Esther found herself in a partnership that was, if not exactly exciting, at least solid and dependable. She’d sometimes wondered if there might not be more to a marriage than the gentle affection that existed between them, but the fact of an honest, good man who loved her was not to be taken lightly. John was never going to surprise her (to delight her was more than one could reasonably hope for), but she knew others fared worse. All things considered, she counted herself a fortunate woman.
Teddy had come along before they had even been married a year and there had been no question, even on her part, of her taking up employment, nor of continuing her studies past her undergraduate degree. In the first year after his birth, she had thrown herself into motherhood with all of the zeal she had once reserved for her studies, determined to be the perfect mother, the good wife. Teddy, and John, wanted for nothing from her.
She refused to countenance an unspoken fear that her brain felt as if it was turning into the mush she spooned so tenderly into Teddy’s perfect waiting mouth. She found herself numbed by the routine of feeding and changing, and the daily outing with him in the large Silver Cross pram, pushing it around the hilly Hampstead streets. At the end of the day, when Teddy eventually went down to sleep, she was too exhausted to concentrate on anything very much. The words of even her favorite books swam in front of her.
Until today, she had only been apart from him once since his birth, and that was when his little brother arrived. Her breath caught as she was pierced by a memory and she swallowed, tasting ashes.
“Don’t worry about a thing, my dear. We’re here to meet an old friend of mine.” John interrupted her thoughts, giving her a look that was meant to reassure, but instead only served to mildly irritate her.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before we set out? I am not sure that I am disposed to call on people, especially strangers,” she objected.
“But, I said, he is not a stranger,” he explained in a patient tone. “And I think you will find him most agreeable company. He’s been very generous to invite us to stay.”
As they were quibbling over John’s decision to bring them to such a place, the front door of the house opened. In the gloom, Esther couldn’t make out much, but John strode forward confidently, leaving her no choice but to follow.
As she came closer, a heavyset woman, white hair pulled back from her face and a bright-patterned apron straining against her ample bosom, loomed into focus. “Ah, hallo there,” her husband called. “Dr. Creswell is expecting us. John Durrant, and this is my wife, Esther.” He glanced at Esther who was looking mulishly at him, her arms wrapped around her waist, huddled against the wind. She was cold and tired and didn’t appreciate being dragged to the end of the country to meet complete strangers. The minute she was alone with John she would tell him so. It was the first flare of real feeling she’d had in months.
The woman—the housekeeper, she supposed—ushered them into the hallway, furnished with a tall grandfather clock that chose that moment to sound the half hour, its solemn brassy tone causing Esther to start in surprise. Recovering herself, she shrugged off her coat and eased off her gloves, noticing as she did that her fingers emerged bloodless and pale. She allowed the woman to take her coat and hat but held on to her handbag. The house, although dim, smelled of beeswax and damp wool, and it was at least warmer inside than out.
“Just through here, if you’d be so good as to wait. Dr. Creswell will be with you shortly.” The housekeeper’s vowels were rounded and friendly, much like her figure. She moved rather more swiftly than might be expected for one so large and fast disappeared, swallowed up by the gloom of the corridor.
They had been shown into the parlor, lit only by the glow of an oil lamp and a small fire burning in the grate. Esther sniffed, smelling wood smoke, a rich aroma that was infinitely preferable to the dusty, acrid coal that generally burned in London hearths. There was a large rug strewn with a faded flowered pattern and three wing-backed chairs upholstered in somber olive green arranged to face the fire. A mahogany escritoire was pushed up against one wall and a large window looked out over the path upon which they had arrived. In a corner, next to a chaise longue, sat a rather impressive-looking gramophone, its fluted brass horn a bright and shiny flower in the shadowy room.
Esther perched on the edge of one of the chairs, set her handbag on the floor but kept her gloves in her hands, twisting them tightly together. John took the chair next to her, saying nothing. The clock in the hall ticked loudly, counting out the seconds as they sat. Time seemed to stretch, but in reality it must have been only a few minutes before the door burst open.
The man who came into the room was tall, with thick wavy brown hair, the shade of which reminded her of a newly shucked conker, unruly eyebrows that matched his hair, and a strong, square jaw. He was wearing a tweed jacket that hung off his spare, lanky frame and his trousers were the baggy corduroys of an off-duty farmer. The bowl of a briar pipe was firmly grasped in one hand. His cheeks were ruddy, as if he’d just that moment come in from a walk and he brought with him the sweet smell of gorse and tobacco. “Ah, there you are. Durrant, old man. How good to see you. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
It was his voice that captured her attention. Low and gentle, with a faint huskiness, like sandpaper. She’d never thought of herself as the kind of woman to be affected by something as simple as the timbre of a voice, but she could have closed her eyes and been lulled to sleep by it.
Esther and John both rose, and the man extended his hand to her husband. They shook hands with hearty familiarity.
“This is my wife, Esther,” said John, a protective arm at her back.
“Indeed. Splendid,” said the man. “A pleasure to meet you.” He studied her as an art critic might examine a painting, his searing gaze quite at odds with his soft voice, and she felt almost flayed at his careful regard of her, as if he could see the blood pulse in her veins, could penetrate the dark, empty heart of her. She looked away, studying the floor.
“Darling, this is my old friend Richard Creswell. We were at Radley together.” John was unusually buoyant. She suspected it was to make up for her poor mood.
“Rather a long time ago now, eh?”
Esther looked up and noticed that the doctor’s eyes—a light shade of blue that reminded her of swimming pools—crinkled at the edges when he smiled and his teeth were white and even.
She briefly touched her fingers to his—the lightest of contacts—and then huddled her arms tight around herself again, though they offered little protection from his unsettling gaze. She hadn’t had an appetite for society nor polite conversation for some time now, and had hardly spoken to a soul save for the daily woman, John and Teddy, and Nanny of course, for the past several months. She didn’t appreciate this situation being foisted upon her.
“Welcome to Embers.”
“Embers?” she said faintly.
“The house. It gets its name from the island. It was built around, oh, seventy years ago now. Apart from a couple of cottages on the westward shore, it’s the only dwelling. Must have been something of an effort to get the materials here and construct it, though it’s likely that some of them were the result of shipwreck bounty. Rumor has it that, in years past, islanders used to attach lanterns to the necks of their cows so that passing ships might mistake them for boats at anchor and be lured onto the rocks.”