
He stood up and turned from the eastern window, the sky streaked with the orange and gold of sunrise behind him. “Some things take time. Surprising time.”
She refused to make a fool of herself. She refrained from rushing to his side, to assure him the light, and his design, would surely prove to be the best, most extraordinary, ever.
Practical practical practical! What had she let herself imagine? The lighthouse sat there, big and expensive and completely untried. It would be entirely fanciful to imagine it as extraordinary. It was fanciful to think its designer was anyone special, too. She would not be fanciful. He could plainly see right through her chameleon-like ensemble, and make out the plain old practical gal at the heart.
He settled at the table, but not she! She busily stoked the stove to speed the coffee along. The others trickled in and settled about the table. Dear Elizabeth almost danced into the room but she, so used to waiting on people, came right over to assist Alyssa.
“Let me take over here, Ari-, er, Alysa,” Elizabeth offered.
None of the guests noticed their hostess’ little slip. Alysa rolled her eyes. Elizabeth playfully clasped a hand over her mouth and slapped her forehead.
The success of her little subterfuge didn’t matter much, Alyssa who was in fact Ariel had to acknowledge. She simply wanted to avoid talk…no one knew her here…fortunes and scandals simply didn’t matter.
Elizabeth stood below the small painting the old hotel’s old artist had made. He’d captured the wondrous day, nigh onto a year ago, when Elizabeth and her young man had strolled up to the McLellan Harbor church, arm-in-arm, moments before their vows. Vows to one another, to remain together, to never be alone again in this life…suddenly it was all too much and Alysa, choked back a sob and flew from the room.
Elizabeth scurried after her.
Determined not to make a scene, Alysa stopped by the backdoor and pretended she cared about nothing more than Elizabeth divulging her identity. “I don’t know why I am worried,” she said, in a plain a voice as she could manage. “It hardly matters.”
“No even one noticed, Ariel. And no one would care.” Elizabeth hesitated, puzzled. “Do come back in?”
“Yes, yes.” They went back to the table and joined the merry chatter.
As keeper of the lighthouse, Elizabeth’s husband strolled in last, having checked every inch of his domain at first light. He grinned at the small gathering. “Special holiday news. You’re all invited to this evening’s revelries at the village. Mrs. Trumbull’s offered to put everyone up overnight, too.”
He turned to Patrick. “I’ll ask you to drive the ladies of the household down for the party, as I’ll have to stay at my post.”
“I’ll stay here at the lighthouse,” Alysa volunteered. Better to stay alone than continue to delude herself!
“Oh, surely not.” Patrick frowned. “We should all go. Isn’t one night without a keeper is acceptable? I mean, we are not even permitted to switch on the light. How much can it matter if we all go?”
The keeper shook his head. “I could alert help if we spotted a ship in trouble. And we must always keep watch for an invasion.”
“Invasion.” Patrick snorted. “Christmas Eve! How likely.”
“Do not concern yourself on my account,” the big man cut him off. “I am proud to stand my post.”
“For every single day of the year,” Alysa interrupted him. “This once, you go. I am perfectly capable of watching and alerting, if it comes to it.”
She brooked no argument. Elizabeth had offered to stay as well, but it would be she and her husband’s first Christmas together. She was persuaded. They all were, in the end. They had all gone. Patrick had gone.
Over and over, Alysa chided herself for allowing her ridiculous imaginings. Patrick, handsome and clever, would easily meet met any young woman’s criteria. Why, why would she imagine he’d wish to take up with a plain Jane? No matter how handsome or how clever, she meant, no matter how clever a man, it was neither smarts nor practicality he wanted in a woman. I should have learned that, at least, from Mama.
He’d departed perfectly charmingly, saying “my dear Alysa, there’ll be no lightness in this evening without you.” It meant nothing. He spoke pleasantly to all.
Oh, but he seemed quite sincere! Seemed, rang in her head, still in her mother’s voice.
Alysa walked along the rock point mere feet above the sea, mindlessly watching the foaming waves.
The Trouble Cove lighthouse, a newly built, crisp white tower at the tip of Nova Scotia’s northernmost island, sank into the evening’s darkness. The beacon sat unlit. At sea, no ship could use her guide for their navigation, for good or ill.
Human-sounding voices called in the gusts of wind…then disappeared into the crash of waves.
“The blackout continues,” Alysa muttered aloud. She meant it in a rather personal way, though of course, the ‘blackout order’ meant all of Canada’s lighthouses sat in darkness until the end of the Great War.
Patrick, the designer of this new light, looked so devastated when they’d received word, that she had hurried to over to grasp his hand. He had surprised her with the strength of his grasp. She’d only meant to comfort, but her heart had leapt. Suddenly, hand-in-hand with Patrick, she’d somehow allowed herself to imagine all sorts of possibilities! She’d spent one whole afternoon pouring over magazines and primping as if she had a real suitor. Why ever had she even entertained the notion?
Obviously, Patrick had felt gratitude for her sympathy, nothing more. She could not be so silly as to imagine more.
She stood with the great tower to her back and stared toward the eastern stars, trying to let the sound of the crashing surf fill her mind completely. There at the foot of the freshly built, freshly painted tower, she could not but recall Patrick’s desperate, “Who would guess the war would grind on so tenaciously?”
Already Christmas nineteen seventeen, yet the war overseas raged on; on and on. Canadian soldiers continued to ship overseas regularly, along with supplies, ammunition, and desperate hopes. The horror of it all seemed endless. Although far, it provided a dark backdrop for her own despair.
Another Christmas and here she was again, soul-alone. Too practical.
“Truly,” she said aloud. “Too practical?”
Her mother had chastised her over and over—had, in fact, only recently written, ‘put aside this stubborn insistence on practicality. It is not an attractive quality in a young woman! Do you wish to be alone all your life?’
“Oh Mama, better alone than with some fool, like the one Gen is doting on right now?” Alysa could not understand why her parents did not see how plainly unsuitable her sister’s latest suiter was. Alysa shook her head. A young man utterly bereft of ambition or skill! Ridiculous!
Why, any woman in their right mind would much prefer the handsome Patrick, not, oh not at all, for his crystal blue eyes and firm jaw, nor even his frank, sensible demeanor, but for his vision! He applied himself to design and create objects of value, objects like lights and guidance apparatus, to be used by many, many people.
One could not fail to admire the practical application of all he created! He’d made a model of the lighthouse beacon, no more than a tiny twinkle of a light, yet the beam reached nigh on to the first house of the nearby village. Why, a big lantern never reached so far. He planned to go on creating all sorts of useful things. He was undeniably a perfectly practical man.
Oh dear.
Perhaps her mother was right, and all thoughts of good sense and practical matters should be put aside for matters of the heart.
Except she couldn’t.
Not that she hadn’t hopes. After all, at Christmas, anything could happen.
Alysa sighed heavily as she placed her hand on the base of the tower. The pulse of the waves washed upward, through the rock and wood. Another howl rode in on a gust of wind. The approaching storm insisted on making i
tself heard.
Surely, practicality might be seen as an asset, to some? An asset in an assistant, or a cook, but hardly what inspired romance…she heard the words as if in her mother’s voice.
It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter at all, she assured herself, but it mattered. In spite of all her hopes, it mattered too much.
Quite alone with the night, she let herself think back over those few moments of breakfast.
Certainly, she had allowed herself to imagine it, if he had seemed extraordinarily courteous at any point? He had indeed gone along with the others for the holiday party. There would be the Christmas Eve dinner, then the church visit, then the dance. No doubt, many a young maid would be dancing with Patrick this evening—why, likely right this minute!
Alysa hunched up by the tower, the lonely, empty tower. Someday, after the war perhaps, the extraordinary reach of the new light would be proved. Opportunity lay quite beyond its own value or function, it had but to stand until called for.
She clasped a hand to her face, and no longer noticed the sound of the surf, or the wind howling with human-sounding voices. She’d had decided to stay here as watcher, and watch she would. Even without a light, someone must watch for ships in peril.
“Entirely a practical matter,” she muttered. “I’m not surprised and not disappointed Patrick went with them.”
She felt completely alone.
One lonely, desperate howl, as if indeed someone called from out beyond the breakers broke through the sound of the surf. For well over an hour now, she’d heard human-sounding voices. She heard them when the great pines at the foot of the hill swayed, when the seal barked to one another in the waves, and even in the quiet of the afternoon, when nothing at all explained a voice. She’d come out, in the first place, to be assured of the empty beach and quiet sea.
Still, this one, unearthly wail called out so insistently, she stopped on the stone landing beside the tower and peered into the darkness out at sea.
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