At that time—late 1883—he moved his family from Vinalhaven to Hurricane Island, where he had established a new quarry, the Norawhega, whose granite was being shipped to face the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, the New York Customs House, the U.S. Naval Academy. A gold mine for Cyrus, which was why he named it after the legendary jeweled city that, early Dutch explorers had been told (by some Indians with a sense of humor), lay somewhere in the forests around Penobscot Bay. He had learned the business quickly and had built a company town on Hurricane, with stores, a boardinghouse, a school, a church, and a dance hall, and he was the unelected mayor, ruling it as he had his ship, his iron reign eventually earning him the title (seldom uttered in a complimentary tone) “Emperor of the Isles,” to which the Italian stonemasons later added their Capitano Furioso.

So now, Elizabeth and Lockwood found themselves living in greater isolation, Hurricane Island being a fraction of the size of Vinalhaven. Their house wasn’t large, and it had only its location atop a hill overlooking the new town to distinguish it from the clapboard cottages of the quarrymen. They were a friendlier lot than the down-easters of Vinalhaven, but they spoke Finnish, Swedish, and Italian, leaving the Emperor, his Empress, and his heir apparent with no one to speak to but themselves. That suited Cyrus, who was still the sea captain at heart, alone on his figurative quarterdeck. But it had to have been boring and lonely for Elizabeth and her stepson, and when Cyrus was gone (continually prospecting, from Maine down to Cape Ann, for new quarries to buy or for new ledges of untapped granite), they were stranded in an unnatural solitude, with only the occasional town dance or party to relieve it.

In the spring of the following year, Cyrus left on a trip that was supposed to have taken a couple of weeks, but lasted six. He had sailed away aboard one of the droghers that regularly shipped his granite, Caitlin Adams. She was carrying two great pedestal stones for a monument in New York City, but was caught in a gale for six days and driven over a thousand miles into the open Atlantic, before she was able to resume her original course. When Cyrus finally got back to Hurricane Island, says Sybil, Elizabeth must have been joyful for two reasons: Her husband had not been lost at sea, and she was pregnant. A perfect time, the land greening and she with it, the light after the long winter, the world awakening. The first of the coveted sons was born March 3, 1885.…

“That would have been about a month late. Just right. A month wasn’t enough to raise eyebrows.”

“How do you mean, late?” I ask.