All the Stars in Her Hand

Chapter Thirteen

The wheels of my suitcase clipped along to the train station”s steps before I snapped the handle bar down and lifted it up. I felt as if I should hurry, although it was pure adrenaline, since I had no clear picture of where I was actually going.

Kiernedon.The town name I had added to my phone”s list of notes, along with the English name of the island, and the bus timetable, which I had copied before I could potentially lose my mobile signal in the fashion of Sidney”s phone. Irene had told me to ask at the local marine office if a ferry boat was passing that day, or if the mail boat was due in morning. She recommended staying in the rooms above the local pub, which were comfortable and offered breakfast.

Aboard the train, I settled in, finding I was too anxious to read, or to concentrate in any way. Only my thoughts and the scenery for distraction, and the company of a backpacking tourist who pointed out the sights occasionally, when she wasn”t journaling about her trip.

That would have been me a few years ago. What a strange thought. I could see myself here, with scant luggage, the original Maisie who came to Cornwall, trying to live on shoestring funds to preserve her savings, breath stolen by the most stunning of views, traveling on her own whilst afraid and slightly fearless in one of those contrasts of character that Irene had hinted at in her brother.

Is it courage if you don”t realize you should be afraid?Maybe that”s what Sidney had been speaking about.

My head turned to the window”s view again, the stretch of a lonely field. I wondered if I would find Sidney writing, finding his artistic rhythm again now that he was too far away to be reached by the members of the press who had been hounding him for a new narrative.

He would be surprised, but surely he wouldn”t be upset that I found my way there in advance. Did he really expect me to wait in Cornwall after he caught the next mail boat to ring me onshore? He couldn”t think I cared that much about either a book reading or a vlog interview about the actress playing my heroine.

Arnold — may not make it to book signing. Reschedule?I typed this in my email”s blank.I need to take a short holiday for a few weeks, emergency. Don”t worry, it”s okay. When I come back, we”ll pick up where we left off. They won”t have filmed even one scene by then, I promise. I”ll be starting the new book”s draft soon, so that will make up for it.

I sent it, crossing my fingers that Arnold wouldn”t see it immediately and demand details. Imagining how to phrase the circumstances of recent days was a wild task for my imagination, even if I hadn”t been in a train speeding towards any number of emotional outcomes. Reuniting with surprise and laughter? Finding he had finished by a miracle and was already on his way home?

Finding an empty castle and no sign he had ever come. My heart skipped one beat, an apprehensive thud for that deepest of fears I was denying myself access to.

”Look at that,” said my seatmate. My glance went to the window, to the castle towering beside the track before we passed through a tunnel built through it. Gone in a glance, after one of those breathtaking views of England that had swept me away long ago.

I pocketed my phone. It buzzed again, and I ignored it. Please understand, I texted Arnold, telepathically. The things he wanted would be delivered in time, but I could hardly give his plans the kind of attention or enthusiasm he wanted from me, not at present. No more than I could begin the book he was hoping for.

The train came into the station and let the passengers disembark, where I took a moment to breathe without ever letting go of my tight grip on the suitcase. Momentarily, it was as if I was in a painting, the sense of heat and steam from the momentum bleeding off from the journey”s speed.

How far to the ferry? That was the next step, reaching Ireland itself. A boat, then another train, then bus, then — well, whatever second boat I could find to take me across to the island. I took a deep breath as I reviewed. First steps first. There must be a ticket office close by, and a time table for departures. If I was in luck, the next one would leave before the hour.

A little bit of rain was coming on, dappling the puddles in the pavement around the ferry dock, the water looking oily and slick in the drab light. I wheeled my case along behind me as I followed the crowd, hearing smatterings of Irish accents that put me in mind of Brigette and Riley. Any chance either of them had cousins in this part of the country? It was only a little joke in my head, but it cheered my courage.

”What time is the next ferry out?” I asked, as I paid my fare.

”Twenty minutes,” answered the woman. ”Only a small crowd for the afternoon, due to the rough seas.”

The question of seasickness crossed my mind, but I put it in the back cupboard where all worries were being tucked out of sight presently. ”Thanks,” I said.

The rain came down steadily when I crossed the hydraulic platform from the dock to the ferry”s main deck. It was lightly crowded with tourists and locals huddled in waterproof windcheaters and heavy knit jumpers beaded with rain, with young adults idling at the rails, a mother tucking a cover over her baby”s push chair. Pockets of space in between looked out on the grey sea, which was rolling in pitched waves further out from the shore. I couldn”t see land through the fog.

Another vehicle boarded, then the platform lifted. The boat pitched out to sea, and I gripped the rail to keep my footing steady. My wool hat was taking the brunt of the water, but my shoes were not as waterproof as I had hoped — the secondhand pair that Sidney repaired for me, taking its second major beating in a U.K. downpour.

It lurched harder as we entered the depths of the Irish Sea. Two teenagers who looked like siblings giggled when it felt as if we slammed back into the water by that trick of gravity and water. An older man in a mac with a pair of binoculars around his neck leaned on the rails, letting out a little groan. I thought about seasickness again.

We were following the example of the mom and baby and going inside the observation cabin, peeling off one by one from the view of the sea over the rails as the rain wrapped around us. Seating room was packed close, so I wondered what it was like when the ferry was crowded. The only seat I found was near the doorway, next to a senior gentleman in a suit that had a few decades and minor repairs of gentle shabbiness, suggesting it was worn only for holidays, and a tweed cap.

He surveyed me with a genial smile. ”On your way to the isle with the tourists?” he enquired, with a soft Irish accent. It was an obvious statement, but one meant merely to begin a conversation between two strangers stranded on a bench together.

”My first time,” I replied.

”Ah, well, it”s a lovely place. You won”t be disappointed. You may never leave once you come — it”s a fair bit of people who can”t tear themselves away again once they see the emerald shore.”

I sensed this was his standard line for all visitors, and smiled to show I appreciated the reputation of its emerald beauty. ”That”s the reputation it has,” I said. ”Do you live there, I presume?”

”All my life,” he said. ”T”was the accent that told you so.”

I laughed. ”Maybe,” I said.

He leaned back on the bench. ”I”ve lived there all my life, as I said. Could be love of the place you”re hearing as much as anything. It goes into the bone and blood, love of home.”

I held onto my suitcase as the ferry lurched again. The door to the outside banged open. ” — And I told my cousin that I couldn”t loan it to him for such a time,” one of the men entering complained to his friend. The smell of wet vinyl came from his coat as he brushed past me.

The man next to me had taken a moment to reflect, hands folded over his waistcoat. I wondered if he had been at a funeral or a wedding ashore. Or maybe a solicitor”s office instead. He looked the very cliche of an Irish farmer dressed up for a day in town, at any rate, as if he had popped out of a Synge play to join me.

”You”ll be going over to see the sights, I expect,” he said to me. With an accent more Irish than either Brigette or Riley, that delicate rhythm soft despite his rusty voice. ”Like all the lads and lasses sitting yon, with their cameras and their chat about the Blarney Stone and such.”

”Actually, I”m going to meet with someone,” I said. ”My husband”s staying in Ireland.”

My husband.I had never said those words before. It felt strange. A little tingle passed through my hands, partly pleasant, partly startled.

”Ah, is he, now? What a lovely thing,” my companion answered. ”Tell me, how long have you been married, now?”

”Only a short time.” I didn”t tell him the exact time, aware of how strange this was beginning to sound even to me.

””Tis the beginning, then, the best of days,” he said. ”And is he a good Irish lad?”

”No, actually, he”s not Irish,” I said. ”He had a friend who was. They left him a place to work ... he needed some space, so he went across a couple of days ago.”

”He”s a lucky lad to have such a fine lass coming over to join him, all the way from America,” he said. ”He”ll be in fine clover when he sees you coming across from t”other shore.”

”He doesn”t know yet.” I picked at the hem in my skirt. ”I”m hoping it”s a good surprise.”

”And how can it not be, pray tell?”

”He didn”t ask me to come, he said he”d let me know after he was settled. But I couldn”t wait. I guess you could say I was impatient, but I missed him.” I shrugged. ”So here”s hoping he missed me, too.”

Another joke I didn”t quite mean. He had promised to call, and wanted me to be with him — if not for my obligations with the book and the upcoming P-R for the film adaptation of it, he would have let me leave Italy with him in the first place.

He would have. I didn”t need to think about the alternatives, like regret or cold feet.

””Tis the only natural thing for him,” said my companion, reassuringly. ”Ah, but you don”t know the nature of a man if ye ask that question. ”Tis the story of Adam”s rib that tells you it all — it draws us to a woman, that bit of Creation made to suit us so perfectly that we can”t be without.”

Another lurch from the boat, and I held on tightly. My stomach churned just a little bit, mostly due to anxiety. I crossed my fingers that I was not going to be seasick. The living embodiment of a kindly Irish villager merely steadied himself and continued on with the conversation.

”That”s what makes a woman such a powerful temptation to the lot of us — even God Himself understands, having come down to earth as a man, you know. Never trouble yourself on the matter of a good man being disappointed to have his lass come to him.”

The door opened again, a soaked-through tourist trotting inside with a phone clutched in hand, closing it again. Two people giggled as we felt the churning motion of the water put us on a roller coaster”s sudden bump. Almost there, I told myself, glad I did not remain on deck like the bravest all-weather travelers, tasting the Irish Sea up close.

”In only a few hours, I”ll know for myself if it”s true,” I said, trying to speak lightheartedly. ”It was nice of you to offer me kind advice. Especially on a ride like this one, with the weather being so nasty.” Talking kept me from thinking about the long journey ahead of me, or dwelling on any thoughts which wouldn”t be helpful to me in making my way across.

”No trouble to offer a little word to another,” he said. ”I enjoy the company of a stranger. When we”re all in a boat together, we become friends of a sort, which is how it is on the seas of life also. I hope you see fairer weather when we”re ashore.”

”I”m sure I will,” I said. ”It is the Emerald Isle, after all. What”s a little rain and fog, except something to make it look all the more vivid just before the sun comes out?”

He chuckled. ”The optimism of the young is ever green and ever fair,” he said. ”You”ve come to the right land, you have.”

The waters began to calm before we reached the opposite shore, and the next time the door opened from the main decks, the smell of rain was gone, except for what the passenger shook off his umbrella. Through the glass, the skies were clearing ”like a fine Irish crystal,” as my seatmate put it.

He advised me to be careful, to mind the pickpockets that sometimes prey on tourists at train stations, and to try a glass of Guinness on Irish shore. He offered me his umbrella, which I declined politely before we parted ways in the thick of the passengers going ashore. I stepped off on the Irish dock, watching the rest of the crowd fan out in various directions, except the little cluster of tourists taking advantage of an empty bench to share a phone screen among them.

My first glimpse of Ireland — not the vivid green and big cliffs of films, but of an ordinary village shore. A tiny bit of a smile crossed my lips. Maybe the postcard moment was yet to come.

The next scenery was of finding the bus shelter and buying my ticket to Kiernedon. The line was small — ahead of me, a new tourist girl in a ponytail and cap reading ”Kiss me, I”m Irish” texted with flying thumbs as she waited her turn.

The bus”s windows afforded me a view more like the postcards, with the sun breaking at last. Green as vivid as moss, and a maze of tiny stone walls dividing it like the border on a map. A little pocket of sheep broke apart suddenly, as if all deciding to frolic at the same moment.

The port town of Kiernedon in late afternoon was cast in bright copper, late sun on the water. I tucked my coat around me closely as I passed by a late-season bucket of flowers already faded, as if twigging me with a reminder thatautumn’s coolness was fast taking over. A creaky little sign swayed, advertising gifts and Irish crystal inside the shop.

The pub Irene recommended wasn”t very far into the heart of the town. The postcard white walls and old beams supported a few signs for tourists, hooks for coats and caps, a glossy bar like wet mahogany where some patrons were partaking of whiskey and Guinness. I sat down at a table, my waitress a girl in a tartan shirt, with a button for a local charity fundraiser pinned to its lapel, cleared away some glasses from an empty table before taking my order.

”Do you have any lemon squash?” I said.

”We do indeed. Fancy a glass?” she made a note.

”Yes, please,” I said. ”Do you know if the mail boat has already gone out for the day?”

”Ages ago,” she answered. ”Are you a friend of Danny”s?”

”No, I”m not looking for the postman, exactly,” I said. ”A friend of mind told me to ask here if you know of any boats that might be passing by a local island just off shore.”

”Fallidunn? The ferry will be going out their way come Thursday,” she answered.

”No, not that island,” I said, recognizing the populous one that Hester had mentioned was close by, home to some locals who had ancestral houses out there.

”Are you certain?” she asked, sounding a little puzzled. ”There”s no other around for miles.”

”I mean Sheep Island,” I clarified, hoping I had not come to the wrong village. There couldn”t be more than one Kiernedon in all of Ireland.

Comprehension — and humor — crossed her face. ”Aye, I know the one you mean,” she said. ”It”s just a wee rock with a house on it, though. It”s privately owned, so there”s nothing for tourists.” She spoke as if letting me down gently — expecting me to be disappointed by the news, as a few tourists in the past probably had been as well.

”A friend of mine owns it, and I”m supposed to meet them there,” I said, forgetting that the ”friend” was now a different person from the one whom I was meeting.

”You know the Gresham family?” she said, with surprise. ”It”s been a fair bit since any of them came into the town. I didn”t know they were back.”

”Just one of them,” I answered. ”Can someone take me out there? I heard the postal boat sometimes takes people by there, when it delivers to some of the communities on another island.”

”Aye, if you ask. But you”ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

My heart sank a tiny bit. ”I can do that,” I said. ”Is there a room available here?” I had spotted a little inn on my phone”s digital map, but I suspected it was both modern and a bit pricier.

”We”ve one upstairs that isn”t spoken for,” she said. ”I”ll tell Sean you”ve enquired about it, and he”ll see about it with you as soon as he”s done with the keg downstairs.”

”Thank you,” I said. ”How would I find the postman, Danny?”

”He”ll be at the marinatomorrow in the morning,” she said. ”Luck must be with you, you”ll catch him on the right day.” She tucked away her message pad. ”I”ll bring your glass.”

I sipped the lemon squash, contemplating my options. I had no real choice except to stay here, because there wasn”t a way to the castle until tomorrow, so I should eat something and get some rest. Tomorrow, I could go to the shore bright and early and get a ride to the island.

Taking out my phone, I checked my messages — none from Sidney, and two from Arnold, which I decided to leave unread for now, having a strong sense they would urge me to change my plans. A deep sigh escaped me, exhaling by its own decision.

The publican found me after placing two bottles of whiskey on the counter. ”Interested in a room?” he said.

I paid for the room and pocketed the key, then ordered some chips. The waitress told me more about finding my way around the shore, so I wouldn”t miss my chance to meet with the postal boat. She told me a little about the island in between serving drinks and sandwiches.

”There”s nothing out there but the house, and a patch of trees,” she said. ”The family came once or twice when the old Honorable was still alive. Practically had to camp there.” She laughed. ”I was a wee lass then, I remember playing with one of the girls who was my age, running around the church stones until the priest told us to respect the dead.”

”Have you been out there anytime recently?” I asked.

”No, it”s just an old house. To my mind, Danny”s the only one who ever sees it, except for a curious boatsman or two who might pop onshore.”

”It probably looks a little wild and neglected by now,” I said, trying to picture it, with tangled weeds, or gardens akin to Lewiston in ruins — it was hard to shake the concept of a ”traditional” castle, although I had been well forewarned by the house”s previous owners.

”Eh, that would be close,” the girl chuckled.

I plucked at one of my chips. ”Is it easy to spot the postal boat if the marina is full?” I asked. ”How would I find it in the morning if he isn”t on deck?” I wasn”t so stupid as to assume the postman would be waving a red flag onshore, his boat the only one among three or four. There were bound to be other vessels in the harbor, and the boat might not have any markings that would give away its purpose. Better to ask now and start imagining that as my next step in the plan.

”Don”t worry, you won”t have any trouble finding your way, because it can”t be missed.” She brought me a bottle of vinegar. ”Finn would show you the way if you don”t feel confident. Finn!” She called out to a waiter who was sweeping up by the piano. ”Can you take one of the guests down to meet Danny in the morning?”

”What time? I”ve a delivery to fetch at ten,” he said. ”Is he on the boat?”

”Aye, so it will be early.” She glanced at me, as if to be sure this was all right.

”Whatever time is the right time to catch his boat,” I answered, with a smile.

”All right,” answered the young man, amiably.

I turned back to the waitress, who set my glass of water next to the serving of crispy potatoes. ”Did anybody else come in for a ride recently?” I asked. ”The person I”m going to meet doesn”t have a boat, so he must have asked someone to take him off the coast.” Sidney must have found someone local to ferry him to the castle, if he was actually there.

In the back of my mind, I wondered how Sidney got out there. Had he? Or had I made a mistake? I tasted a tiny bit of fear now, from deep within.Is the courage stronger if you know it”s there?I wondered.

”I didn”t hear of the family being back,” she said. ”If they are, they generally made arrangements before they came, for them and what guests came to the old place. The MacDougal heir who had the place used to bring friends out for the cricket matches and some of the folk festivals.”

She glanced at me. ”Which family member is your friend?” she asked.

”Dean,” I said. ”He was the — the Honorable”s nephew. It”s someone who was close to him in the family whom I”m meeting out there. He has the keys. I think he wanted to see how much it had changed.”

”I hope he”s not anxious, waiting for you,” she said. ”It won”t be a long journey in morning to reach it, not to worry.”

”Good to know,” I answered.

”Chips will be all for you?” she asked. ”We can do you a nice sandwich. Mutton, cold beef, a nice ham and cheese?”

”This is fine, but thanks,” I answered. ”I”ve been traveling all day, so I think I”ll turn in early.” I ate one of the chips, finding that I was hungrier than I just stated. Only, like the knots deep in my stomach which were making themselves known more frequently, it tended to come and go.

As twilight fell, I was upstairs with my phone, checking messages again. The ones I had sent to Sidney were marked as unread still. He had never seen them, opening nothing since the day after he left Italy. Only the one I had sent earlier, which probably reached him at Lewiston.

Why had he gone there first? Was he looking for inspiration? For answers? Just like the book, maybe he couldn”t be free of it without finding some way to cut the metaphorical ties that bound him to it — contractual or emotional, for each one.

It made me feel lonelier to think of it, especially when tired. Closing my eyes, I listened to the sound of a piano down below, a lively jig for the patrons coming in for their evening pint. It sounded like fun, but I was a little bit too tired. Rest would recharge me for tomorrow, when I needed all my energy and conviction to be at full strength.

Shutting off the light, I tucked myself in. I switched off my phone, and listened to the music below, until I drifted off.

________________________

Motor idling, the postal boat was easily identified by its flags and the bags of mail being loaded in its cabin. The young man Finn showed me down to the right part of the docks and pointed it out for me to be sure, before he went on with his delivery plans. I carried my suitcase down to the boat in question. My request didn”t come across as odd, proving the local custom of hitching rides by post boat was definitely a thing.

The postman Danny helped me aboard, and set my suitcase by the bags of mail. He drifted the boat away from the ramp before throttling its engine gradually to speed.

”So you”re going out to the little isle?” he said, over the motor”s noise. ”Not much need to deliver out there, as it happens.”

”Have you taken anybody else there recently?” I asked.

”Funnily enough, I did but — when? Two, three days ago,” he answered. ”A young man. Said he was a friend o” the last owner, come to look over the old place. He had the keys and a letter signed by one of them, saying it was his now.”

”From Dean?” I thought of the envelope the solicitor had given over that day at the cottage.

”Sad to hear of his passing,” said Danny loudly, shaking his head in pity. ”He came here once during the summer, it must have been ten years ago. He hired his own boat.”

He came to paint, I imagined, and wondered if I had seen that canvas and never knew what it represented. But Dean was a dreamer, so maybe he had painted the Middle East whilst in the halls of an Irish castle left to him by a favorite uncle.

”Do you know the young man at the house, I gather?” he said.

”We”re close,” I answered, shouting back. ”He only told me about it recently.” I wished Sidney, among many other vague remarks, had made it clear what Dean”s gift to him had been, since me imagining it, as usual, had been so far from the truth that I had been gobsmacked by it.

”Never been there, I gather.”

”No, never,” I answered.

The water rippled behind the boat in white foam manes as we churned on. The dot in the distance grew closer, and it wasn”t the populated island the waitress had mentioned, but one that looked more like a plate of stacked rock slab, a green hill mounded atop it. A thin forest grove at the bottom, and the remains of an old boat shed with a dock leading over the water.

The shed.Was that the one? From Sidney”s past? My heart came into my throat.

”Look up,” said Danny, nodding. ”That”s the castle, yon.” I could see the square shape of a tower that looked Medieval, like a fortress peak.

”It looks big,” I said.

He laughed. ”It”s nobbut an old ruin, a wee one like all over this place. More house, part of it all but fallen in,” he said.

He throttled down the motor as we neared the dock. ”There”s a path and some steps up to the house,” he said. ”See the post? At the dock”s end? Hoist the flag if you want a ride, otherwise I don”t stop but now and then, since nobody”s home. If you”re at the dock waiting tomorrow, I”ll give you a ride back, in case the young man left already. I told him before I”d be by tomorrow morning if he needed one.”

”Thanks.” My heart resumed a quicker beat, knowing Sidney was already here. That was why none of my messages had been read yet. Reaching into my pocket, I took out my phone, and discovered I had no reception. It was true that we were too remote for a signal.

The boat glided close to the dock. It looked weathered, grey, with years of disuse. The old shed had been white with shingles, but was now as much the color of barn wood as lime wash, and there was a hole in the roof.

”Take care,” said Danny. He took my hand, helping me onto the dock. ”Mind the old boards. They”re weak in places.”

”Thanks,” I said. ”I”ll remember your offer, but I think I”ll be okay.”

”All right.” Despite sounding a little dubious, he tipped his cap.

I waved goodbye as the boat turned and churned water in a westerly direction. I extended the handle of my suitcase and began walking the long dock to the main path at the top. I cast a glance at the shed, where the dock was connected to an old door by an old elevated wood path, like a fallen-in bridge. Imagining a table and a typewriter sitting there long ago.

Was there an old boat inside, covered in cobwebs that veiled split lee boards? One that probably took Dean and Sidney and the Gresham family on summer excursions around the mainland”s bay? I crept on by without looking, putting my foot on the first step up through the little cloister of trees, heading for the hilltop.

”Steps” was a romanticized version of most of the stone outcroppings, with grass growing between them and on the path in general on the other side of the trees. Now the house looked both bigger and smaller — peering over me, but no more than a single Norman tower and a little part like a stone cottage jutting to one side, with a shingled roof worse for wear. Except for that tiny homey bit, it looked like an ancient watchtower, with shutters over some windows: the complete opposite of Lewiston”s perfect preserved state in elegance. A castle indeed, but not one of princesses and parties.

The path wandered in the direction of a wide green acre with protruding stones, a rocky but short drop to the water at the bottom of a cliff”s lip. Picturesque, if forlorn, with its buried boulders and perfect view of the tower”s best side, with an old wooden door for entry.

A white handkerchief was fluttering on the ground ahead of me, with others like it, wrinkly and caught in the grass and the boulder”s outcroppings, others drifting near the rock edge. Almost like a box of facial tissues tipped from a window ledge, I thought. I picked up the white sheet, that of paper, and turned it over to see typed words.

I felt stunned. I reached for another one drifting by, caught it, and saw the same thing. Typed font, drifting letters, a few barely inked from a bad spot in the ribbon.

Paper. Typed pages, drifting across the grass. The fourth manuscript of Alistair Davies.