Lighthouse Bay (23 page)

“I will find her,” Matthew says. He gently tugs his hand away and this time she releases it. “Be patient, Isabella, and don’t lose heart.”

Isabella thinks of Xavier waiting for her in the nursery. She tries to warm herself on the thought of him, but even this is tainted because when she finds her sister, when she has saved enough, she will have to leave Xavier. She feels lost in the world. She closes her eyes, feels time flowing through her, knocking her feet from under her.

“Isabella? Are you well?”

“I should get back to my little boy,” she says, half-turning away.

“
Your
little boy?” he says.

Irritation itches her. “What do you mean by your tone? Xavier loves me and has come to rely on me.” She drops her voice and leans forward. Even though Matthew is standing two steps below her and his face is level with hers. “He has spoken. To me. Nobody else.”

Matthew seems about to say something, then stops himself. It is too late; she knows what he is thinking.

“He is my responsibility. That is all I meant,” she finishes. “Why should I not call him ‘mine’? No harm is done by it.”

“I’m sure you are right,” he concedes, dropping his head. “Good-bye. I will let you know the moment I hear anything.”

She watches him move off down the stairs, then across the lawn and out the front gate. He doesn’t look back.

Isabella stands a moment, collecting herself. Her joints feel loose, as though they might bend the wrong way. A flash of memory comes to her, of being at home with Arthur, sitting by the fire on a chill February evening. Arthur reading his paper, Isabella sewing, her round pregnant belly serving as a table for her embroidery ring. Such an ordinary time. Everything so reliable. Certainly she wasn’t happy, but nor was she unhappy. The nightmare was still to come. The ground was still stable beneath her feet.

“Mary? Is everything well with you?”

Isabella turns to see Katarina emerging from the hallway, her hand firmly around Xavier’s wrist.

“Yes, yes,” Isabella says. “I am expecting a telegram from my sister. Mr. Seaward was simply letting me know the communication has been delayed.”

Katarina thrusts Xavier towards her. “Take him out for some fresh air. I’ve given myself a headache entertaining him. I must go and lie down.”

“Shall we collect some leaves in the front garden?” she says to him. She longs to press him against her and take comfort in his warm little body, but not while Katarina is watching.

Xavier nods solemnly and Isabella leads him from the house on unsteady feet, out into the strange warm winter so far from her home.

T
he horse and carriage rattles up the mountain path. Xavier sits between Isabella and Katarina. Ahead of them, leading the way in another carriage, is Ernest, his friend and business partner Abel Barrett and Abel’s wife Edwina. The sun is bright, and the
unfamiliar smells of the Australian forest surround them: Isabella now recognizes the sharp, medicinal smells of eucalpyt and tea tree, but there are other smells she cannot place. Birds chirp deep off the track. It is Sunday and they are going for a picnic. The basket of food is between Isabella’s feet. Cook packed it this morning, looking relieved that she didn’t have to come.

Katarina brags that she is a fine horsewoman, that she won prizes in her youth in Costa Daurada. She certainly handles the whip and reins well. She wears a frothy white dress and a large white hat. Isabella wears the yellow dress she took from the lighthouse. She has tried to tie the waist so it doesn’t swim on her, but it is of little use. She thinks about the blue muslin gown in her trunk at the bottom of the sea, then reminds herself that she has no need to keep pace with Katarina’s beauty. She surreptitiously squeezes Xavier’s hand. There is no competition.

They have been traveling for an hour, and they are still only on the low slopes. The men’s cigar smoke wafts back towards Isabella. She can hear only snatches of conversation and thinks Ernest and Abel terribly dull men. Abel’s wife cackles occasionally, trying hard to keep up with their boorish jokes. Every time Edwina laughs, Katarina’s jaw tightens and Isabella wonders if Katarina wishes she were in the carriage with the men, rather than stuck here with the child and his nanny.

“Is it much farther?” Isabella asks.

“No, the path runs out soon. One can only make it to the top of the mountain on foot, and we’ll hardly be doing that today. There’s a little clearing on the northern side where we like to lay out our food. You can see the ocean and the mountains. It’s very beautiful.”

Isabella is taken by the idea that Katarina finds this place beautiful. She had suspected that Katarina, like herself, missed
the familiar landscape of home. “More beautiful than where you come from?”

Katarina glances at her, smiling tightly. “In Spain I was not rich. I think money makes things more beautiful.” She turns her eyes back to the path. “Men, for instance.”

Isabella doesn’t answer. She wonders that Katarina can speak in such a way in front of her son. But she suspects that Katarina underestimates Xavier: perhaps she has forgotten that although he doesn’t speak he can hear and understand.

“Where are you from, Mary?” Katarina continues.

“Cornwall, ma’am. Southwest England.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you dream of going back?”

“I’ll never go back.” The finality of her own statement makes her sad. Where will she go? Is her sister even in New York still? She could be on the next street over or she could be on a different continent, anywhere in the world.

“Good.” Katarina smiles, but this time it’s a little cruel. “All my other nannies leave me, so you’ll forgive me for being wary. It’s good to know that your heart is here with you.”

But where is Isabella’s heart? She puzzles over this for a moment, then chides herself for forgetting. It is in Daniel’s grave. As she thinks this, a cloud crosses the sun and for one superstitious instant she wonders if she has caused the brief chill that follows. But then the carriage carrying the men pulls off the path and climbs over a hump and down the other side to a grassy clearing. They follow and soon come to rest. They are perhaps halfway up the northern side of the mountain—not a very high mountain, more of a volcanic hill rising out of the flat coastal land—where there is a broad rocky plateau. There are no trees to block the view of the ocean. It is even more
vast from high up; the breakers, silenced by distance, seem to move more slowly, thoughtfully. The air is clear and cool. Isabella helps Xavier out of the carriage, then kneels to button his jacket. Katarina has already disappeared to talk with Ernest, Abel and Edwina. She adjusts her own bonnet, then leads Xavier to the others.

“Would you like me to set up your picnic here, then?” Isabella asks.

“Yes, that would be capital,” says Abel Barrett with a sniff of his nose. He has a strong jaw, bright blue eyes and thick curly hair. His wife, Edwina, is far less attractive than he is—a peahen—and her eyes rarely leave his face. She wears an expression of mild astonishment, as though she can’t believe this terribly handsome man is hers to keep.

Xavier hangs about Isabella as she lays out the picnic rug and sets it with plates and cutlery and cups. The others have moved off a few yards to take in the view. She hears Abel explain that Lighthouse Bay was so named because one of the early explorers saw, from this very position, that the first beams of the dawn sun illuminated the point before any other place in view: the point where the lighthouse now stands. Isabella likes the idea that Matthew is greeted by the sun before everyone else. She glances over her shoulder and can see the white needle of the lighthouse, and wonders what Matthew is doing right at this moment.

Cook has prepared cut sandwiches and fruit, and baked an apple pie. Isabella lays it all out neatly. Ernest has brought with him a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of wine, and Isabella is startled to see how quickly the women drink. She has drunk one glass of claret in her life, and didn’t much like the way it made her stomach feel. Xavier hangs about her, helping her unfold napkins and polish silverware. The others are rowdy already, drunk on the promise of being drunk later.

Katarina calls, “Xavier. Little one, come here to Mama.”

Xavier looks alarmed. He glances at Isabella as though for reassurance.

“Go on,” she says. “Do what Mama says.”

Xavier edges towards them, and Isabella watches from the corner of her eye as she shoos away a fly. Katarina crouches with her arms spread for Xavier. Isabella has never seen her do this. Nor, it seems, has Xavier, who stops in his tracks. Isabella cannot see his face, but she suspects he is frightened by Katarina’s sudden show of affection.

“Come here, darling. Give me a big kiss,” Katarina says to the child. “Don’t be shy.” Then she turns her face to Edwina and rolls her eyes. “He isn’t very bright, but Mama still loves him.”

Isabella’s stomach clenches with anger. She understands, now, that Katarina is showing off for Edwina. Edwina is older, childless. Katarina is playing the part of an affectionate mother, perhaps to be one up on Edwina, perhaps even to be cruel. Xavier hesitates, and Isabella fears he is going to run right back to the picnic rug in a moment, so she marches up to him and gives him a gentle push on the shoulder. “Go on, Xavier.”

Xavier takes a few more hesitant steps and Katarina swoops forward and encloses him in her frothy sleeves. Isabella sees his chubby hand close over Katarina’s forearm and the bolt of jealousy is so hard and so steely that she takes a step backwards. Edwina is cooing over Xavier now, while the men drink whiskey and stub out their cigars on the grass. Isabella is outside it all. She doesn’t belong here. Xavier doesn’t belong to her.

“Lunch is ready,” she announces, and a moment later Katarina is handing Xavier back to her, telling her to take him somewhere he won’t bother them and give him something to eat. Isabella ushers Xavier ahead of her, grabs the little paper bag
Cook made up specially for him, and takes off into the bushes.

“I can hear a creek,” she says, taking his hand as soon as she’s confident they are out of sight of his parents. “Shall we see if there are any fish in it?”

Xavier nods and they make their way down through the scrub. She shows him the berries that are safe to eat, and he doesn’t question her on how she knows this. Nor does he show a particular fondness for the berries, which taste nowhere near as sweet as the banana packed in his lunch. Together, she and Xavier sit on a large rock with their bare feet in a shallow stream, listening to the birds and warming their shoulders in the sunshine as they eat honey sandwiches.

“Xavier,” she ventures, “why won’t you talk to Mama?”

He looks at her and shrugs, returns to eating his sandwich.

“Do you love Mama?”

He doesn’t answer. His free hand creeps out and clasps hers. Isabella realizes her heart is thudding hard in her throat. She is in so deep with this child, too deep. “I love you, my little boy,” she says.

“Mary,” he replies, and he pronounces it like his mother with a soft, round “a”: Mah-ry. And she can almost hear how he would say, “Mummy.”

She opens her mouth to tell him her name is Isabella, so he knows who she really is, but she stops herself. He is too young to understand, surely. He happily munches on his sandwich, unaware that he has made her heart sing.

After they have eaten, they play near the creek’s edge, sticking to the shade where they can. There is mud, but that is easily washed off in the cool water of the creek. There are sticks, but they can be left behind before the return to their picnic party. Isabella sinks into the pleasure of being with Xavier, of loving
Xavier and having him love her in return. When they hear Ernest call them, they quickly wash their hands and feet, and reluctantly return to the clearing.

The others are drunk now, their faces flushed from alcohol and sun. The food is all gone, and Abel Barrett dozes on his back in the grass. Edwina, made bold by wine, races over to pick up Xavier and caress him. Katarina stands back magnanimously, reveling in her superiority as the woman who produced such a beautiful child. Xavier begins to cry and Edwina immediately puts him down.

“I’m sorry, little one,” she says.

In a moment, Xavier has raced away from her and is clinging to Isabella’s skirt, his face pressed against her hip. Isabella strokes his hair. Katarina’s eyes narrow.

Ernest looks up and says, “Look at that. He treats Mary as another boy might treat his mother.”

And there it is. Isabella can hear it. The false note in the beautiful symphony. It has been played, and its echo will shadow them all now. Katarina strides over, tears Xavier from Isabella’s hands and says, “Mary, you can travel with Ernest and Abel. They are both drunk and need a pair of sober eyes to guide them home. Edwina, be my guest in my carriage with Xavier and me.”

Xavier is still crying, but Katarina doesn’t seem to hear him. Isabella quickly packs up the picnic while Ernest wakes Abel with his toe. Isabella reassures herself. Katarina isn’t interested in Xavier. She’ll get past this slight. If Isabella just keeps her head down, all this will blow over.

E
rnest and Abel are drunk, and she is squeezed up against the side of the seat, choking on their tobacco smoke and their male sweat. Ernest is next to her, but his back is half-turned, and they
talk as though she isn’t there. Abel complains about his wife: she is too meek. Ernest complains about his wife: she is too wild. Isabella wants to interrupt and ask them precisely how much spirit a wife should have to keep them happy, but senses they wouldn’t reply readily. They clatter back down the mountain too fast, and Isabella clenches her teeth to stop them rattling. Isabella gleans from their conversation that much of Abel’s money comes not from his business dealings but from his wife’s family; and that Ernest was so smitten by Katarina’s beauty that it took him a full year of marriage to realize she was a harpy. Isabella glances back at the other carriage. Xavier sits quietly, ignored, between Katarina and Edwina. This precious child, surrounded by such vanity and venality.