THE WOMAN AT THE LIGHT BY JOANNA BRADY – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Joanna Brady
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Romance
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- Size: 4.5 MB
- Price: Free
WRECKERS’ CAY
MAY 13, 1839
It was fully three years after we first arrived on Wreckers’ Cay—almost to
the day—that my husband vanished one May afternoon. I had just
completed the children’s school lessons when it occurred to me that Martin
was late coming home. He had sailed off earlier from the dock, smiling and
waving lazily at our only son, Timothy, who was pouting at being left
behind—that last wave a gesture forever etched in the chambers of my
mind.
It was a remarkably ordinary day in the Florida Keys. The sea was calm, a
teal blue-green so clear, it revealed the shadows of plants and darting
marine life in its shallow waters. The steady wind was no more than a light
tropical breeze, cooling our skin from the blistering sun. Martin was an
experienced sailor, and catching our supper in the late afternoon was
something he often did before igniting the lamps of the lighthouse tower
just before sunset.
Located twenty-three miles from Key West, our desolate outpost at
Wreckers’ Cay was a solitary place. We were the sole inhabitants of that
tiny speck of land, tending the lighthouse with monotonous regularity. It
was demanding work, and we had arrived there under duress. Yet we had
soon grown accustomed to this island, a beautiful place to raise our young
family.
But that day, minutes stretched into long, worrisome hours as my children
and I waited and watched for him well into the night. Initially, I was angry.
Had he just lost track of time? It meant that in addition to looking after the
children and preparing dinner, I would now be responsible for lighting the
lamps.
It was only later that my anger dissipated, and a nagging anxiety slowly
began to take hold. As I kissed the children good night and the sun plunged
below the horizon, a growing fear was quietly gnawing at my heart.
I slept little that night—Martin still had not returned. And the next
morning, when our watchdog, Brandy, announced the arrival of our old
friend Captain George Lee on his supply tender, the Outlander, my heart
sank: Lee’s boat had Martin’s empty fishing skiff in tow.
The captain and his mate, Alfie Dillon, usually came on the fifteenth and
at the end of each month, stopping on their way to and from Havana; they
brought our food, mail, newspapers, and provisions from Key West. I was
much relieved to see that they were slightly ahead of schedule on this
occasion.
Just offshore, the captain called out to me: “Ahoy, Miss Emily!”
Alfie leaped from their boat to our dock. He said, “Tell Martin we found
his fishin’ boat about a mile out to the west. Must have come loose and
drifted out.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Mutely, I shook my head as I watched
Alfie secure their boat.
“Martin went fishing yesterday afternoon,” I finally said, “but he hasn’t
returned.”
Their smiles faded. As men who spent much of their time at sea, fishing
and salvaging vessels run aground, they were quick to intuit trouble.
“No storms about.” Alfie muttered, “No sign of Mr. Lowry anywheres we
could see. Jes’ his boat. Must’ve hit an unmarked shoal.”
“But nobody knows the reef better than Martin. He would never have
gone aground,” I protested.
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