Chapter 7
Chapter 7
At the sight of Abigail sitting on a chair outside her house, knitting furiously in the sunshine, Oliver stopped in his tracks.
He had not revealed the whole story to Emma when they’d spoken about Abigail earlier. He’d refrained from describing Abigail’s troubling possessiveness, and that she was either fawning over him—caring for him like mother cares for beloved sick child—or she was cross with him for getting out of bed or, heaven forbid, leaving the house. Over the past week, Oliver had grown all too familiar with the many shades of her temperament, both light and dark. Her husband, Philip, seemed only to experience the spiteful version of his embittered wife. She was openly critical of Philip at the dinner table, often asking why he didn’t do something he was supposed to do, or complaining about the way in which he did it. She never let anything go. It was embarrassing for Philip and equally awkward for Oliver as their dinner guest.
He took a deep breath to prepare himself, because he had the uneasy feeling that she’d been waiting for him all morning and he was about to get an earful of her disapproval.
Crossing the sandy yard toward her, he kept his eyes on the ground. When he drew near, Abigail lowered her knitting needles and, without a word, glared up at him.
“Good morning,” he said, fully aware that she was in a huff and wanted him to know it.
“You were up early,” she said with a lift of her chin, waiting for him to explain himself.
“I went riding with Emma,” he told her bluntly. “She wanted to show me the wild horses before I left.”
“How nice for you.” Abigail’s tone was vindictive. It was clear she wanted to punish him.
Suddenly he felt fatigued, weary of her constant need to know his whereabouts, as if she owned some part of him or as if he owed her something for her care of him—tending to his injuries, cooking for him, anticipating his every need. He hadn’t asked for such devoted attention, but now it seemed she expected some form of fidelity in return.
He fought to conceal his annoyance because he’d appreciated her nursing skills and hospitality. Truly, he did. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting at breakfast.”
“No, I saw that you’d gone out,” she replied, “so I cooked only enough for myself. But I suppose you’re hungry now.” There it was again—the spite and malice, as if she wanted to pick a fight and she was waiting for him to punch back.
“No need to trouble yourself,” he replied courteously. “I’ll just make a cup of tea.”
His politeness knocked her down a notch, and she rose from her chair and followed him into the house, hovering. “Don’t be silly. I’ll get it for you, and maybe there’s some porridge left over on the stove.”
They entered the kitchen, and she set the kettle to boil while Oliver served himself some cold porridge from the pot. When the tea was adequately steeped, Abigail poured a cup for each of them and sat across from him at the table.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” she said.
“Yes.”
When he offered nothing more, she cleared her throat. “I can’t believe how fast the time went.”
“I agree.” He thought of the night of the wreck. The terror, the deadly threat of the violent breakers, the loss of a member of his crew, which still pained him. “Life on the Belvedere is still very fresh in my mind.”
“Are you worried about what will happen when you reach the mainland?” she asked. “That you’ll be blamed for it?”
“That’s quite likely.”
Abigail leaned back in her chair. “As far as I’m concerned, you were a hero that night. You refused to abandon your ship, which was the honorable thing to do.”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. “There was nothing honorable about it. Because of me, your crew was forced to make a second trip out to fetch me. Others could have died.”
She studied him with what appeared to be enthrallment. “Why did you stay behind?”
Oliver’s brow furrowed. There was something malicious in the set of her jaw, the dark glimmer in her eyes. It struck him as a hunger for confessions of misery and lost hope, perhaps even self-destruction, but not because she wanted to relieve his suffering. To the contrary, she wanted to bask in it. To share in it. Witness it for herself.
“Does it have something to do with your shame?” she asked, pressing further.
“Shame over what?” Oliver was growing increasingly infuriated.
“Over abandoning your wife and children,” she replied.
She might as well have hit him in the head with a steel mallet. She was taking far too much pleasure in this. It was perverse, and he could no longer tolerate it.
“Abigail,” he firmly said. “This isn’t something I wish to discuss with you.”
“Why not? Wait, let me guess. You’ve already discussed it with Emma when she asked you the same question.”
He refused to answer. He merely sipped his tea.
Abigail scoffed. “Everyone’s talking about it, you know. The time you’ve been spending with her. It’s disgusting, if you ask me. You’re a married man, and she’s far too young for you. You’re making a fool of yourself, Captain Harris, and you’ll spoil her chances for a decent future if you’ve already ruined her.”
He set his teacup onto the saucer with a noisy clatter. “What do you mean, ruined her?”
Abigail sat forward, looking like a hissing cat. “Oh please. No one believes you’re just friends. And her father—God help that idiotic man if he thinks he can keep her in a cage. She’s wild, but he can’t see it. He’s blind as a bat.”
Oliver slid the teacup and saucer away from him and stood. “That’s enough, Abigail.”
“Should we place bets on how many crew members she’s been with?” Abigail stood and followed him to the back door, pecking at him with her words. “I can’t wait to watch you at the party tonight. She’ll be all over you, and you won’t be able to resist her because she’s young and beautiful. And you’ll leave here telling yourself that you can forget what happened here, because this place is another planet to you. But you’ll remember, and your crew will remember. So will I and everyone else here. The dishonor will follow you. And her . Mark my words!”
Oliver pushed the door open and walked out. “Thanks for the tea.”
She shouted after him mockingly. “You have no soul, Captain Harris! You only want pretty things!”
Oliver thought of what he’d learned about Abigail that morning, and strove to be as forgiving as Emma, but he couldn’t bring himself to see Abigail as anything other than a jealous and vengeful woman.
As hostess of the party, Emma could barely find a moment to sit down. She’d set drinks and snacks on the kitchen table so that everyone could help themselves, but there was always something that someone needed or wanted—a straw, a towel to sop up a spilled drink, or a safety pin for one thing or another.
When Captain Harris finally arrived, almost an hour late, she was at the sink, filling a pitcher of water for a fresh batch of orange juice from canned concentrate. At the sound of his voice in the foyer, her heart exploded with excitement and anticipation. He soon took a seat in the great room next to her father, and they became engaged in a spirited conversation about fishing rights on the Grand Banks.
When at last Emma escaped her duties in the kitchen—and the rowdy kitchen crowd—she moved into the great room. The captain was so absorbed in his conversation with her father that he didn’t even look up or say hello to her.
Emma sat down on the sofa next to June Shaw, wife of the lighthouse keeper at East Station. It was not often that they saw each other, so they had much to catch up on.
Then Frank O’Reilly joined them. Emma spoke to him for a while, grateful for an excuse to remain in the great room, but she was distracted by the captain and hurt by his aloofness. He kept his back to her the entire evening, and not once did he make eye contact.
Much later, when the kitchen cleared out, June offered to help Emma wash the dishes and put away the food. When the dishes were done and all the young men had left to play cards at the staff house, Emma returned to the great room.
It was empty except for her father. “Where’s the captain?”
“He went off to the staff house with the men,” her father replied casually, as if it were nothing.
Emma blinked a few times, stunned. Then the news fell like broken glass into her heart. She sank onto the sofa.
Why had Captain Harris avoided her all night? Perhaps she’d revealed too much of herself that morning and he’d recognized her infatuation and didn’t wish to lead her on. Had she behaved foolishly, like a childish girl, crying over a dead horse? Clearly lovesick and besotted by an older man of the world?
June entered the room and sat down to wait for her husband to return from the card game. Emma spent the next hour listening to her father advise June about her husband’s Sable Island contract and how to set goals for the future.
Emma listened to all this with polite interest, but inside, her mind was screaming. She was restless and agitated, itching to dash out the door, run to the staff house, and join the card game.
When June’s husband returned and announced it was time to head home to East Station, she and her father walked them to the door and waved as they drove away in their horse-drawn cart. Then her father turned to Emma.
“You were an excellent hostess tonight. The party was a resounding success, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Now I’m off to dreamland. Big day tomorrow. Good night.”
Emma watched him go upstairs. Then, discreetly, after waiting for him to close the door to his bedroom, she slipped out of the house and walked briskly across the station yard. Laughter and hooting from inside the staff house told her that the card games were still in full swing. She could barely contain the fervor in her heart. A clock was ticking in her mind. There were so few hours left before the supply ship would arrive and take the captain away.
She knocked on the door and entered.
Frank, who sat at the far end of the table, looked up from his hand. “Emma! Come in!” He rose from his chair. “Can I get you a root beer?”
She glanced around the table, searching for the captain, but he was not among the players, nor was he in the common area with the others.
“No, thank you,” she replied. “I only came to say good night and wish you all the best for tomorrow.”
“But you’ll come to the beach and see us off, won’t you?” one of the Belvedere men asked.
It was difficult to speak with good cheer when she was drowning in disappointment, but she gave it her best. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of not being there.” After a brief pause, she added, “Is the captain around?”
“He’s gone to bed,” someone told her. “He’s not much a cardplayer. He likes his books too much.”
A few of the other men nudged each other, so Emma backed toward the door and gave them a friendly salute. “Good night, then, gentlemen. Don’t stay up too late. You won’t want to miss the boat tomorrow.”
“Don’t even say it!” someone shouted, and the others laughed and moaned about that appalling scenario.
Emma walked out, shut the door behind her, and glanced around the dark station yard. It was a clear night. The stars were shining. The distant crash of the waves on the beach called out to her, and she wondered if the captain was there, standing in the moonlight, waiting for her to come to him. They’d made no such arrangement, but she clung to the hope that he might wish to share another hour with her, privately, before he departed.
Her pulse thrummed, and she hastened across the station yard to the high dune, her body fueled by anticipation as she climbed to the top. Out of breath, she stood beneath the star-speckled sky and scanned the beach below, but there was nothing but sand and ocean, the whitecapped waves in constant motion beneath the gravitational power of the moon.
Disheartened, she sat down on the cool sand, among the tall marram grass, and hugged her knees to her chest. Below, foaming waves rolled onto the beach, one after the other, in a never-ending rhythm. She looked up at the clear night sky—a sure sign that the rescue ship would not be detained by weather. Philip had promised that tomorrow would be a good day for the landing.
Emma should have been happy for the shipwrecked crew of the Belvedere and their captain, but all she felt was sorrow, as bottomless and unfathomable as the ocean that constantly reshaped this lonely island—every second, every moment, every day, month, and year. Nothing was ever predictable. Nor did anything in life, for better or worse, remain the same.
The following day, the sky was a dense blue and cloudless, the sun blinding. The Argyle laid anchor about a mile off North Beach. All residents of the island gathered for the unscheduled Boat Day, which included the delivery of supplies—an efficient use of drained government resources after the long war in Europe.
Emma stood on the breezy beach with the others, waiting by the horse-drawn carts for barrels of salt and flour and giant sacks of potatoes. The staff men, despite their late-night card playing, were full of energy and eager to deliver the Belvedere crew to their rescue ship.
Emma shared none of their excitement. Her heart was an anchor plunging into the deep. Where was Captain Harris? Why was he not here?
Her father moved about, greeting everyone personally in his typical friendly fashion. Again, he complimented Emma on the success of the party the night before.
Joseph, the chief staff man, approached. Feigning a casual curiosity, she turned to her father. “I haven’t seen Captain Harris yet. We can’t let the ship leave without him.”
Her father laughed. “Goodness, no! I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” He leaned toward Joseph. “Unless Abigail has him strapped to the staircase railing.”
Joseph laughed, and Emma wondered if people were making jokes like that about her .
A small surfboat from the Argyle motored onto the beach, and the men set to work in the sunshine, unloading crates and barrels. Once that was done, five men from the Belvedere stepped aboard, and off they went, bounding over the blue swells and waving their hats in goodbye as they grew distant.
Emma turned and looked around for Captain Harris. Finally, she spotted him, walking up the beach from the direction of the Belvedere . Even from a quarter mile away, she recognized his masculine gait.
If she were not so heartsick, she would have waited on the beach with the others, but her emotions were running wild. She couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to him forever. How could she waste precious minutes, simply standing there with a sick feeling in her belly, while he crossed the long distance? She yearned to be near him, touch him, talk to him, and perhaps even arrange to see him again, somehow. Perhaps she could travel to England one day. Or if she lived on the mainland, attending university, he might dock in Halifax.
The alternative—never seeing him again—was unthinkable. It sent her mind into a fighting frenzy. She began to panic, so she excused herself from the others and trudged fast through the deep sand to meet him halfway.
The long walk was torturous.
“Hello, Emma,” he said, apprehensively, as he finally drew near.
The sound of his voice and the striking sight of him in the morning light made her realize there was so much of the world—so much of life —that she had not yet experienced. An entire universe of the unknown presented itself in the man before her, who aroused her passions in ways she’d never imagined.
Out of breath, Emma stopped. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you last night,” she said in a rush of words. “You left without saying goodbye, or even looking at me. Why did you do that?”
Anxious and desperate, she waited for him to explain. Perhaps he was as confused as she by what was happening between them. Or maybe she was living in a fantasy world, and he’d avoided her because he’d realized she’d developed a childish and inappropriate crush on him.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “But it seemed best not to socialize. I think people were starting to notice.”
“Notice what?”
“That we ...” He paused. “That we’d grown fond of each other.”
The words were a balm to her aching heart, and it took a moment for her to settle down and start again, less desperate now. “Yes,” she said. “I am fond of you. So much more than I expected to be.”
It felt lovely to say it, to speak the truth at last.
Exhaling heavily, the captain faced the water. “I understand, and I do feel an affection for you, but I’m leaving today, so you need to put that aside.”
Her hopes took a sudden dive, like the surfboats cresting a frothy white wave, then descending down the other side of the mountain. “Why?”
He spoke sharply. “Because I’m a married man, too old for you, and—”
“You’re not too old,” she argued, “and your wife chose a life with someone else. Doesn’t that give you the freedom to—”
He turned on her. “ I’m the one to blame for that.” For a few shuddering seconds, his expression was almost frightening, his eyes full of torment. “Either way, it doesn’t give me the freedom to ...”
He stopped and faced the ocean again. The steady breeze lifted his dark hair, and the morning sunshine, from the east, illuminated his profile.
“To what?” she pressed.
“To do what I want.”
She closed her eyes and felt her body slump in defeat. “That makes no sense.”
“I don’t know how else to say it, Emma.”
She struggled to decipher what he was truly feeling. “Is it because you don’t believe you deserve happiness?”
He shook his head and met her gaze. “You’re overanalyzing this, when it’s perfectly simple. I’m a married man, and you’re a young single woman, and it’s not right.”
“But—”
“I can’t give you what you want.”
She fought to bring her breathing under control. “And what do you think that is?”
He took his time to consider how best to answer the question. “Commitment,” he finally said. “Companionship. A proper future. I’m not that man, and you know it.”
Her heart slammed against her rib cage, and she wanted to cry out mournfully. “I don’t believe you.”
Dear God! This was probably the last conversation she would ever have with him, and she couldn’t let him leave without making him see how desperately she loved him. He needed to understand how happy they could be together. But heaven help her, she was paralyzed. There wasn’t enough time. She couldn’t find the words.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to go.” He started walking toward the other people, the horses and wagons and supplies coming off the surfboats.
“Please, wait!” Emma hurried to keep up with his long, purposeful strides. “I feel things for you I’ve never felt before, and I don’t know what to make of it or what I’ll do with myself after you’re gone.”
“There’s nothing for you to do,” he replied, “except forget about me and live your life.”
“But I’ll miss you,” she told him, slogging through the deep sand. “I won’t be able to stand it.” She knew she was begging, and she sounded pathetic, but she couldn’t help herself. There was no more time to be subtle.
Captain Harris strode faster, seeming determined to escape the awkwardness and discomfort of this conversation. “Focus on your future, Emma. You’ll do well at school. I have no doubt about that.”
She couldn’t take it anymore. She caught his sleeve in a tight fist, tugged at it, and forced him to stop and turn. “Please, tell me. Do you have feelings for me beyond fondness? Or am I just dreaming? Am I a child to you?”
She needed to know what he felt. She needed truth.
His blue eyes settled on her face. He grimaced slightly, and Emma felt a heavy pressure on her chest, a sensation that was emotionally crushing.
“Emma,” he said. “You have so much growing up to do.”
The look of compassion in his eyes was the ultimate humiliation. She stood motionless and embarrassed. Oh, God ... all those foolish fantasies ...
“I’m sorry if I made you think there was anything more than friendship between us,” he added.
She closed her eyes briefly, squared her shoulders, and groped for whatever was left of her shredded dignity. “Please don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. I just ... I misunderstood things.”
He said nothing more, but he didn’t walk away.
Suddenly, her pride bucked and roared. Emma lifted her chin. “You should go. You don’t want to miss that boat.”
He turned his gaze toward the others on the beach.
“Go on,” she said fiercely. “I’m fine here. I understand everything you’ve said to me, and I appreciate your honesty. I needed to hear that. Now I just want to be alone for a few minutes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He continued to hesitate until it became unbearable.
“Please go,” she implored, clinging to her pride.
“All right.” He held out his hand. “Goodbye, Emma. It was a pleasure to know you.”
Swallowing hard, she accepted the hand he offered and shook it. “Likewise.”
His hand was strong and warm, and she made every effort to remember how it felt, to imprint it on her mind forever. Then she forced herself to pull away from him because she wanted the rest of this parting to be swift. She couldn’t bear it any other way—the slow, agonizing ravaging of her heart.
The captain finally turned and left her standing alone on the beach with the cruel ocean wind whipping at her hair. She watched him walk away, and although she tried, she still could not accept that she would never see him again. Everything in her heart and soul cried otherwise—that this was not over, and somehow the connection they’d shared would continue to exist, even from afar.
As she began to walk in the other direction, the terns darted and screeched incessantly over their colony on the dune. They always seemed so riled up. So incensed. That morning, Emma felt completely in tune with them.