At the Water's Edge (6 page)

A
fter four hours and twenty minutes of utter, stomach-roiling misery, with the driver leaning maliciously into hairpin curves despite (or perhaps because of) having to stop no fewer than six times so I could lean out of the back of the car and be sick, he came to a stop and announced we'd reached our destination.

“Here we are then,” he said cheerfully, shutting off the engine. “Home, sweet home.”

I glanced outside. It wasn't clear to me we'd arrived anywhere.

My stomach began churning again, and I couldn't wait for the driver to come around and let me out, although he was obviously in no rush to do anything. I fumbled with the handle, yanking it back and forth before finally realizing it twisted. When I flung the door outward, I went with it, landing on my knees in the gravel.

“Maddie!” Ellis cried.

“I'm all right,” I said, still grasping the door handle. I looked up, through the strands of hair that had fallen over my face. The clouds shifted to expose the moon, and in its light I saw our destination.

It was a squat, gray building in pebble-and-dash, with heavy black
shutters on the windows of both floors. A wooden sign hung over the entrance, creaking in the wind:

THE FRASER ARMS

Proprietor A. W. Ross

Licensed to Serve Beer and Spirits

Good Food, Rooms

Est. 1547

My queasiness rose in urgent waves, and while I couldn't believe there was anything left for me to expel, I hauled myself upright and staggered toward a half barrel of frostbitten pansies by the front door. I crashed into the wall instead, hitting first with my open palms and then my left cheek. I stayed there for a moment, my face flattened against the pebbled surface.

“Maddie? Are you all right?” Ellis asked from somewhere behind me.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“You don't look fine.”

I turned and slid down the wall, my coat and hair scraping against the embedded stones until I was resting on my heels.

Snow collected on my exposed knees. Somewhere in the distance a sheep bleated.

“Maddie?”

“I'm fine,” I said again.

I watched as Ellis and Hank climbed out of the car, regarding them with something akin to loathing.

Ellis took a few steps toward the building and read the sign. He raised his eyebrows and looked back at Hank.

“
This
is where we're staying?”

“So it would appear,” said Hank.

“It looks like a pile of rubble,” said Ellis. “Or one of those long communal mud houses. From, you know, Arizona or wherever.”

“What were you expecting, the Waldorf-Astoria?” Hank asked.
“You knew we were going to be roughing it. Think of it as a field camp.”

Ellis harrumphed. “That would be putting it kindly.”

“Where's your sense of adventure?”

“Somewhere in the ship's latrine, I suspect,” said Ellis. “I suppose Freddie chose this dump.”

“Of course.”

“He might as well have sent us to a cave.”

Ellis stepped forward and rapped on the door. He waited maybe half a minute, then rapped again. Almost immediately after, he began thumping it with his fist.

The door swung open, and Ellis leapt to the side as a huge man in striped blue pajama bottoms and an undershirt burst forth. He was tall, broad, and densely muscled. His black hair stuck up in tufts, his beard was wild, and he was barefoot. He came to a stop, ran his eyes over Ellis and Hank, then peered around them to get a look at the car.

“And what are you wanting, at this time of night?” he demanded.

“We need rooms,” Hank said around the edges of an unlit cigarette. He flicked the top of his lighter open, but before he could get it lit, the man's hand shot forward and snapped it shut.

“You canna smoke outside!” he said incredulously.

After a shocked pause—the man had reached within inches of his face—Hank said, “Why not?”

“The Blackout. Are you daft?”

Hank slipped both the lighter and cigarette into his pocket.

“Americans, are you?” the man continued.

“That we are,” said Hank.

“Where's your commanding officer?”

“We're not being billeted. We're private citizens,” said Hank.

“In that case, you can take yourselves elsewhere.” The man turned his head to the left and spat. Had he turned to the right, he would have seen me.

“I believe it's all been arranged,” Hank said. “Does the name Frederick Stillman ring a bell?”

“Not so much as a tinkle. Get on with you, then. Leave me in peace.” He turned away, clearly planning to leave us on the side of the road.

I choked back a sob. If I didn't end up in a bed after everything we'd been through, I didn't think I wanted to survive at all.

“Wait,” said Hank quickly. “You have no rooms?”

“I didn't say that,” the man said. “Do you know what bloody time it is?”

Hank and Ellis exchanged glances.

“Of course,” said Ellis. “We're sorry about that. Perhaps we could make it worth your while.”

The man grunted. “Spoken like a toff. I've no truck with the likes o' you. Off you go.” He shooed them away with the back of his hand.

From just past the car, the driver snorted.

“Please,” Ellis said quickly. “The journey was rough, and my wife—she's unwell.”

The man stopped. “Your
what
?” he said slowly.

Ellis inclined his head in my direction.

The man turned and saw me crouched against the wall. He studied me for a moment, then looked back at Ellis.

“You've dragged a woman across the Atlantic during a war, then? Are you completely off your head?”

Ellis's expression went dark, but he said nothing.

The man's eyes flitted briefly skyward. He shook his head. “Fine. You can stay the night, but it's only on account of your wife. And hurry up getting that kit inside or I'll have the warden around for the Blackout.
Again
. And if I do, I'll not be the one paying the fine, mark my words.”

“Sure, sure. Of course,” said Hank. “Say, can you do me a favor and send out the porter?”

The man responded with a single bark of laughter and went inside.

“Huh,” said Hank. “I guess there's no porter.”

“And this surprises you because…?” said Ellis.

Hank looked back at the car, whose suspension was significantly lowered by the weight of our belongings.

Ellis came to me and held out his hands. As he pulled me to my feet, he said, “Go inside, find a seat, and make that brute bring you something to drink. We'll be in as soon as we've got this mess sorted out.”

I let myself in. The heavy wooden door groaned in both directions, and when it clicked shut, I glanced around self-consciously.

There was no sign of the bearded man, although he'd left a kerosene lamp on a long wooden bar to my left. Glossy beer spigots ran down its length: McEwan's, Younger's, Mackeson, and Guinness, along with a few I couldn't make out. One had a cardboard sign hanging around it declaring it temporarily unavailable.

The lamplight flickered off the bottles on the shelves behind the bar, reflected and amplified by the mirror behind them. It looked for all the world like there was an identical, inverted room just beyond, and for a moment I wondered if I was in the wrong one.

There were a number of tables and chairs in front of the bar, and a wireless in a chest-high console against the far wall. The ceiling was low and supported by thick, dark beams, and the floor consisted of huge slabs of stone. The walls were plastered, and even by the dim light of the lamp's flame, I could make out the faint raised edges of the trowel tracks. Thick black material covered the windows, and it dawned on me that the white-painted lampposts and curbs I'd seen in Aultbea were to help cars navigate at night during the Blackout.

To the right was a large stone fireplace with an assortment of stuffed and mismatched furniture arranged in front of it. Victorian, from the looks of it—a couch and two wing chairs positioned across from each other on a threadbare Oriental carpet, separated by a low, heavy table. The contents of the grate were covered by an even layer of ash, but still cast a faint orange glow.

I made my way to the couch and perched on the very edge of it,
holding my numb fingers toward the embers. They smelled like smoked dirt, and the logs stacked off to the side were not wood. I had no idea what they were. They were rectangular and striated, and looked like gigantic Cadbury Flake bars, the much-coveted treat sent by the British grandmother of one of my classmates.

A dog with scruffy gray fur rose from nowhere, materializing directly beside me. I stiffened. It was enormously tall, and thin as a greyhound, with the same rounded back and scooped abdomen. It stared at me, its dark eyes mournful, its tail curled between its legs.

“Don't worry. He'll do you no harm.”

The bearded man had come through a doorway behind the bar. He picked up the lamp, crossed the room, and set a glass of something fizzy on the table in front of me.

The low ceiling accentuated his height, but he would have been imposing in any circumstances. His eyes were an unlikely and startling blue under eyebrows as unruly as his beard. He remained barefoot and robeless, and apparently unbothered by it.

“You've had a rough journey then?”

“Yes.” I reached up instinctively to check my hair, although since I could see myself from the chest down, I had a fair idea of how I looked.

He nodded at the glass. “Ginger beer. To settle your stomach.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That's very kind.”

I felt his eyes upon me. After a beat of silence, he said, “I suppose you've heard there's a war.”

A familiar bristle ran up the back of my neck. I turned to see if Ellis was within earshot, but he and Hank were still outside, beyond the closed door, having a heated discussion with the driver.

“I have, yes.”

“Your husband and his friend look able-bodied enough.”

“My husband and his colleague are here to perform scientific research,” I said.

The man threw his head back and laughed. “Of course. Monster hunters. Absolutely brilliant. And here I was thinking you were war tourists.”

He set the lamp on the table and waved at a board of keys behind
the bar. “You can take two and three, or four and five, or two and six for that matter. It makes no difference to me. And be quick about it. I'll not have you wasting my paraffin.”

I was emboldened. I'd never met a man so rude.

“Surely you mean kerosene,” I said.

“I think I know what I mean,” he said, turning to leave.

“Wait,” I said quickly. “Don't you want to know our names?”

“Not particularly. What I want is to be in bed.” He slapped his thigh. “Conall,
thig a seo
!”

The dog went to his side, and they slipped into the shadows behind the bar.

I was still staring at the place they'd disappeared when Hank and Ellis lurched through the front door, carrying a trunk between them. They dropped it on the worn flagstones and looked around.

“Where's the light switch?” Ellis said, squinting as he searched the walls.

“I don't think there is one,” I said.

I watched Ellis's eyes as he scanned the various lamps and sconces around the room. They were all topped by glass globes—oil lamps, every one.

“Are you kidding me? There's no electricity?”

“I don't think so,” I said.

His eyes glommed onto the radio. “What about that?”

“Maybe it runs on batteries. I don't know,” I said. “Isn't the driver going to help you with the luggage?”

“He took off,” said Hank. “Left everything in the driveway.”

“You could have just tipped him again,” Ellis said.

“I believe it was your turn,” Hank said.

Ellis glared at him.

“What? It's only money,” Hank said. “Anyway, it doesn't matter now. He's gone, and we need help. Where's that charming Scotsman?”

“I'm pretty sure he went back to bed,” I said.

“But we need help. Did you see where he went?” said Hank, craning his neck. His eyes lit on the doorway behind the bar.

“Hank, please. Just leave him alone.”

“G
ood Lord, Maddie—what did you pack? I told you to bring stockings, not gold bullion,” said Hank, dragging one of my suitcases behind him and letting it bang against each step.

“Just some essentials,” I said.

I was at the top of the stairwell, holding the lamp as Hank and Ellis brought up our luggage. I was freezing and queasy, and the lamp swung accordingly. I was terrified I'd trip and set the carpet on fire.

“Along with anchors and anvils, apparently,” said Hank, dropping the suitcase and wiping his hands.

Ellis came up behind him with two hatboxes.

“That's everything,” he said.

“Not really,” said Hank. “We still have to get it into the rooms. I don't know why Maddie wouldn't just let me rouse Paul Bunyan.”

“She doesn't like to discomfit the staff,” said Ellis.

“Why ever not?” asked Hank, looking at me with surprise. “Isn't that what staff is for?”

“Well, I would say so, yes,” said Ellis.

“It's still not too late to get him, you know,” said Hank.

“Yes it is,” I said crossly. “He said we could take any of rooms two through six, so can we please just do that and go to bed?”

“All right, darling girl,” said Hank, glancing up the row of doors. “I was merely pointing out that it would be faster if we had help. No need to work up a lather.”

I wobbled toward a hall table so I could ditch the lamp. I was as dizzy as the moment I'd gotten off the ship. If I hadn't known it was impossible, I'd have sworn the building itself was swaying.

“Why do you suppose room one is off limits?” said Hank.

I turned around to find him trying the locked door. “Hank, stop! For Heaven's sake. Somebody's probably asleep in there, and every other room is available.”

He continued to jiggle the knob. “But what if this is the room I want? What if it's the only one with a decent bath—”

The door swung inward, tearing the knob from Hank's hand. He took a long step backward as a striking young woman with red hair burst into the hallway wielding a fire iron.

“And what the hell are you wanting?” she shouted in a thick accent. Her hair was tied into curls with scraps of cloth, and she was wearing a heavy white nightgown. She planted herself in front of Hank, grasping the poker with both hands.

“Henry Winston Boyd,” Hank replied without missing a beat. He held out his hand. “The fourth. And you?”

She turned her head and bellowed down the hall. “Angus!
ANGUS!
”

Hank took a step backward, hands up in surrender. “No, wait. We're fellow guests. We've just arrived. See?” He gestured toward our luggage, which was scattered up and down the hallway.

She assessed it, ran her eyes over Ellis and me, and finally settled back on Hank. She stepped right up to him, brandishing the iron in his face.

“I'm no guest,” she said, slanting her eyes accusingly. “I'm Meg, and I'm not on the clock until tomorrow evening. So I'll not be doing anything for you until then—and that goes for all of you.” She returned to her room and slammed the door.

After a beat of silence, Hank said, “I think she likes me.”

“Just pick a room,” said Ellis.

“No, really. I think she does.”

The rooms were cramped and depressing: each had a dresser with a mirror hanging above it, a narrow bed with two nightstands, and beyond that, a small sitting area with a lumpy chair, fireplace, and a single blacked-out window. The wallpaper was faded Victorian, the rugs threadbare.

Hank chose room two, while Ellis and I took five and six respectively. Although Hank didn't spell out why he'd chosen that particular room, it wasn't hard to figure out.

Despite everything we'd just been through, he was plotting a romantic conquest. I was already incensed on Violet's behalf—I was pretty sure Hank never
had
told her we were leaving—but at that moment I was close to outrage. Then it occurred to me that maybe Hank didn't think a dalliance with Meg would count as an infidelity. Perhaps he simply felt entitled, that he had the
droit du seigneur
over servants.

Various rumors followed Hank around, including one about a pregnant kitchen maid his mother had tried, unsuccessfully, to frame for stealing, and who disappeared shortly thereafter, presumably with a large sum of money. The highlight of the story had always been how Hank's mother had stashed an entire set of Georgian silver in the girl's room and then called the police. The actual cause of the situation was glossed over, dismissed with the vague explanation that “boys will be boys.” In the narrative, the maid herself never quite seemed real to me, nor did the child. I wondered now if either ever crossed Hank's mind.

“I'm going to lie down,” I said, leaving the men to deal with the luggage.

My room was the final one on the left. I lit the candle on the dresser and fell on the bed, shoes and all, waiting for them to bring in my things.

“The door at the end we thought was a closet?” said Hank, dragging in a trunk. “It's a bathroom. Thank God.”

“Shared!” came Ellis's voice from the hallway.

“With running water!” Hank called back. He looked at me and winked. “Wait for it,” he whispered, holding a finger to his lips. “Wait…Any second now…”

Out in the hallway, Ellis mumbled something inaudible.

Hank laughed uproariously. “He always gets the last word. Or so he thinks. Anyway, the bathroom. It's indoors, and it's right next to you, you lucky thing.”

As much as I felt like collapsing, I had to at least get the soot off my face and scour my teeth. I revived myself enough to dig through my luggage and find what I needed—no easy task, since I'd undone all of Emily's good work in my panic to consolidate for the trip. We'd been warned that our storage space on the freighter was limited—an irony if I'd ever heard one, since the ship's raison d'être was storage. In the end, I'd found myself throwing things in randomly, frantically, sure that whatever I didn't bring would turn out to be vitally important.

As I left my room, I banged into the corner of the dresser so hard I cried out, and a horrible thought struck me. What if the waves never did stop? What if I was going to be like that forever?

When I returned from the bathroom, Ellis was at the far end of my room, poking the empty grate with a fire iron.

“Empty, of course, and the radiators are off. A class act all around. No electricity, one bathroom, no heat. I'm going to get some wood, or coal, or dung, or whatever it is they're burning downstairs.”

“Please don't,” I said. “The fellow who let us in seems sensitive about fuel.”

“So what? I can see my breath.” He presented his profile and exhaled, loosing a gossamer wisp of vapor.

“I'll be fine,” I said. “There are lots of blankets. And I can always wear my robe to bed.”

“Are you sure? I don't mind dealing with Blackbeard.”

“Yes. I'm sure. Anyway, we'd probably burn the place down.”

Ellis cracked a slow smile. “You mean like Hamlet House?”

During our honeymoon in Key West, an unattended cigar of Ellis's had nearly caused a catastrophe at an historic painted lady we'd nicknamed Hamlet House because the Prince of Denmark was a fellow guest. The prince, along with everyone else, was forced to change hotels, but since no one was hurt, the incident became funny in the retelling, a part of Ellis's and my shared repertoire, a story we trotted out at parties.

I knew that by bringing it up, he was trying to stir a fond memory and make things better between us, but what he didn't realize was that remembering the fire in Key West just made me think of the horribly burned men I'd seen carried off the ship only a few hours earlier.

“Yes, like Hamlet House,” I said.

“We didn't burn it down. Merely scorched a few rooms,” he said whimsically.

I climbed into bed and shuddered.

Ellis furrowed his brow, then set the poker in its stand and came to my side.

We'd made a fragile peace after finally outrunning the U-boats, a truce that consisted mostly of giving each other as much space as possible in a situation where there simply wasn't any, and talking only when absolutely necessary. But that didn't mean my breakdown on the ship hadn't happened, or that I wasn't aware of how horrifyingly quickly proximity had bred contempt, or that I wasn't still terrified and furious about being dragged along on this half-baked escapade. It was the stupidest and most dangerous thing we'd ever done.

It was also pointless. I'd realized it the moment the driver commented on the life belt that remained around Ellis's waist, and again when the bearded man asked why he and Hank weren't serving, and I knew that it would keep happening. The very thing we'd tried to escape had followed us across the Atlantic.

I opened my eyes and found Ellis staring down at me, his misery obvious. I knew he wanted comfort, a sign that things would go back to normal between us, but I couldn't give it to him. I just couldn't.

“Please, Ellis. I don't mean to be harsh, but I'm completely and absolutely desperate for sleep…”

His lips stretched into a sad line. “Of course. I know you're exhausted.”

He leaned over to kiss my forehead, and in that instant my resentment shattered, leaving behind an awful, piercing regret.

No one had put a gun to my head and forced me to board the ship. I bore as much blame for my predicament as anyone else. He and Hank may have told me that nothing would happen to us, but I was the one who'd chosen to believe them.

“Ellis,” I said, as he turned to go. “I'm sorry.”

“About what?” he asked, stopping.

“The things I said.”

He laughed quietly. “Which ones?”

“All of them. I was just so frightened.”

He came back and sat on the edge of the bed. “No need to apologize. I just hadn't realized I was married to quite such a firecracker.”

He laid a hand on my cheek, and my eyes welled up. I hoped I was wrong about how people over here would perceive him, but if I was not, I hoped I could somehow protect him from their judgment, make him unaware, or better yet, not care.

“I wasn't myself,” I said.

“None of us was, my darling.”

“Except Hank,” I said, sniffling. “Hank was himself the entire time.”

“Ah yes. Dear old Hank. Ever the pill,” he said, getting up. “Speaking of which, do you think you need one?”

“No, I'm all right.”

That was my cue to offer him one, and I would have, except that I had no idea where they were and didn't have the energy to look.

“Sleep tight, my darling. Tomorrow, Hank and I will find a decent hotel, and then all you'll have to worry about is regaining your strength.”

He picked up the candle and went to the door. I rolled to face him.

“Ellis,” I said as he stepped into the hallway, “this feeling of still being at sea—do you think it's normal?”

He paused before answering. “Perfectly,” he said. “It will be gone in the morning. You'll see.” He closed the door.

As I lay in bed, I could no more stop the waves than escape the images and sounds of the wounded being marched down the gangplank, one after the other, in a seemingly endless line.