collapsing. Finally, she drops off. When she wakes, she can see it. The headland beckons, under a light sea mist. She can see the lighthouse now, red and white. Not far, not far. She gathers fruit and drinks from a stream, but she is restless to keep moving, even in the sun and the heat, beyond endurance. The end is finally in sight.
Little by little, walking slowly, resting often, she makes her way down the beach.
But she cannot make it. Not in one day. If she were well and unburdened and walking in the shade of tall oaks, perhaps. But she fears killing herself by pushing too hard. Midmorning sheshelters again in the woods. Late afternoon she walks. She sees the light come on and wants to sob. She had wanted to be there by now. She doesn’t want to die this close to refuge.
She sleeps long and hard. Her body has reached its limit. She cannot risk walking in the heat, so she waits through the day, then climbs to her feet only when the sun has moved into the west. Her legs are like jelly, her feet sting. She draws herself up, pulls on the loathsome petticoat rope. Nearly there, nearly there.
One foot. The next foot. The beach grows increasingly rocky as she nears the lighthouse. One foot. The next foot. Each step takes an age. Live, Isabella , she directs herself sternly. Don’t collapse now.
The lighthouse can only be reached by a rocky climb of about ten feet. She considers going around through the bushes, but fears losing her way without the direct line of the ocean beside her. She ties the wooden chest to her back again and begins to climb.
Dusk is settling around her. Seagulls wheel above and the breeze grows fresh. She is bent over, picking a path over the rocks with bare hands and bare feet, groaning, gasping. She slips, pitches forward and gashes open her injured hand on a sharp rock edge. But nothing will stop her now, not even fresh blood. Forward, forward. Up and up. Until at last she is at the top and the lighthouse bursts into life just as she looks up at it. Her beacon in the dark. Now she is here. Now everything must be all right.
It must.
Her head swims. Her ears ring.
She rounds the lighthouse on feet made of lead and finds a tiny cottage attached, no more than a wooden box built out of the side of the lighthouse. It takes the last of her energy to lift her hand and knock weakly at the door. She fears there will be no answer, so she waits only a few seconds before knocking again. This time she calls out too. “Help!” Her voice is so thin it frightens her. “Ineed help.” She realizes that she has left a smear of blood on the door from her hand. She turns it over in front of her. The blood is dark in the half-light.
The door swings open. Isabella looks up into the black eyes of a tall, lean man of about forty years. His eyes widen when he sees her.
“Please, please,” she says. It is all she can say. Other words have fled, and now she is falling forward, crashing to her knees. He catches her in strong arms, takes her weight and draws her inside. She has an impression of dim spaces, flickering light, then everything goes gray.
W hen she opens her eyes, it is nighttime. There is candlelight and she is lying on top of rough blankets on a small bed.
She blinks, reorientating herself. Sitting on a stool next to the bed is a bearded man with a serious expression. The lighthouse keeper. She is at the lighthouse at last. She groans with relief.
“What is your name?” he asks, gently.
She opens her mouth to give him her name, but then stops herself. What if the Winterbournes come looking for her?
“Mary Harrow,” she says.
“Do you think you can stand, Mary Harrow? I have soup and bread, and clean water. You ought to eat, get your strength back.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Six hours. It’s nearly midnight.”
Isabella sits and gingerly lowers her feet to the floor.
“Here, let me help you,” he says. With his arm around her waist, he leads her from the bed, past a
Little by little, walking slowly, resting often, she makes her way down the beach.
But she cannot make it. Not in one day. If she were well and unburdened and walking in the shade of tall oaks, perhaps. But she fears killing herself by pushing too hard. Midmorning sheshelters again in the woods. Late afternoon she walks. She sees the light come on and wants to sob. She had wanted to be there by now. She doesn’t want to die this close to refuge.
She sleeps long and hard. Her body has reached its limit. She cannot risk walking in the heat, so she waits through the day, then climbs to her feet only when the sun has moved into the west. Her legs are like jelly, her feet sting. She draws herself up, pulls on the loathsome petticoat rope. Nearly there, nearly there.
One foot. The next foot. The beach grows increasingly rocky as she nears the lighthouse. One foot. The next foot. Each step takes an age. Live, Isabella , she directs herself sternly. Don’t collapse now.
The lighthouse can only be reached by a rocky climb of about ten feet. She considers going around through the bushes, but fears losing her way without the direct line of the ocean beside her. She ties the wooden chest to her back again and begins to climb.
Dusk is settling around her. Seagulls wheel above and the breeze grows fresh. She is bent over, picking a path over the rocks with bare hands and bare feet, groaning, gasping. She slips, pitches forward and gashes open her injured hand on a sharp rock edge. But nothing will stop her now, not even fresh blood. Forward, forward. Up and up. Until at last she is at the top and the lighthouse bursts into life just as she looks up at it. Her beacon in the dark. Now she is here. Now everything must be all right.
It must.
Her head swims. Her ears ring.
She rounds the lighthouse on feet made of lead and finds a tiny cottage attached, no more than a wooden box built out of the side of the lighthouse. It takes the last of her energy to lift her hand and knock weakly at the door. She fears there will be no answer, so she waits only a few seconds before knocking again. This time she calls out too. “Help!” Her voice is so thin it frightens her. “Ineed help.” She realizes that she has left a smear of blood on the door from her hand. She turns it over in front of her. The blood is dark in the half-light.
The door swings open. Isabella looks up into the black eyes of a tall, lean man of about forty years. His eyes widen when he sees her.
“Please, please,” she says. It is all she can say. Other words have fled, and now she is falling forward, crashing to her knees. He catches her in strong arms, takes her weight and draws her inside. She has an impression of dim spaces, flickering light, then everything goes gray.
W hen she opens her eyes, it is nighttime. There is candlelight and she is lying on top of rough blankets on a small bed.
She blinks, reorientating herself. Sitting on a stool next to the bed is a bearded man with a serious expression. The lighthouse keeper. She is at the lighthouse at last. She groans with relief.
“What is your name?” he asks, gently.
She opens her mouth to give him her name, but then stops herself. What if the Winterbournes come looking for her?
“Mary Harrow,” she says.
“Do you think you can stand, Mary Harrow? I have soup and bread, and clean water. You ought to eat, get your strength back.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Six hours. It’s nearly midnight.”
Isabella sits and gingerly lowers her feet to the floor.
“Here, let me help you,” he says. With his arm around her waist, he leads her from the bed, past a
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