Susan Wiggs - The Lightkeeper

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Granted.” She gave a little bob of her head.

“I mean, I didn’t follow you, madam. Are you asking me not to leave the room?”

“Aye, that I am.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I don’t want pictures of me put in any newspapers.”

Ah. So she was superstitious, then. Many immigrants brought their old-country beliefs with them; Palina and Magnus were proof of that. Quite a number thought it unlucky or even sacrilegious to produce graven images of themselves.

“Of course, now that you’re awake, there’s no need. You can simply tell me your name and destination. I’ll report that to—” he broke off, frowning down at her “Miss—er, Madam? Is there something wrong?”

She had begun to sway back and forth, her eyes glazing over. “I…feel strange all of a sudden. Higher than Gilderoy’s kite,” she said, her voice low and harsh. “Could you—that is, I need…”

Her words trailed off and she slumped to one side. Jesse dropped the camera, wincing as the lens cracked. Without breaking the flow of his movement, he dashed over to the bed, catching her by the shoulders and supporting her.

“Ma’am?” he asked. “Are you…all right?”

She made no response. She’d fallen unconscious again.

Jesse heaved a sigh of frustration. After settling her upon the pillows, he hesitated. Against his will, something inside him seemed to be bending toward her, reaching for her. He could not believe the impact of feeling her warm body curled against his, the tickle of her hair brushing his face and the scent of her, evocative and forbidden.

“Damn,” he swore between his teeth. She was everything he was trying to avoid.

As he tucked the quilts around the unconscious woman, his movements were slow, his hands gentle. He’d had no idea there was any tenderness left inside him.

The sooner he was rid of her, the better. He would send for Dr. MacEwan today to make certain this relapse wasn’t serious.

Amazingly, the one photographic plate he had taken remained intact. After developing the image, he would have a picture of the stranger. The amber tones would fail to capture the vivid richness of her red hair and her cream-and-roses coloring, not to mention the freckles, yet it would be a decent likeness.

Sleeping Beauty, he thought.

The hell with her superstitions. If she wouldn’t stay awake and tell him who she was, then he would publish her photograph and get the investigation started.

His boots crunched on earthenware shards from the shattered pitcher. In all the years Jesse had lived here, there had never been such a mess.

And she’d only been awake five minutes.

“Brass,” Palina said, hurling the word like an invective. “It is the bane of my existence.”

Jesse levered himself to the top of the ladder leading to the pinnacle of the lighthouse. In the lamp room, Palina and Magnus were well into the day’s chores. Palina was polishing the brass of the central compressor and cursing it, as usual.

“Why do they have to make everything out of brass, anyway?” she muttered, her wadded cloth making tight, neat circles in the fittings behind the reflector.

Magnus, who had his good arm deep inside the mouth of one of the eagle-headed water spouts under the eaves, winked at her. “So you can see your beautiful face in it everywhere you turn.”

“Humph,” Palina said, but the brass she was polishing reflected a blush and a smile. She worked a few moments longer, pausing to wave at Erik, who strode across the bluff toward the horse pasture.

Life at the lighthouse station suited Palina and Magnus perfectly, because they enjoyed each other’s company above all others. Erik fit easily into their world. They accepted their son’s affliction with a God-given, abiding patience Jesse would never understand. And the boy—seventeen last year—seemed happy enough.

“’Morning,” Jesse said to Palina and Magnus.

“’Morning, Jesse,” said Palina. “How is our little guest today, eh?”

Jesse picked up a can of oil and held it to the light, checking the purity. The lampwicks consumed nearly two hundred gallons a month, and each ounce had to be pure. “Now that,” he said, “depends.”

“Is she awake?”

“She woke up,” he said.

Both Magnus and Palina stopped what they were doing.

“And?” Magnus prompted.

“Well, she cursed at me and then she threw a pitcher at my head.”

Palina looked away quickly. “She must be confused, poor lamb.”

“The woman’s a menace.”

“Well, what did she tell you about herself?”

“Hardly a thing. She accused me of shooting at her when all I did was take her photograph to publish in the newspaper.”

“Ach, you frightened the little dear,” Palina said. “Here she is in a strange place, all alone, having lost God-knows-what in the way of family, and she wakes up to picture taking.”

“She didn’t seem so defenseless to me.”

“She was afraid,” Magnus said, reaching into the lantern to trim the wicks. He shook his head, thick gray hair falling across his brow. The crystal facets of the huge Fresnel lens distorted his good arm, making it appear disjointed and huge. “She probably lost her husband in the wreck.”

A knot of guilt formed in Jesse’s throat. He should have been more patient with the woman. “I left word with the harbormaster to find out the name of the ship that went down. We should hear something today.”

He hated this part of his job, hated it with a virulence that made him all the more determined to battle the sea for its victims. The waiting always got to him. He despised the course of events as it unfolded. The harbormaster would check all the schedules and manifests. Which ship was expected in the area? When was it due in port? Was it late? Then would come a list of the crew and passengers. And at each new stage of discovery, new grief would arise.

“She didn’t tell you the name of her ship?” Magnus asked.

“She didn’t even tell me her name.” Jesse set down the bucket of oil and sat on the floor, his feet resting on a rung of the ladder leading down to the mezzanine. “We barely had a chance to exchange words. Then she—I guess she overexerted herself and she sort of got dizzy and had to go back to bed.”

Magnus peered at him through so many layers of glass that it was hard to tell where the real Magnus was. “Overexerted? Now, what do you mean by that?”

The feeling of guilt sharpened. The sea—not a defenseless woman—was the enemy. He should be doing everything he could to help her. Instead, he’d let her presence stir up old, forgotten feelings inside him. None of this was her fault.

“She got upset,” he said.

“And what upset her?” Palina asked.

“The picture flash must have startled her. She has a bad temper.”

“Ah.” The tone of Palina’s voice spoke volumes.

“So you no longer hold the market on tempers,” Magnus added.

“I don’t have a goddamned temper,” Jesse said.

Palina rolled her eyes.

“Palina,” Jesse began.

She laughed. She was one of the few people who dared to laugh at him. “Captain Head Keeper, you would lose your temper if a leaf fell across your path. And this young woman is more than a leaf—”

“That’s it,” he said, getting up. “I’m moving her to your house today. You can take care of her. I clearly lack the proper temperament to minister to our delicate young guest.”

“No,” Magnus said. “You must keep her. When a man saves someone’s life, he is bound to ensure her survival. Whatever she needs, you must give her. Whatever it takes to heal her, you must provide. To disregard this would be terrible for you both—”