“Maisie, I think it’s best you return to the House.” My father’s voice, so gentle then, brought tears to my eyes. And I turned to go; indeed, I did not want to stay any longer. But I heard Mr. Coates say to no one in particular, “There’s a fear of more’n an accident on that face.” I halted.

“Maisie,” Papa’s voice at my back was firm.

I walked up the gangway and across the pier, through the hollow of the boathouse and out onto the lawn. Mrs. French came hurrying down from the house, dressed already in her tea gown.

“Maisie! What has happened?”

“Henry Brown has drowned, Mrs. French,” I whispered, “and—”

“And?”

“Halcy Ames.”

“They are on our pier?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I nodded, sudden tears filling my eyes.

“Mercy!” she whispered, one hand at her throat. She walked past me and into the boathouse.

Mama and Mrs. Hunnowell stood on the piazza and waited as I walked up the lawn to them.

“What is it?” Mrs. Hunnowell called. “We heard shouts.”

I turned a sad face up to them. “Henry Brown is drowned.”

“Henry? The boatbuilder’s son?” Mama asked quickly.

I nodded. I could not say the second part.

“But he was to be married to Cook’s daughter!” Mrs. Hunnowell cried.

“To Halcy Ames?” I asked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hunnowell whispered. “After what we witnessed last evening, I felt I must discover …” Her voice trailed away. I watched her fingers hold in place the tiny row of knit work she still held in one hand as she felt behind her with the other for the wicker settee and sat heavily down.

“Oh!” I cried, and turned back around to the harbor, my mind struggling to make clear what I had seen.

Mrs. French was hurrying up the lawn toward us, her little dog barking and trotting after, but she said not a word to our group, immediately rounding the side of the House, her face bled of all its color.

“Oh,” I said again softly.

Through my tears, I watched Papa walking slowly back up the lawn to us, the fog patchy now and high above, leaving room for a morning sun. The heavy burden he had carried was repeated in his gait. Slowly, he mounted the wooden stairs, then put his hands on both my shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

The front door swung open and the mustachioed gentleman and his wife came onto the piazza.

“What has happened?” His voice was unnaturally high.

Papa stepped round me to them and was outlining the catastrophe when Mrs. French appeared in the doorway. Immediately, Papa broke off his discussion and addressed her.

“How is Cook?”

“I’m afraid we’ve had to send for Dr. Morris.”

“Why the deuce have you done that, Mrs. French? I am a doctor,” blustered the gentleman beside Papa.

“Oh, Dr. Lewes, I did not think to trouble you,” said the housekeeper.