Anne Perry - A Christmas Grace

She looked down at the body. It was that of a young man, in his late twenties. His skin was ashen white, a little blue around the eye sockets and lips. His hair looked black in this lantern light, and it clung to his head, straggling across his brow. He was quite tall, probably slender under the seaman’s jacket and rough trousers. Above all, he was handsome. It was a dreamer’s face, a man with a world inside his head.

Emily wanted to ask if he was dead, against her will imagining how it had happened, but she dreaded the answer. She looked one by one at the ring of faces around her. They were motionless, gripped by pity, and more than that, by horror.

“Do you know him?” Emily asked, a sudden lull in the wind making it seem as if she were shouting at them.

“No,” they answered. “No…”

And yet she was certain that they were looking at something they had half expected to see. There was no surprise in them at all, no puzzlement, just a dreadful certainty.

“Is he dead?” she asked Father Tyndale.

“No,” Father Tyndale answered. “Here, Fergal, help me get him up on my shoulder, and I’ll carry him to Susannah’s. We’ll need to get him warm and dry. Maggie, will you stay with him? And Mrs. Radley, no doubt?”

“Yes, of course,” Emily agreed. “We’re by far the closest, and we have plenty of room.”

W hen they reached the house Susannah must have been up and looking out of the window, because she opened the door before anyone knocked. The young man was carried upstairs, awkwardly, booted feet scraping and numb hands knocking against the banisters. He was laid on the floor and the women asked to leave. Susannah had already put out a nightshirt, presumably one of Hugo’s she had kept. Emily wondered if she had kept all his clothes.

There were no sheets on the bed, only blankets. “Shall I—” Emily began.

“Blankets are warmer,” Susannah cut across her. “Sheets later, when the blood’s flowing again.” She looked down at the young man’s face and there was sadness in her own, and fear, as if something long-dreaded had happened at last.

Then they excused themselves and went to get bowls of hot soup for the men, and all the dry woolens and socks they could find. The men would all have to go back again. There could be more people washed up, dead or alive.

The rest of the night Emily spent taking turns with Maggie O’Bannion to watch the young man, rub his hands and feet, change the oven-warmed stones wrapped in cloths in the bed, and looking for any signs of returning consciousness. No one had any idea how much water he had swallowed, and there were dark bruises and abrasions on his chest, legs, and shoulders, as if he had been driven up against the wreckage again and again.

“I can’t manage two of you to nurse,” Maggie said tartly when Susannah tried to argue about staying to help. “Nor can Mrs. Radley. She’s come to visit you, not to watch you waste yourself away to no purpose.”

Susannah obeyed with a bleak smile, her eyes meeting Emily’s before she turned away.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have spoke harshly to her.” Maggie looked guilty. “But she’s—”

“I know,” Emily responded. “You did the right thing.”

Maggie smiled briefly and bent to wrap some hot stones in flannel. But Emily had seen the tension in her, the tight shoulders and the quick averting of her eyes.

Later, towards six o’clock in the morning, the young man still had not stirred, but he was definitely warmer and his pulse quite strong. It was not dawn yet and Emily set out to take more whiskey and hot meals down to the men waiting on the shore, watching for the sea to yield more bodies.

She found them easily by the yellow light of their lanterns. The waves were crashing like huge avalanches of water, breaking on the sand and roaring higher and higher as the tide swept in. They hissed out long white tongues of foam right into the grass, as if trying to tear out its roots.

Emily went first to Father Tyndale. In the yellow lantern light he looked exhausted, his large frame somehow hunch-shouldered, his face bleak.

“Ah, thank you, Mrs. Radley.” He accepted the hot drink, but took of it sparingly to leave plenty for the others. “It’s a hard night.” He did not look at her as he spoke but out over the ocean. “Has he woken yet?”

“No, Father. But he looks better.”

“Ah.”

She searched his expression, but the wavering light was deceptive and she could read nothing. He handed the flask back, and she took it to Brendan Flaherty, then Fergal O’Bannion, and on around the rest of them. Finally she walked back towards the house, so tired it was hard to keep upright against the wind. She thought of Jack at home in bed in London. How much was he missing her? Had he even the remotest idea what he had asked of her, he would not have done it—would he?

She slept for perhaps an hour. It seemed almost impossible to climb out of the depths of unconsciousness when Maggie shook her and spoke her name. At first Emily could not even remember where she was.

“He’s awake,” Maggie said quietly. “I’m going to get him something to eat. Perhaps you’d sit with him. He seems a bit distressed.”

“Of course.” Emily realized she still had most of her clothes on, and she was stiff as if she had walked miles. Then she remembered the storm. The wind was howling and keening in the eaves, but less violently than before. “Did he say anything? Did you tell him he was the only one?” she asked.

“Not yet. I’m not sure how he’ll take it.” Maggie looked guilty, and Emily knew she was afraid to do it. She shivered and reached for her shawl. In all that had happened last night, she had not thought to add peat to the fire, and it had gone out. The air was chill.

She went to the room where the young man was, knocked, and went in without waiting for an answer. He was lying propped against the pillows, his face still ashen, eyes dark and hollow. She walked over and stood beside him.

“Maggie’s gone to get you something to eat,” she said. “My name is Emily. What is yours?”

He thought for several moments, blinking solemnly. “Daniel,” he said at last.

“Daniel who?”

He shook his head and winced as though it hurt. “I don’t know. All I can remember is the water all around me. And men calling out, fighting, to…to stay alive. Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’m sorry, but you were the only one we found. We stayed on the beach all night, but no one else was washed up.”

“They all drowned?” he said slowly.

“I’m afraid it seems so.”

“All of them.” There was deep pain in his face and his voice was very quiet. “I can’t remember how many there were. Five or six, I think.” He looked at her. “I can’t even think of the ship’s name.”

“I expect it’ll come back to you. Give yorself a little time. Do you hurt anywhere?”

He smiled with a grim humor. “Everywhere, as if I’d taken the beating of my life. But it’ll pass.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again they were full of tears. “I’m alive.” He reached out his hands, strong and slender, and clasped them over the softness of the quilt, digging into its warmth.

Maggie came in with a dish of porridge and milk. “Let me help you with this,” she offered. “I daresay it’s long enough since you had anything inside you.” She sat down and held the bowl in her hands, offering him the spoon. Emily saw that in spite of the fact that she was smiling, her knuckles were white.

Daniel looked at her and clasped the spoon. Slowly he filled it and raised it to his mouth. He swallowed, then took some more.