In the Eye of the Storm (Storm and Silence 2)

‘E!’

Yes!

‘He’s alive?’ Crossing the distance between myself in the signaller in the fraction of a second, I grabbed him by his lapels and shook him. ‘He’s alive! Tell me, where is he? Blast you, tell me where he is!’

The Sister-Cousin-Fiancée-Secretary-Dogsbody

I reached the small village of St. Margaret's at Cliffe that same evening, just as the sun was setting. A dinghy set me ashore on the beach, beyond where the cliff ended.

‘Are you sure you don’t want us to accompany you up to the village, Miss Linton?’ the captain asked. He had insisted on coming ashore with me. ‘If the gentleman needs anything, or if you can’t find the way…’

‘No, thank you. I’ll take care of everything myself from here on.’

‘Well… if you’re sure.’

‘Absolutely sure, Captain.’

If it wasn’t really Mr Ambrose who had been washed ashore, I didn’t want the captain there to see me crumble. And if it was him… Well, I didn’t want anyone around for that meeting.

‘Very well.’ The captain bowed. ‘Farewell, Miss Linton.’

‘You, too, Captain.’

Captain Crockford barked a few orders, and two sailors pushed the dinghy away from the shore. Not long after, it was moving back towards the dark shape of the ship, contrasted sharply against the flames of the sunset.

I didn’t stay to watch the dinghy disappear. Instead, I turned and started marching up the beach towards the twinkling lights of the village. After only a few paces, I stopped marching and started trudging instead, the sand shifting and scraping under my thin, and still damp, shoes.

‘Dash it all! Couldn’t that arrogant son of a bachelor manage to be washed ashore on a paved stretch of shore?’

The night remained silent, unsympathetic to my trials and tribulations. The walking became easier once I was across the beach and on the path up to the village, but by that time my socks were already full of sand. Muttering a few more unladylike expletives, I considered how Mr Ambrose would react if I were to ask him for three days sick leave because of footsoreness.

Hm. Probably not a very good idea.

The village at the end of the path was tiny. It didn’t take me long to find the vicarage, and after I knocked, it was only a few moments before the door swung open, and a portly little man with glasses blinked out at me, obviously confused at finding a strange female on his doorstep.

‘Um… yes, my dear? How can I help you?’

‘Are you Vicar Dawson?’ I asked, although his white collar really made the question rather redundant.

‘Um… Yes. I suppose so. Most of my parishioners seem to think so, at least.’

‘Good evening, Vicar.’ I made the best curtsy I could manage in a damp dress and sand-filled socks. Judging from the vicar’s expression, my efforts didn’t exactly come up to scratch. ‘You found a man on the beach earlier today, I believe?’

‘Yes, indeed, Miss… err…’

‘Linton. Lilly Linton.’

‘Yes indeed, Miss Linton. The poor soul was half-drowned and unconscious, clutching a piece of wreckage as if it were the railing of Noah’s Ark itself.’

I stepped forward, eagerly. ‘Did he wake up? Did he tell you his name?’

‘Why?’ the vicar asked, with obvious curiosity. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I can’t very well say until I know what his name is, can I!’

‘Oh. Of course. How silly of me.’

‘Well? Did he tell you who he was?’