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Mr. Scollard raised his head and scowled. “I can tell you you’re as impatient as Rory. And, in your case, it’s even more a hindrance. Patience is an ally you’ll need in the weeks to come. Patience of the head and the heart. So learn some.”
“Yes, sir.” Courtney didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The only thing she did know was that Mr. Scollard was correct. In his assessment and his cure. Patience. After almost twenty years, she’d have to acquire some. “Take your time,” she requested. “I’ll have another cup of tea.”
“Good idea.” Those penetrating blue eyes bore into her, watched her refill her cup, then drain it. “You’re a brave girl. It’s good your strength is nearly renewed, because you’re going to need it. Every bit of it.”
The saucer struck the table with a thud. “Are you saying Papa is gone?”
“Gone? An interesting term. Gone he is—from eyes, from ears. But from mind? From heart? Not gone. Some ties can be broken. Others cannot. Your job is to discern the difference.”
“Ties?” Courtney leaned forward. “What ties? Are you referring to physical bonds or spiritual ones?”
“If memories can’t be silenced, spiritual bonds can’t be broken. Not so with physical bonds. If.” Mr. Scollard snapped open the timepiece, studying the unmoving scene. “The ship seeks the lighthouse, yet it’s thwarted.”
“The watch stopped,” Courtney explained. “Then it moved—twice. What does it mean?”
“You’re confused. Don’t fight confusion. It usually gives way to enlightenment. What we see, what we hear, it all means something if we look long enough, patiently enough to fathom its purpose. Most difficult of all are the times we must wait for that purpose to find us. Those times require all the patience I just mentioned.”
“And is this one of those times?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Scollard.” Courtney inhaled sharply. “Please tell me. Is Papa alive?”
“That you’ll have to discover for yourself. My vision alone can’t help you. But another can.”
“Another? Another person? Who?”
“Listen with your heart. It won’t fail you.” So saying, Mr. Scollard snapped the case shut, handed the watch back to Courtney. “That tea should have done its job by now. You’d best be getting back to Pembourne. To prepare. For the end of one journey and the beginning of another.” He rose, reaching over to ruffle Aurora’s hair. “You, I’ll see tomorrow.”
Aurora’s brows knit in puzzlement. “Can’t I bring Courtney with me?”
“You may. But you can’t.” Mr. Scollard turned, studying Courtney with a far-reaching gleam in his eyes. “I won’t be seeing Miss Johnston for a time.” He lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Go with strength. Return with wisdom.”
For some unknown reason, tears filled Courtney’s eyes, a flash of insight telling her that the next time she sat in this room all would be changed.
“Change is essential
in order to grow, Courtney,” Mr. Scollard said quietly. He inclined his mop of white hair. “I can call you Courtney, can’t I? Given that you prefer it.”
“You can and you may,” she responded, attempting a smile.
His gaze delved deep inside her, as reassuring as it was perceptive, “Don’t doubt your strength, Courtney. Call upon it. It will serve you well.” So saying, he turned away, gathering up the china and replacing it on the tray. “Time to polish the lanterns. Before you know it, sunset will be upon us. Good day, ladies.”
Wiping his hands on his apron, he ascended the stairs to the tower and disappeared.
Courtney shifted in her garden chair, inhaling the fragrant scent of roses and lilacs, staring out across the darkening grounds of Pembourne. She clutched the timepiece in her lap, only minimally aware that the sun had long since faded, casting the garden in which she sat in shadows.
She’d been here for hours—ever since she and Aurora had made their silent trek back from the lighthouse—her mind besieged by questions. Aurora had somehow understood her need for solitude, merely squeezing her hand in unspoken support and leaving Courtney to her contemplations.
Other than Aurora, no one knew her whereabouts, a fact for which she was grateful. She had much to ponder, an abundance of soul-searching to conduct, a need triggered by Mr. Scollard’s profound assertions and equally profound implications.
Patience, he’d said. Strength. Ties that were able to be broken; others that were not. The end of one journey and the beginning of another.
Like wisps of smoke, fragments of Courtney’s intended course began unfurling inside her. At last, one piece of the puzzle—that which pertained to the onset of her impending journey—fell into place.
Her fingers tightened about the watch.
Papa. Two tears slid down her cheeks. You’ll never truly be gone. But ’tis up to me to make peace with myself, to discern physical from spiritual. Thus, I must take the first leg of the journey Mr. Scollard spoke of, to return to the spot where the nightmare began. Perhaps therein my answers will lie.
