Read Online Lighthouse Bay by Kimberley Freeman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kimberley Freeman
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She has glimpsed Mr. Harrow and the Captain in the corridor, both soaked to the bone even with the protection of their moleskins, their shoes squelching, and she fights the superstitious fear that the bad weather has come because she has stopped making her daily pact with the sea.
The Captain in particular looks haunted. She can’t imagine why; he has surely been through bad weather before. She wishes she could ask Mr. Harrow what is going on, but she dare not in case Arthur sees. She could ask Arthur, but that would mean talking to him.
Isabella sometimes tries to remember a time when she didn’t hate Arthur, and perhaps there was a brief moment, when she was expecting Daniel. For a few months, he softened. He was pleased that she had a child on the way so soon. Pleased in the way that somebody might be pleased with a dog who has fetched his slippers, perhaps, but pleased nonetheless. He’d brought the enamel pansy brooch home from work one day, on a whim, to give her. She’d even worn it for a while, so relieved was she that his sternness seemed to be dissipating. Hopeful, even, that being wedded to him for life might not be the misery she anticipated.
Yes, she liked him for a little while. He still seemed remote and terse, but she thought she saw in him the makings of a good father: one who might dote upon the baby with her. When Daniel was born, he didn’t live up to that fond dream.
The first time Arthur saw Daniel, Isabella was in bed, dozing.It was late afternoon and Daniel was sleeping peacefully, three days old, his tiny fists lying soft around his ears, his little mouth puckered up and sucking on an imaginary breast. Arthur came in with a thump and a clatter at the door, and said to her, “Why are you in bed at four o’clock?”
She startled awake, but Daniel slept on. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” she said. “I am so very tired. The little one wakes all through the night.”
“Then you should have a wet nurse as I suggested. You can’t lie around in bed all day like a slattern.”
The idea of somebody else feeding her child was abhorrent to her. She sat up, trying to gather herself: a difficult task as she’d given birth only a few days before and she was sore and seemed to leak from everywhere at once. “Please, Arthur. Just let me mother him the way I choose.”
“Well, if you are determined, and I see you are, ensure that you speak to my mother. She raised two sons and I wager she never once slept in the daytime.”
Isabella would sooner eat poison than ask his mother for advice. The first Mrs. Winterbourne has all the outward appearance of an angel: soft curves, fair curling hair, wide blue eyes and a bovine smile, but beneath that surface she is made of wire and stones. Isabella has never told Arthur how, on the evening of their wedding dinner, Mrs. Winterbourne took her aside and told her she thought Arthur had married beneath him, and she’d best paddle as hard as she could to catch up with the manners and comportment that her sons were born to. She has never told him because she suspects he would probably agree. Every one of his family would agree, especially unctuous Percy and the trembling mouse he calls his wife.
Arthur paced over to the cradle. A late-afternoon sunbeam fell through the shutter and lit the creamy lace sheets, and illuminatedher son’s impossibly soft cheek. “I don’t want him to be soppy,” he said.
“He is only new in the world,” she murmured. “Let him be soft awhile.”
Arthur folded his hands behind his back, as though fearful he would be tempted to pick the child up otherwise. He pushed his lips into a pout as he surveyed his son, much the way she’d seen him consider the cut of a diamond. “He is smaller than I thought he would be.”
“Just under seven pounds,” she said.
And that was it. He turned, hands still folded behind his back, and left the room. She rose and leaned over Daniel’s cradle, stroked the fluff on his warm head, breathed his
The Captain in particular looks haunted. She can’t imagine why; he has surely been through bad weather before. She wishes she could ask Mr. Harrow what is going on, but she dare not in case Arthur sees. She could ask Arthur, but that would mean talking to him.
Isabella sometimes tries to remember a time when she didn’t hate Arthur, and perhaps there was a brief moment, when she was expecting Daniel. For a few months, he softened. He was pleased that she had a child on the way so soon. Pleased in the way that somebody might be pleased with a dog who has fetched his slippers, perhaps, but pleased nonetheless. He’d brought the enamel pansy brooch home from work one day, on a whim, to give her. She’d even worn it for a while, so relieved was she that his sternness seemed to be dissipating. Hopeful, even, that being wedded to him for life might not be the misery she anticipated.
Yes, she liked him for a little while. He still seemed remote and terse, but she thought she saw in him the makings of a good father: one who might dote upon the baby with her. When Daniel was born, he didn’t live up to that fond dream.
The first time Arthur saw Daniel, Isabella was in bed, dozing.It was late afternoon and Daniel was sleeping peacefully, three days old, his tiny fists lying soft around his ears, his little mouth puckered up and sucking on an imaginary breast. Arthur came in with a thump and a clatter at the door, and said to her, “Why are you in bed at four o’clock?”
She startled awake, but Daniel slept on. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” she said. “I am so very tired. The little one wakes all through the night.”
“Then you should have a wet nurse as I suggested. You can’t lie around in bed all day like a slattern.”
The idea of somebody else feeding her child was abhorrent to her. She sat up, trying to gather herself: a difficult task as she’d given birth only a few days before and she was sore and seemed to leak from everywhere at once. “Please, Arthur. Just let me mother him the way I choose.”
“Well, if you are determined, and I see you are, ensure that you speak to my mother. She raised two sons and I wager she never once slept in the daytime.”
Isabella would sooner eat poison than ask his mother for advice. The first Mrs. Winterbourne has all the outward appearance of an angel: soft curves, fair curling hair, wide blue eyes and a bovine smile, but beneath that surface she is made of wire and stones. Isabella has never told Arthur how, on the evening of their wedding dinner, Mrs. Winterbourne took her aside and told her she thought Arthur had married beneath him, and she’d best paddle as hard as she could to catch up with the manners and comportment that her sons were born to. She has never told him because she suspects he would probably agree. Every one of his family would agree, especially unctuous Percy and the trembling mouse he calls his wife.
Arthur paced over to the cradle. A late-afternoon sunbeam fell through the shutter and lit the creamy lace sheets, and illuminatedher son’s impossibly soft cheek. “I don’t want him to be soppy,” he said.
“He is only new in the world,” she murmured. “Let him be soft awhile.”
Arthur folded his hands behind his back, as though fearful he would be tempted to pick the child up otherwise. He pushed his lips into a pout as he surveyed his son, much the way she’d seen him consider the cut of a diamond. “He is smaller than I thought he would be.”
“Just under seven pounds,” she said.
And that was it. He turned, hands still folded behind his back, and left the room. She rose and leaned over Daniel’s cradle, stroked the fluff on his warm head, breathed his
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