The Lighthouse Keeper's Daughter by Hazel Gaynor

Author:Hazel Gaynor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-10-08T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Six

Matilda

Newport, Rhode Island. June 1938

D AWN PAINTS THE sky lavender, and I rise with the strengthening sun. I stand at the open bedroom window, enjoying the soft breeze against my skin, absentmindedly picking up a handful of the painted seashells from the windowsill. I admire the intricate patterns, the careful brushstrokes, knowing I could never create anything as delicate and precise. The initials CF are marked inside several of the shells. The name Cora is painted with a flourish inside the larger ones.

Cora.

The name washes through the walls of this house like an echo I can’t quite catch. On the rare nights she spends here, I’ve heard Harriet call out the name in her sleep. In moments of distraction, she allows the name to creep into our conversation, following it instantly with an abrupt pause. A sudden full stop. Whoever she is, or was, Cora is as present here as she is absent, and as with a loose button on a coat, I can’t stop fiddling and pulling to find out why.

Putting the shells down, I pick up the old postcard from the nightstand, running my fingertips over the painting of Ida and Grace. One and the same. Perhaps it isn’t so unusual for two such similar people to become indistinguishable over time; one blending into the other until history forgets that they were ever two separate individuals.

Dressing quickly, I leave my skirt half-unzipped to accommodate my expanding waist. My stomach is clearly rounded now. Although my bump is still neat enough not to be noticed by those who aren’t looking for it, it is undeniably there, especially in the evenings when I swell up like an overinflated balloon.

I stand in front of the mirror and pull the fabric of my skirt taut, turning sideways to inspect my curious new shape. With a sigh, I let the fabric drop, yawning as I make my way downstairs. The regular performance of the child’s nighttime acrobatics keeps me awake long into the night and my insomnia has seen me reading far more of the lighthouse manual than I’d ever intended. What I don’t now know about the operation of Victorian-era lighthouses probably isn’t worth knowing.

I eat a good breakfast, finishing up just as Harriet re turns from the lighthouse. Her eyes narrow as she sees me dressed.

“Are you going out again?” she asks. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I can’t lie in bed like a porcelain doll. Anyway, I’m sure fresh air is far better for me than sitting around, ‘resting.’ I feel grand.” I feel vigorous at times. Far from the confined invalid I’ve watched other expectant women become.

“You’ve an appointment with Doctor Miller at four.”

“I’ll be back in time.”

“Hmm. Make sure you are.” Harriet puffs on her pipe and coughs.

“You shouldn’t smoke so much,” I remark as I take my coat from the hook beside the door. “They say it isn’t good for you.”

She scoffs at me. “They say everything isn’t good for you. Life would be fierce dull if we didn’t have our vices.

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