in the habit of depending on uncertainties than humouring landladies.
The season continued wet, and a particularly blustery squall swept in over Hurlevor as Ravella emerged from the guesthouse, and turned right along the lane. Following her landlady’s directions, she branched off onto the coast-path, having crossed a stile, and entered the relative shelter of a copse. Unfortunately, the track sided directly the humming tide, so the sparse intervention of some gorse and ashes did little to prevent the wet gusts from ravaging her delicate attentions to beauty. Her shoes were quickly muddied, her clothes bespattered and her hair matted; in short, she did not emerge into the grounds of Hurlevor Point as quite the vision of loveliness she intended.
Nevertheless, her Machiavellian interests were soon distracted by the prospect of the house: a good size, in tolerable order, in a key position and set before an imposing drive of gravel. She peeped in through the downstairs windows, but found the rooms empty of furniture; however, she could see enough of the interior to be very well satisfied with the quality of the property. It was not so large as to prove a financial liability, but was sufficiently commodious to prove the home of a millionaire. And besides, she had learnt from Mrs. Manderville that Trevick was the sole owner and dweller therein, which was a charming convenience, since superfluous relatives and hangers-on would not need to be dispatched.
In short, Ravella found that Hurlevor Point met her hopes and expectations perfectly. As to its aesthetic or atmospheric attributes, however— its majestic gables, noble chimneys and salt-washed grey stones— she was perfectly indifferent.
Having investigated as much of the building as she could from the windows, she decided to explore the grounds further, to oversee her business interests as it were, and wandered around to the back of the house, which faced the seashore. The tide being out (though on the turn) had exposed a vast stretch of grey shingle, granite boulders and seaweed, all of which were so close to the house as to make her wonder how the proximity of the sea might endanger the real-estate value. So she picked her way through the drizzle to study the walls for any symptoms of subsidence, which would never do.
However, while about this, she was continually aware of the noisy sea behind her, crunching and sluicing as it encroached; and the wind, beating up the breakers to a foam, only encouraged the uproar and brought the waves in with eager crashes, which she did not like. She shivered as she pursued her scrutiny, and could not ignore how like breathing the ocean sound was, a rasping, harsh breathing, sighing and hissing as the tide gathered up the shore, with a vague mist preceding it. There was a quality in the voice of the tide that drew in all other sounds, dulling them into the same dreary rhythm; and it was a rhythm that pressed on her mind persistently, always breathing in and never breathing out, and saying such things as only such a low and roaring voice can say, hoarse and hollering at once.
Then it seemed she heard another voice in the swell, which she had heard before, inherent in the sea-sounds, speaking something familiar to undermine her, little by little, until she became so distracted by it that she turned suddenly around to find she had strayed from her intended path in the fog, and the sea was alarmingly upon her. She was looking about in confusion for the way she had come, when a great wave broke over a rock just by and soaked her to her senses. She scampered back inland, but in her path stumbled across a man lying prone in the shingle, his legs tangled in seaweed and his shoulders showing very white among the stones.
In surprise she dropped down beside him, concluding he had been hurled out of the waves, some swimmer or such come to mischief. She threw back his head to roll him over and feel his heart, whereupon he coughed roughly, which reassured her. But then, what luck it was to push the black locks from his brow and find it was the very catch she intended: James Trevick.
On this discovery she swooped to renew her assistance, and brought him to life with all urgency, chafing his cheeks, beating his back to bring up the water and conjuring him to lean forward, use his limbs, come to himself —which, however, he did not, continuing in a daze, though he staggered to his feet with her persuasion.
He swayed a little, and took some stumbling steps where she led him. He trembled, so she forsook her coat and wrapped it over him as they made a heavy journey back to the house.
Once there, Ravella took him upstairs and helped him onto a sofa, wrapping him in a throw for warmth, as the rooms were terribly cold. She ran about to find the means to procure some heating, during which exercise she hardly had time to inspect the interior of the property, since its owner, and key to her design, was currently of far more consequence. Finding some brandy, she knelt down at his side to rouse him from his sea-stupor with the application of spirits and encouragement in equal measures.
At last, after some further coughing and shivering, the liquor produced the desired effect. He stirred, and, leaning back his head on the arm of the sofa, asked aloud: ‘What was I thinking?’
‘Not of drowning, I hope,’ suggested Ravella.
He held a hand to his face. ‘I’ve swum there all my life,’ he said, ‘and I’ve never once come to trouble. What’s the matter with me?’
But now, warming to his surroundings, he suddenly remembered himself, and turned, astonished, to Ravella (who sat meekly by). ‘You practically saved my life!’ he cried, and began upon a series of thanks, all the while amazed that he needed to be rescued at all, until it occurred to him to ask: ‘But who are you, what are you doing here?’
‘I came down with the rain,’ she said.
‘I can see, you’re soaking,’ he replied. ‘I’m so sorry about this, to have put you through it— but it’s lucky you were there, or I might have been dragged under. There’s a steep shelf—’
He trailed off, lost in looking at her face, as though it was from a dream. Ravella bashfully remembered her bedraggled state and averted her eyes, but he held out his fingers to prevent her turning, and asked curiously for her name.
‘Don’t you know me?’ she tried, looking full at him.
He sighed and frowned. ‘Ravella?’
‘Am I so disappointing?’
He sighed again and shook his head. ‘You’ve just reminded me of everything.’
But then he sat up. ‘Has Clare sent you? Is she here?’
Ravella pressed another tumbler to his lips and returned evenly, ‘I haven’t seen Clare for ages. I’m here to visit a very dear old aunt of mine, and you can imagine my surprise to have you washed up at my feet, when I was only wandering through, looking for crabs. But what on earth were you doing out swimming on a day like this?’
He lay back again, resigned. ‘There’s an old ruin submerged just off the point, and I often used to go snorkelling there. I thought the cold water would do me good, start me out of my mood.’
‘What mood was it, that needed half-drowning to be rid of?’
He curled his lip into a grimace. ‘I’m trying to forget Clare. You see, we’re finished—’ Ravella nodded sympathetically— ‘ah, news travels fast. Well, I just don’t want to think about her anymore. I wanted to do something familiar, like I used to when I didn’t know her. That’s why I swam out to the ruin, to forget, to stop myself turning it all over. I’m sick and tired of love, Ravella.’
‘Very wise. But not sick of life, too, I hope?’ —at which he laughed.
‘I hope not! I was just careless, that’s all, and the sea’s not a place to be careless, at any time. I saw an open anemone nestled in one of the old fireplaces, with something glinting beside it, and swam down to look. There was a great mass of bladderwrack nearby, and it got tangled around my leg and held me down. I was out of breath by the time I pulled away, and even when I surfaced, the waves were rolling over me, so I couldn’t get a gasp of air without swallowing water.’ He smiled at her. ‘But I always survive somehow.’
Ravella smiled too. ‘But how will you survive your broken heart, I wonder?’
‘Oh, that’s easy. I’ll eat the pieces, and never love another wom
an again.’
‘That’s severe! Will you love a man instead, then? At least you’ve left yourself half the population.’
He laughed again, and seemed to be altogether heartier.
‘I don’t blame you, though,’ she continued. ‘We women are terrible, a plague upon men, haven’t you heard? Every one a pestilence on man’s head, you’re best off without us.’
Trevick smiled wryly, but was quick to ask: ‘And what about you, Ravella?’
She winked. ‘Oh, I’m the worst of them all.’
After this they chatted further, while he sat up and recovered his energy. A refreshing bout of Ravella’s lively company soon cleared his gloom and set him thinking that he was a better man than to sit about languishing. His pride (ever his keel) reasserted his sense of himself, and he resolved anew to dispatch Clare from his mind as much as he was able.
Since his recovery was now sufficiently complete to warrant a return of the common modes of hospitality, he stood up, and, covering his bare arms and chest with the throw, excused himself for not being a better host. But Ravella jumped to her feet as quickly and returned that she had been a worse guest for not leaving sooner; however, if he was well, she ought to set off.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Well, but thank you again, Ravella.’
She smiled. ‘Be careful
The Drowned Sailor Page 11