I cast myself down the stairs and out the front door, plunging back into the darkness below. Down the lawn I ran, sick with fear that I had missed him just as he had arrived. My footsteps pounding against the old floorboards of the boathouse, I reached the top of the gangway above the pier, breathless.

But nothing, and no one, was there. The three dinghies floated upon the water, loosely tied to the dock. I heard Jonathan approaching behind me, but I did not move until he was at my side. Then, still not looking away from the water, I said to him, patiently as I could, “I cannot leave here.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and pressed it gently, trying to cause me to turn round.

“He may come back,” I whispered to him.

“He is drowned.”

“Nay. Nay. It may not be.”

“Maisie,” he began.

“Stop from me. Who are you to me now?”

He drew off his hand, answering stiffly, “Your husband, I hope.”

“You cannot be. You do not even know my name,” and I walked a little farther down the dock to lean against another of the black pilings.

“You are Maisie Thomas,” he said urgently, “and, my love, you have had a great shock.” He moved a bit closer to where I stood. “Maisie,” he whispered into the night, “let me help you. Let me—”

I turned round upon him. “Jonathan Trumbull Lanman, I—” But I could not think what to say next.

“Yes?” he responded eagerly. “Yes, Maisie. I am, yes, for you.”

I shook my head. “You cannot be for me, Jonathan.”

“Why not?”

“Because my heart was drowned tonight.” My voice was ragged. “Because my heart, my name, my very self was drowned, and—” The breath felt grabbed from my lungs, and I could not speak for grief.

“Well,” he observed quietly after a time. “This was the day I was to bring you home.” I could but nod. But he did not venture closer. Yet neither did he leave. Sometime later, I roused, to find Jonathan had placed his jacket round me as the night grew chill. All through the rest of that night, we waited; through the first birdcalls, until the telltale streaking in the pale sky.

At dawn, Mr. Cutting came onto the dock.

“What do you do here?” His voice was curiously calm.

I did not answer him, could not.

“How is Mrs. Thomas?” asked Jonathan.

“She sleeps.”

“Ah.” Jonathan sighed in relief. “So all has not been lost.”

Mr. Cutting came to my side then. For a moment, he looked where I looked at the waters shimmering just beyond the point. “Miss Thomas.” He cleared his throat.

“Yes,” I answered him, not turning my head.

“Your mother is very ill indeed.”