Douglass remained shaded beneath the brim on his hat.
— Fine weather, he said through the light rain.
He could not shake the American out of his accent.
— Indeed, sir, for a Yankee.
The Jennings sisters smiled as they pulled away from the stagecoach. He tried to gallop ahead of them, but the sisters were more than capable: they braided around him, spurred him on.
In the countryside small ribbons of smoke curled up in the air. He was amazed the way the poor Irish lived underground. He could see their hovels from the road, built from turf and sticks and mounds of grass. Their fields were tiny. So many hedges. An occasional run of stone wall. The children looked like remnants of themselves. Spectral. Some were naked to the waist. Many of them had sores on their faces. None had shoes. He could see the structures of them through their skin. The bony residue of their lives.
He cast his mind back to Dublin and the little boy who had welded himself to his shoulder. It seemed so long ago now. The people didn’t frighten him anymore. It was not so much that he had become immune, it was more that he knew he would not be harmed. He wondered what might happen if this road ran into a road in Baltimore, or Philadelphia, or Boston, how the people might meld into each other.
He wanted now to find Lily, to wish her a truly safe journey. He spurred his horse on. They found shapes on the road, shadows, but none of them were the maid.
In the small villages the rain kept curiosity at bay. They rode out into the beauty of the dripping fields. The sound of the hooves like pistolfire. A rainbow hung on the sky. They halted their horses under a hazel tree where someone had built a low bench. Isabel unwrapped the sandwiches and took a flask of tea from her saddlebags. She had even brought cups. Her sisters sat on the bench. They melded well with Isabeclass="underline" they were prettier and quieter, as if required by some strange law to balance her out. It was, the sisters agreed, a daring adventure, but they should not go too much farther. It was already near lunchtime. They would never find Lily now.
— We have plenty of time, said Isabel. It’s early yet.
— My sister has a mind of her own. Unfortunately she lost it a few years ago.
— It’s ten miles to Cove. And ten back, said Helen.
— We’ll lose the light.
— Oh, please do come. Please.
The road had become busier with stagecoaches and jaunting cars loaded with cases. The families had their eyes set on the distance. Their children were bundled into grim strips of blanket. The wooden tongues of the cars groaned. The carriages swayed in the ruts. The horses looked bound for the yard. They were bent over with the work of keeping to the road.
The Jennings sisters galloped west, then south. It was, said Charlotte, a prettier journey, and quieter, too. The road rambled and turned. Still, there were families upon them, all heading south, gathering, small rivers.
They asked in vain for any sighting of the young maid. The closer they got to the sea, the more the roads thickened with leaving. Vendors had set up stalls against the hedges. Families were hawking the last of their possessions. Douglass and the sisters had to slow their horses down to get through the crowds. All manner of things for sale. Fiddles, inkwells, pots, hats, shirts. Paintings strung on the hedges. Curtains hung from the branches of trees. Pieces of cloth with half-moons, the once-gaudy colors faded with time. A beautiful silk dress, embroidered with thin strips of gold, draped sadly over the seat of a jaunting car.
They pushed their horses on through, towards the cliffs that overlooked the harbor.
A man came towards them. He wore two boards draped across his shoulders, tied with a string. On it were the prices to Boston, New York, Newfoundland. He called out the prices in a singsong. Some children tugged at his pockets. He slapped them away.
The crowd grew so thick that they had to dismount to guide their horses.
A young priest walked among the crowd, looking for the sick. To administer the Last Rites. He was fingering rosary beads as he went. He glanced at Douglass. They had never seen each other before, but for a brief moment they both thought they recognized one another and they stopped to say something, but nothing came, no words between them.
The priest stepped away, under the overarching green branches of a tree where a child’s clothes hung limp.
— Father, said Isabel. Excuse me, Father.
The priest turned and stepped towards them. His eyes were huge and tired. He pulled the rosary beads tight around his fingers. His face sharpened. His voice was bitter. No, the priest said, he had not seen anyone answering to Lily’s description. He toed his foot into the mud, as if he might find her there. He turned then and spat into his hands. No, he said again, sharply.
The priest went on, calling to the people around him in the Irish language.
Isabel shivered and touched the neck of her horse. Douglass pulled his hat down further and guided his horse away by the reins. The sisters, too, had fallen into a reverent silence. The wind came off the sea and rose up to meet them. The harbor curved like a question mark. A dozen or more wooden ships were dotted on the water below. A small, sad flotilla of masts and tightened sails. Their names scrubbed off by the waves.
They walked their horses to within ten yards of the edge of the cliff. The town itself lay below them like a twitching thing. The thatch of the roofs. The bend of the trees. Carriages moving like small insects along the waterfront towards the square. Douglass knew what chaos lay down there, what desires, what fevers. Yet it was immense with beauty. The town of Cove genuflected to the water. Birds flew ravenously around the cliffs, weightless on the updrafts.
He wrapped the reins around a tree and walked to the edge of the cliff. He took off his hat. The wind and rain rang fierce around him. It took him a moment to realize that Isabel was at his side. The two sisters remained behind, perched now on their horses. The pale of the waves came upon the shore below.
Isabel twined her arm around his. Her face against his shoulder. He was aware of the sisters watching. He wished he could gently prise her from him, but she stayed there, looking down over the town.
Soon the sun would fall and the sea darken and all the land about them would go cold.
IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time they found Lily. Rainsoaked and shivering on the pier. Her head shawled, her body mummied into a coat. She had bought her ticket and was waiting for the morning boat. She would not look at them, her face drawn in some private anguish.
Douglass and the two sisters stood apart. They watched as Isabel bent down in front of Lily. A supplicant. They looked as if they were praying together.
Isabel had brought a few days’ worth of food. Wrapped in a blue teacloth. Bundled and tied. She pressed it gently into the young girl’s arms. She reached inside her coat, brought out a number of folded bills that she quickly stuffed into Lily’s palm. Douglass felt a chill. He watched as Lily moved her mouth but did not seem to say anything. What words went between them? What silence? There was a howl from a nearby shop. The screech of a woman. The thump of a fist. A din of laughter from a public house. From somewhere distant came the sound of a mandolin.
Isabel peeled her gloves off, and pressed them, too, into Lily’s arms. Then she reached inside her own coat and fumbled at her neck. A brooch of some sort. She handed it to Lily. The girl smiled. Isabel leaned forward and embraced the maid, whispered something in her ear. Lily nodded and pulled the shawl tight down over her head. What thoughts trembled there? What fierceness had brought her here?
Douglass felt rooted to the ground. It was as if he could not even pick up his feet. He longed for the warmth of a fire. He pulled his collar up and coughed into it. He felt his breath bounce back towards him. Negro girl. Ran away. Goes by name Artela.