Chapter 23
Nighttime sweeps away the cobwebs of the day, leaving our minds a fresh slate.
I, having learned nothing the previous day, climb down the stone stairway to the shore upon first light and dip my toes into the water.
I cannot stay away, and the sea is never more glorious than when lit with the rosy sunrise.
My legs sting considerably less after a night wrapped in salve, which makes it easier to forgive the sea for tossing me about.
AJ was still rubbing sleep from his eyes when I kissed the top of his head and told him where I was going.
He mumbled some argument but then stopped and mashed his hands across his sleepy face.
“Telling you not to do a thing is akin to caging a wave. Go on then, but take care, will you? Perhaps I should—”
“I’ll be back soon,” I called before he could invite himself along. If the call to Henry Gould sets everything to rights, I wouldn’t wish AJ to know I’d doubted him. And if it doesn’t…well, I’ll need every ounce of sense I can muster, untainted by AJ’s presence.
I’m not alone in the inlet. Two children screech and run about, their ragged clothing flapping in the wind, long shadows cast over the sand. A poor fisherman’s children, most likely, yet they are richer in natural wonder than anyone living in Cheltenham’s finest neighborhoods.
I ache to bring Cecil here, to set him free on this rambling beach and let him splash and play, to be wet and dirty as children are meant to be.
I’d never send the boy away to school. Not even the best one.
I stoop to collect the most interesting shells.
He’ll be so pleased with these, especially the larger one.
The writer is across the beach today, huddled into his overcoat, hat low over his face. He’s hunched over a book, occasionally jotting something down before lifting his gaze to the sea again and staring out with that disillusioned look I feel to my bones.
I focus on the foamy sea, and my mind signals that yes, there should be a tower of some sort there, a rocky island cradling it in its palm. I can picture it so clearly.
I know for certain now. My memory wasn’t playing tricks before—it was remembering.
Everything about this beach, about Dunn Cottage, is familiar. My muscles know exactly where to walk, where to climb. Yet there’s another beach somewhere, one with that castle floating on the water, and that shore holds even more memories. More of my story.
I cross town to the Sloop. I hand my card to the publican and have my first jolt of reality—“Last call on that card, miss. Be quick now, or I’ll be chargin’ extra.”
I nod and follow him to the booth, but with each step, the world tilts.
That niggle I’ve ignored all night surfaces, insistent and menacing.
He connects the call and hands me the receiver, stepping out of the booth.
And suddenly, I don’t want to make this call, don’t want Gould to pick up the connection.
Marriage means peeling back layers, even the ones you don’t wish to see.
A buzz, and a click. Click. Click.
Silence. Another series of clicks, then his voice is on the line. The raw skin on my legs is stinging again as it dries with sea salt on it. “Merryn? Merryn, is it you?”
“Yes, it’s me. We must be quick.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“Only that AJ claims he has no investments, no ventures. He wouldn’t say much on the matter. The real question is…what have you found?” I hold my breath.
“I’m afraid the investments are the least of your worries, Merryn. Listen, you need to get away from him. Have you somewhere else to stay?”
I try to breathe, seeing Ansel in that cottage, his buoyancy taking up the whole space. My space. “Nowhere.”
“You’d best find something, and quick. Where are you?
Oh, never mind. I was working on traveling down to you, but it’s no good.
The trains to Cornwall aren’t running. A disastrous collision a few days ago and they’re still repairing the tracks.
Listen, I found out where Ansel came by his fortune.
Before you, he married a young heiress and then he killed her. Got off on a technicality.”
I tip backward and only the narrow booth holds me up. My Ansel?
“The daughter of some bank owner and a fine lady. He ran through her fortune, killed her when she confronted him, and then he apparently went on the hunt for another wife.”
Which is me. The booth is warm. Closed in. I cannot breathe.
“I—no. He isn’t—this simply isn’t true.”
“My associate handled the inquisition himself. Brutal death, it was. Merryn, there’s another complication. Sabine St. Laurent has offered to negotiate with you. She’s agreeing to the allowance Lady St. Laurent left you, but she will only call off her alienists if she can have Cecil.”
“No!” I clutch the cord. “She can’t. Henry, please stop her. Do whatever it takes.”
“Precisely what I told the judge. Lady St. Laurent wished you to manage the boy’s trust, and no one would carry out her wishes more explicitly. But—”
“But I’m mad.”
“No. It isn’t that. Placing the boy and his trust into your care would make them Ansel Winthrop’s as much as yours. Which means…”
I groan, sliding down the wall of the booth.
“So you understand the situation.”
“You’re certain? About AJ and—”
A pause. “Unfortunately. Which is why you need to recover your past, especially if that includes another husband who would release you from this alliance with AJ. Now tell me—”
“Time’s up, miss.” The publican sweeps back the curtain, fists on his hips.
“Look, I’ve got to disconnect. We’ll speak again.”
“Find your memories. I’m begging you. It’s the only thing that’ll save you from them both.”
I nod and break the connection, probably mumbling my thanks to the publican, and somehow stumbling out. Why can’t they open some windows? It’s quite stuffy in here.
So are the people. They’re staring at me, watching me cross the room. They must think I’ve fallen into my cups. It’s morning, though. Who drinks in the morning?
I pause at the bar to collect my card, but of course there’s no money left on it.
“Want it back, miss?” the publican asks, card between two fingers.
I lean heavily on the bar. The card has Gould’s number on it. “Yes, I suppose I—” My gaze catches and focuses on a picture postcard with an image so stark that it’s as if my memory has spit it out. “What’s this? What…what is it?”
“Postcard, luv.” His voice is gentle. He pities me. “You post it with a few lines and—”
“No, no. I mean, the castle. Where was this photograph taken?” It’s tall and elegant, surrounded by the foamy sea, cupped in the palm of craggy rocks.
“Why, that be St. Michael’s Mount, miss. Likely taken from Newlyn.”
“Newlyn.” I know that word. I taste the familiar flavor of it on my lips. Where have I heard it? “What’s Newlyn?”
“Coastal town across the peninsula, due south. Home of a pretentious artist colony. We’ve got the better artists, we ’ave. Don’ let anyone tell ’ee otherwise.”
“Artists,” I mumble, for that strikes something, too. “Artists from Newlyn.” I shake my head. “Where can I find this…St. Michael’s Mount?”
“Why, it’s out Marazion way,” he says, as if I should know such an obvious thing.
“Thank you, sir. Good day.”
It isn’t until I’m crossing the footpath that overlooks that private C-shaped inlet that the name sinks into its proper slot in my fractured memory. Newlyn. It’s where that writer Thom mentioned he’d seen my portrait hanging in a gallery.