Chapter 3
Wind was a constant on Sable Island, but storms like this reminded Emma that she and her fellow residents were merely guests in this place, at the mercy of Mother Nature. Those cruel, immortal waves would continue to break upon these shores long after they were gone.
After returning from sandwich duty, she sat on the sofa in the great room at home, staring numbly at the window and listening to the house creak in the mighty gusts from the north, like an old ship at sail. She thought of the countless lives that had been lost in the wrecks that surrounded the island. They were all buried in the sandbars, not far beneath the ocean floor. TheBelvederewas the most recent, but it would not be the last.
She wondered how the captain was faring and wished Abigail would call.
A sudden loud rapping at the back door caused Emma to jump. She rose from the sofa and hurried to the kitchen, where her father was already pulling the door open.
“Philip,” he said. “Come inside. How are the men holding up?”
Philip entered the house, wiped his boots on the welcome mat, and lowered the hood of his coat. “They’re in good spirits, surprisingly. They have exciting stories to tell, and the staff men are gobbling them up.”
Emma could smell whiskey on his breath from halfway across the kitchen. “How’s the captain?” she asked.
Philip removed his glasses, reached into his shirt pocket for a handkerchief, and wiped the salty film from the lenses. “I haven’t been home yet. I thought I’d stop in here first.”
Her father turned to her. “Put the kettle on, will you, darling?”
Emma moved to the stove, picked up the kettle, and filled it at the sink.
“Frank has been keeping in touch with the mainland,” Philip said, “and they still can’t predict when it’ll be safe to reach us. They’re aware of the situation with the captain and want to be kept informed of any changes in his condition.”
“When can we call Abigail?” Emma asked.
“Be patient,” her father replied testily, and she rubbed at her brow, resenting the reprimand.
“The men are concerned about him,” Philip added. “But some seem more worried about their own welfare if he doesn’t make it—worried they’ll be blamed for leaving him behind when the first rescue boat came.”
Her father invited Philip to sit down at the table. “They said it was his choice and they were just following orders.”
“So they say.”
The telephone rang, and Emma rushed to answer it. “Superintendent’s residence.”
“Hello, Emma. It’s Abigail. Put your father on.”
“One moment.” Her pulse accelerated as she handed the phone to him.
“John Clarkson speaking. Hello, Abigail.” He listened and nodded while Emma fiddled with her locket, impatient for news.
“That sounds promising,” he finally said.
Emma felt a great release of tension in her muscles and bones.
Her father listened for a few more seconds. “Yes, Philip just arrived. He’ll stay for a while. Emma is making tea.” He paused. “Thank you, Abigail. I appreciate the call.” He hung up the telephone and turned to face them. “He’s awake.”
Emma pressed both her open hands to her chest. “Thank God.”
“He’s drowsy and confused,” her father continued, “and having some memory problems, but Abigail says that’s normal after a seizure. She still needs to keep an eye on him, but she feels any life-threatening danger isn’t as imminent as we thought.”
The kettle hissed, and Emma removed it from the burner. “Can I go over there and see if she needs any help?”
But even as she asked the question, she knew she wouldn’t be welcome. Abigail was not a sociable person. She preferred to do most things on her own.
Philip gave her a sidelong glance that suggested he had the same opinion about his wife.
“I don’t see why not,” her father replied, oblivious as usual to the complexities of the female mind. “But don’t make a nuisance of yourself. By the sounds of things, the captain probably doesn’t have the strength for visitors.”
