The timber is beautiful. I have taken great pains to ensure its quality, for it must withstand exposure and the battering of the sea. The wood is oak and perfect for my purpose, being free of knots for a good two feet. I lay the wood out and arrange the planks carefully so that the end grain will not be in a critical carving place such as the face, neck and hands. The grain of the wood should also run in the same direction for carving her drapery. Her costume must flow as if it is one with the water.
I tried my brothers’ patience sorely. I had the wood yard in turmoil as I searched for the perfect timber that I had seen on board. I knew exactly what I wanted and I searched until I found it.
I had the oak cut into six-foot lengths. The plank sizes vary and the thickness in them differs, so I will have to plane the surfaces. I will have to bolt the wood together from many pieces for the body of the figurehead, for it will have to weather all manner of extremes as well as salt water.
I am glad to be back in England, yet it is strange, for all seems to be exactly as I left it. The St Piran boatyard thrives, thanks to my father. He now has many men in the yard, as well as my two brothers. Although he seems always short of skilled carpenters, for they are much in demand at this time and many skilled workers have emigrated to seek a better life in the colonies.
It occurs to me for the first time that my father’s ambition might well have been stunted by my mother’s need to remain in one place. I watch my father’s face sometimes when I am talking of my travels and I believe I see wistfulness there, for what might have been.
I owe my father a great deal. He let me watch him carve as a small boy and allowed me to experiment as an apprentice. I long for him to be his own man as I intend to be, for he sees none of the profit of the shipyard, only takes a wage.
When I was offered the chance of working in the boatyard in Prince Edward Island, and then taking passage to sail the schooners home to England to be fitted, my father did not hesitate or ask to keep me. He advised me to take the opportunity to better myself.
I started my new life by carving and embellishing the prows of small schooners, and when this proved successful I tried my hand at a small figurehead for a Cornish brigantine which then sailed home to Falmouth.
Sir Richard Magor saw this figurehead in Flushing and sent word, via his brother in Prince Edward Island, that he would like me to return home to carve a figurehead for one of his own schooners. The offer was such that I could not refuse and I felt the need to see my family after nearly a three-year absence.
This is my most important commission to date. Sir Richard is an influential man who owns many small trading ships. He is also a naval man, knowledgeable about ships and the sea.
My father tells me that Sir Richard is seeking to build bigger boats with detachable bunks in order to take emigrants. He plans to replace the bunks with timber and sundry goods for import on the return journey to England. His schooners, brigs and barques will sail home via Mediterranean ports where he can unload and take on foreign cargo. He is undoubtedly a shrewd businessman.
I could be afraid that I might fail to do justice to Lady Isabella, fail to capture the likeness of her, but I am not. I fear only the excitement in beginning such a project may affect my hands at first. However, such is the quality of the wood, such is the beauty of the face I am to carve from it, that I am anxious to begin.
Once I start carving I will be lost to all but the work of my hands holding my tools, and to that face. A face that is haunting and sad at the same time. A face impossible to forget, for the eyes pierce my heart with the memory of a child collecting her birthday present, sitting proud on the back of a small grey mare.
The years between that day and this have taken the laughter from Isabella’s face and masked her eyes, and yet, as I looked into her face once more, I saw that the spark still lay somewhere, hidden, but not dead.
It was a shock to see the child of my memory a married woman, for she is a girl still. She cannot be more than eighteen and looks that age despite her smart clothes. From awkwardness she has grown into a beauty, yet she seems somehow subdued.
The woman I gazed at from the end of the quay was indeed a beauty, but she no longer had that sense of joy, of living in a world where everything is before her. She has lost it, that restless excitement I glimpsed in her as a child. I wonder if it had started to fade even before that tragic day ended.