Was it all right to probe if he was the one who brought it up? The need to ask him about his brother swelled so fast that she began talking before she even realized. It was a personal matter, and yet after what he had done for her mother last night, she felt somehow as if it wasn’t an intrusion.
“What happened to your brother?”
The light from outside was weak, but what was there cast his features in a golden-yellow haze as he stared straight ahead. The sight of him thinking made Elizabeth want to reach out and touch him, hold him close to her body. His soft gaze spoke of a depth for the way he felt about the world, she could sense it. Even though she wanted to know his answer, know all about Daniel, she wanted even more to stop time right there and then so that the moment they were sharing might never end.
“He was sailing when he shouldn’t have been. Winter weather, the sea too rough.”
“Oh, my goodness,” she said, bringing one hand up to her open mouth. It made what he had done for her mother last night even more commendable. “And still you jumped in.”
He shrugged. “Like I said, anybody would have done the same.”
Elizabeth didn’t believe that for a moment. A lot of people would have been too scared, would have called for help and decried what an awful tragedy it was without once getting a foot wet. “My mother was so lucky you were there.”
“Well, you can thank my father for it. If he’d been at home, my mother wouldn’t have sent me out to look for him and I wouldn’t have been there to see her slip.”
Elizabeth thought of the breakwater, the gently sloping wall that was built to withstand the power of the sea. It had a heavy footprint, and anybody who fell from the top would surely have hit her head on the way down. Was it possible that in her confusion, her mother had jumped?
“So, she did . . . slip?”
The tinny resonance as his fingers tapped the edge of the cup broke through the silence. The light intensified, streaming through the window as the sun breached the crest of the land. “Of course, Elizabeth. What else could have happened?”
The truth was on the tip of her tongue, but she thought of her father and how angry he would be. Still, she wanted to tell Tom, because there in that shelter with him she found that for the first time in months she could breathe, when she had never even realized before that she had been drowning.
“She’s been ill. Confused.” Guilt swamped her in the place of the truth. The betrayal of her family didn’t feel good, and yet as Tom reached for her hand, she found that she wanted to keep talking. “She tried to take a boat once before.”
“I’m sorry about that. But she slipped, Elizabeth. That was all.” And then he changed the subject. “I seem to remember that you once liked to paint. Do you still do it?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised he knew, relieved the conversation had moved on.
“Are you any good?”
“Some people say I am, and sometimes I think I am. My father just thinks it’s a silly hobby.”
Silence lingered between them until Tom set the mug down. “There’s nothing silly about what makes you happy.” The sun was much stronger now, and the heat under the quilt was becoming unbearable. The sound of the waves roared beneath her as they brushed the rocks of Longships reef. It looked magnificent, the water bright with sunlight, but the beauty of it failed to raise her spirits. Since her mother had become sick, she had found it hard to enjoy the world around her, conspiring as it was to take her away.
“Do you ever dream of a different life, where there are no expectations of you? Where you wouldn’t have to fish to help your family?”
“Dreaming is a luxury of the rich, Elizabeth,” Tom said as he stood up. He set the tin mug back onto the floor, upside down so that it might drain in his absence. “My job is to put food on the table for my mother. That’s all I know.” It was clear that their meeting was coming to an end. They were two people in the same place and yet they had two totally different lives. Wind blew in as he opened the door. “But I’d like to see your paintings sometime, hear more about your dreams.”
That didn’t make sense to her. “Why would you want to? Doesn’t sound as if you much believe in dreams.”
“Of course I do. And wishes, desires that people have for the future. It’s dreams that make us who we are.”
The wind dropped a little as they descended the steps. “I thought you just said dreams were for the rich. Surely you must wish for something if that’s what you think.”
They walked alongside each other, slower than they’d ascended, as if perhaps neither of them wanted their meeting to end. Elizabeth knew that she didn’t. “I suppose I do. Just not dreams like you’ve got.”
“Like what, then?” she asked, stopping on the trail. He continued a few more steps, then turned to look at her. “Please?”
“A nice life. Enough food. Everyday things.” The idea forced Elizabeth’s arms across her chest. How foolish she felt again. How selfish and grand her ideas really were.
His hair blew in the wind, and soon enough he turned and continued down the path. Was that it, their meeting was over? Disappointment flooded her; she wasn’t ready for that. “Can we meet like this again?”
He smiled as she rushed to catch up. “You want to?”
It wasn’t a good idea, she knew that. And getting away with it this time didn’t mean she would again. People would love to gossip about her being out with Tom, a boy from a disreputable family, and she the doctor’s daughter. People would think it improper, and James wouldn’t be pleased. But still, she had enjoyed this morning, and liked the fact that coming here had been her own choice.
“Yes,” she said. Her heart raced a little, a sense of excitement tingling in her fingertips.
The moment of silence before his answer was excruciating. “Well, then I’d love to,” he said eventually, much to her relief. “Maybe you can show me your paintings later, let me see what your dreams look like.”
As they arrived outside his cottage Elizabeth could hear Tom’s family inside, and other voices just up ahead. “I’d better go,” she said.
“Before somebody sees you,” he replied with a smile. For a second he leaned in, and she thought he was going to kiss her. Her breath caught in her throat, but then he just brushed her shoulder. Following his movement, she saw dust from the old walls of the lookout scatter to the ground. “Shall we meet at seven tonight, or is that too late?”
“It’s perfect,” she whispered as he pulled away.
Her stomach turned over on itself as she walked toward home, as if nerves had gotten the better of her. What was that sense of disappointment she felt? Was it because she was leaving, or because when he’d leaned in, she’d thought he was going to kiss her and yet he hadn’t? Maybe it wasn’t disappointment at all; maybe it was nerves after all. The urge to glance back just one last time took control over her movements. And as she gazed over her shoulder, there was Tom, still watching her. He waved, and her stomach turned again. No, she thought, it wasn’t nerves. It wasn’t disappointment either. It was excitement, the anticipation that for the first time in her life she didn’t know what was going to happen next.