by Kayte Nunn
“Actually, I was looking for you. I had some questions about Little Embers and Jonah tells me you’re the fount of all local knowledge.”
“Oh, I can certainly tell you a few stories,” said Janice.
Rachel’s heart beat a little faster. So there was something unusual about that island. She knew it.
“I’d be glad to have a yarn with you. We don’t open for another hour or so—I thought I’d come in early and sort out some paperwork, but I’d far rather sit and chat.” She gave Rachel a conspiratorial smile. “Why don’t we grab a coffee from up the road and we can talk there?”
“Sounds good. It’ll be my treat,” said Rachel.
The café was almost empty and they settled themselves at a corner table and waited to be served. When their coffee arrived, Rachel began. “What do you know about the island before Leah lived there?”
“Well, let me see . . . the people who lived there at one time are said to have starved to death. A bitterly cold winter did them in.”
“What? When was that?” Rachel was astonished.
“In the early 1900s or thereabouts.”
Not when the letters were written then. “What happened after that?”
“Well, it was uninhabited for a while. I think there was a family from the mainland who rented it in the 1930s and used to come and visit occasionally. Summer holidays, that sort of thing.”
“How about later, in the 1950s?”
“Oh, well, it became what you’d call a kind of respite house nowadays I suppose. Soldiers traumatized by the war—the Second World War—were sent there. If they’d had a breakdown, or . . . shell shock. That’s the word I’m looking for.”
“What a strange place to be sent to. So far away from everywhere.”
“It was set up by a doctor, I think. Not sure of his name. I can probably find out if you like.”
“Were there ever any women there?”
“Do you know, I did hear that there was once a female patient.”
Rachel’s eyes lit up.
“There was something of a scandal there at one point I think,” Janice continued. “My father used to be on the force. I remember he had to go over there.”
“The force?” Rachel interrupted.
“The police.”
“What kind of a scandal?” Rachel wondered if it had anything to do with Esther.
“I’m afraid he never did tell me exactly what happened, but not long afterward everyone left and the place was hardly used after that, just the odd holiday visitor. I reckon Leah’s the first person who’s lived there in decades.”
Rachel stirred sugar into her coffee. Was Esther Durrant, the mountaineer, the woman who had been there? Somehow she had a feeling she might have been.
Janice didn’t have much more to add on the subject, but did have questions about Leah. “Did she seem all right to you?” she asked.
“I guess,” said Rachel. “Why?”
“I worry about her, all on her own out there. If something should happen . . . if she fell, or hurt herself . . . Well, no one would know, would they?”
“I suppose not. But that’s not a reason not to live the life you want to. I think for the most part, she’s . . . well, not exactly happy . . . content I suppose you’d say.”
“What would you think about keeping a bit of an eye on her? You know, when your wrist is better? You’ll be out that way a fair bit, won’t you?”
“I suppose so. That’s if I can organize another boat and not lose it again. And if I still have a job.” Rachel gave a hollow laugh.
“It’ll all come out in the wash, you’ll see,” said Janice, patting her arm.
Rachel wished she had her confidence.
* * *
There was a package sitting on the front step when Rachel returned to the cottage. A plastic bag wrapped around something. She picked it up and peered inside, finding a note and an old mobile phone.
She’d mentioned to Jonah over dinner that she’d lost her phone and wondered aloud how she would replace it without going back to Penzance.
“It’s got about thirty quid’s worth of credit on it,” the note said. “Hopefully enough to last until you can organize a new one. My number’s in the contacts. J.”
Rachel smiled. He was being so nice, and yet he didn’t seem to want anything from her in return. Sure, he’d seemed interested at first, but if the previous night had been anything to go by, he’d clearly had second thoughts.
She let herself inside, found the phone number she’d written down the night before, and dialed.
The voice on the end of the line was female, young. She gave her name as Eve. Not exactly what she’d been expecting. Rachel dithered; had she gotten it right? “I was wondering if I might speak to Esther Durrant,” she said.
“I’m afraid she’s not awake yet. She sometimes sleeps in in the mornings, especially since the accident. Perhaps I can take a message? I’m her granddaughter.”
“The accident?” Rachel blurted.
“Who exactly is this?” The voice became suspicious.
“I’m sorry, I should have said. Esther won’t know me. My name is Rachel, Rachel Parker, and I’m calling from St. Mary’s on the Isles of Scilly. I think I might have found some things belonging to your grandmother and I’d like to return them to her. Did she ever live in a house called Frogmore, in Hampstead?”
“Er, yes, she did actually,” said Eve. “But it was a few years ago now.”
Rachel punched the air. She’d been right. “Then they’re definitely hers. Listen, I’ve got a photo. Perhaps I could email a copy of it to you?”
“Sure.” Eve gave her an email address. “Can you—”
“Thanks, Eve,” said Rachel, a sudden blast from a foghorn in the harbor drowning out Eve’s last remark. “I really appreciate it.”
Rachel clicked on her phone to end the call and turned to her computer. There was likely to be an email from Dr. Wentworth waiting for her and she had been putting off checking. She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table as it loaded—she still hadn’t gotten around to setting up the second bedroom as an office. Yep, there it was. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She’d never been one to shy away from difficult circumstances, but this email could have a disastrous effect on her immediate future. She wasn’t ready to leave the Scilly Isles just yet.
“DEAR RACHEL . . .” He’d written in a random mix of all caps and normal sentences, and almost all of the message was in the subject line of the email. She was sure it probably wasn’t deliberate, but it was unsettling nonetheless, as if he was shouting at her. “I WAS DISTRESSED . . .” He went on to say that he was thankful that she was okay, but that it was MOST UNFORTUNATE THAT THE BOAT SANK. The capital letters made her wince. “YOU WILL NEED TO MAKE A FULL REPORT.” He expressed his doubts that his superiors would be sympathetic—“AS YOU HAVE ADMITTED NOT CHECKING THE FORECAST and ABANDONED SHIP.”
Rachel fumed. She did not “abandon ship” as Dr. Wentworth put it. She’d been towing the damn thing to land due to a defective outboard. She growled in frustration and read on.
“As to being unable to work for six weeks, I will need to consider WHAT CAN BE DONE. To that end, I would like you to REPORT TO ME here at the museum first thing Monday. 9 a.m. sharp. That should give you time to make the necessary travel arrangements. Regards, C. WENTWORTH . . .”
Rachel puffed out a breath. Well, he hadn’t sacked her; nor had he asked her to stump up for the cost of a replacement boat, so that was something to be grateful for. She still wasn’t looking forward to a meeting with him, though. For all she knew, he was saving the dressing down she doubtless deserved for when he saw her in person.
There was one light in the darkness, however. A trip to London would mean that she could take the letters to Esther Durrant and deliver them herself. Perhaps she might even find out who wrote them to her and why they were never sent. She was curious to find out what had happened, and if Esther had any clue that the mysterious
“R” had been so desperately in love with her.
She grabbed her camera to take a digital photo of the black-and-white print so that she could email it to Eve, and remembered that she’d snapped a few of Leah’s paintings. She flicked back to look at them and was struck again by how remarkable—“luminous” was the word that sprang to mind—they were.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Little Embers, Winter 1952
New Year’s came and went. They toasted the early minutes of 1952 with a finger of whiskey each. Richard would have liked to linger with Esther, but in spite of his dismissive words in regard to Jean, he was careful not to give anyone further cause to question their relationship. As far as the men were concerned, she was another of his patients and was afforded no special treatment.
January was a bleak month, but he was warmed by Esther’s company and conversation and dreamed at night of her lips on his, what the feel of her skin might be. They still met every day for their hour together, although he wasn’t strictly treating her any longer for she had made close to a full recovery from the depression that had beset her, as far as he could tell. He found himself longing for her and desolate when their time was up. When he gazed upon her face, felt the pleasure of making her laugh, seeing the light sparkle in her eyes, nothing else mattered. When they were alone together, on occasional snatched walks on the far side of the island, he could pretend that she wasn’t his patient. They were the most precious moments of his life.
He made his fortnightly report to John Durrant, ignoring his conscience as he wrote of only small improvements and the need for Esther to remain at Embers for some months to come. That John had entrusted his wife to his safekeeping caused him no small agony and he finished each missive with the resolve to end things between himself and Esther, to tell her that he had sent word for her to return home. It was a resolve that melted as soon as he saw her again.
Esther, however, showed less and less desire to leave the island; she spoke infrequently now of her life in London and of John and Teddy. It was as if she had placed them in a box and put it on the top shelf of a cupboard, something to pack away for a season. She appeared to be happy, content to tend the garden, hike for hours, and was as avid for his company as he was for hers.
One afternoon they contrived to be at the beach together. They walked out of sight of the house and Esther was laughing at something he’d said, skipping along the sand in front of him, when suddenly she turned, grasped his hand and drew him close, closer than they had ever been before. He shuddered as she ran her chilled hands under his sweater, her eyes widening at him as she encountered his bare skin. When he thought he could bear it no longer, she raised her face to him, offering her lips to his, meeting him tentatively at first, then deeply, passionately. In that moment he nearly lost all reason.
He lay awake that night, torturing himself with the knowledge of the sins he was committing, the damage to his professional reputation if it were ever to be known. Things could not continue as they were. Jean was definitely suspicious and he sometimes caught her regarding him with faint distaste, as if she had smelled something unpleasant, though she was quick to assume a mask of detached professionalism and was always deferential to his requests.
Richard felt as if he was out in no-man’s-land, far from safety on either side. He didn’t know whether it was best to continue forward or try and venture back.
One day in mid-March, the supply boat brought a letter addressed to him with a Cornish postmark and a typed address. Richard tore the envelope with his fingers—no letter openers were used at Embers; even knives were accounted for, locked away by Mrs. Biggs after every meal. One couldn’t be too careful. He scanned the flimsy sheet enclosed. It was from his father. “Son, I regret to inform you . . .” The words blurred as he read. Guilt washed over him as he remembered when he had last seen her. A week before he left for the island. She hadn’t even recognized him, asking constantly for his father, who never visited. He hadn’t stayed long.
“Is everything all right?” Esther asked as they tramped up the island’s highest hill later that day. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“Am I?”
“Come on, out with it. It helps to talk.” She threw him a sideways glance, mocking him.
“A letter from my father . . . about my mother.”
Esther reached for his arm. “It was bad news?”
He nodded, unable to speak for a moment.
“She died last week. You know you rather remind me of her.”
“Really? I’m not sure I like the sound of that. If you know what I mean.”
“Not in that way,” he said. “God no. No, in the way that she lit up a room when she came into it; when you were with her—when she was well anyway—she made you feel like the most special, most interesting person. It was exciting just to be around her.”
“Oh, Richard, I am so sorry.” Esther’s eyes, dark violet in the bright sunlight, filled with sympathy.
“Actually, it’s rather a relief. Am I allowed to say that? She’d been unwell for years and there was nothing anyone could do to reach her.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.” He laughed bitterly. “Ironic, isn’t it? A psychiatrist with a barking-mad mother?”
“Not at all, darling. It actually explains everything. Will you have to go to the mainland?”
“I must.” His father’s letter had given details of a funeral service for a week hence and that he hoped Richard would be able to attend. “I will just be able to make it if I take next week’s boat. That is, if the weather holds.”
“I shall miss you.”
“And I you. But I shan’t be gone for long. And everyone here is doing splendidly. Jean should be perfectly able to keep things running while I’m gone.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
St. Mary’s, Spring 2018
Late that afternoon there was a knock on her door and Rachel heard Jonah call out to her. She put down the book she’d been reading and went to answer it.
He was standing there in his uniform, his hair curling in the fine mist—mizzle, as he’d described it to her—that had enveloped the islands once again. “Rachel.” His eyes lit up as he saw her. “Wanted to check you got the phone.”
She nodded. “That was really thoughtful of you. It’ll be a great help. I’ll return it as soon as I’ve sorted myself out with a new one.”
“No rush.”
“Fancy a cuppa?” she asked. “I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“Only if you’re sure.”
“Course. Come on in.” She walked down the hallway and he followed.
“How’s the pain now?” he asked, noticing as they reached the kitchen that she was holding her arm against herself.
“On a scale? About a five. The doc gave me some fairly decent painkillers, but I’m trying to have them only at night; they make me pretty dozy.”
“Anti-inflammatories?”
She nodded.
While she made tea, he looked about the room. “My sweater,” he said, spying it on the back of the chair. “Wondered where that got to.”
“I was going to return it,” she said with a grin on her face. “Honest.”
“Tell me these aren’t the letters you mentioned.” He had spotted the slim pile of envelopes she had left on the kitchen table.
She looked at him as innocently as she dared.
“You didn’t say you’d taken them.”
Rachel flushed. “Leah said I was welcome to anything in the suitcase . . .”
“Really?” He clearly thought she’d been wrong to remove them.
“Actually, I may have found the woman who they were written to. In fact, I’m going to give them to her in a couple of days’ time. I think she’ll want to read them.”
Jonah’s eyes widened. “Hoo-eee. You don’t waste any time.”
His next question took her by surprise; she’d been expecting more of his condemnation, not his curiosity. “Mind if I have a loo
k?”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Rachel said. “Just be gentle, they’re rather old and I’d hate for them to be damaged before I’ve had the chance to deliver them.”
“I’m not sure . . .” Jonah hesitated, good judgment clearly battling with intrigue. “It seems an intrusion. Exactly how long ago did you say they were written?”
“About sixty-five years ago.”
“Okay, I can’t resist a peek.” He picked the first envelope from the pile and opened it carefully. “My darling E. . . .” he read. He fell silent, his eyes skimming the paper. Rachel studied him as she added milk to both of their mugs. He was absorbed in the letter, his hands smoothing the sheets flat against the table.
She placed one mug down on the table at a safe distance from the letters and returned to the kitchen bench to clean up her lunch dishes. Jonah read on, finishing the first letter without comment and moving on to the second.
It was only after he had read all of the letters that he looked up at her, his eyes soft, and let out a long breath. “He really loved her, didn’t he?”
“You never know, it might have been a she . . . ,” Rachel said. “But yes, whoever wrote these truly did. And suffered for it.”
“But the writer made something so beautiful out of their suffering. Have you ever been in love like that?”
Rachel shook her head.
“I think it would be a great sadness never to find the someone who truly understands you, and you them. Even if you can’t spend forever with them.”
Rachel shrugged. “She never read these though, did she?”
“Yes, but she must have known how he felt. No one writes letters these days, which is a shame, when you consider how beautiful—and lasting—they can be,” Jonah said, holding up the final pages.
“Yeah, nowadays you’re lucky if you get a text,” she laughed.
“And you say you’re taking these to her? Who exactly is she?” he asked.
“She’s nearly ninety. And once upon a time she was an accomplished mountaineer.”
“Wow. I can’t wait to find out why the letters were never posted to her.”