The figurehead is raised by a chain to a horizontal position at exactly the angle I will fix it to the Lady Isabella. Today I am concentrating on the scrolls. The figurehead has been raised so that I can get an idea of the end result, the feel of her when she is fitted against the hull of the ship, for I must follow the angle of the bow carefully to about seventy degrees. Later I will return to the face.
Before I start to carve a figurehead I spend much time assessing the shape of the ship’s bow, its length and the rake of her bowsprit, for this dictates the size of a figurehead. The trail boards, the scrolls pattern that runs each side of a figurehead should fit perfectly, so that the finished figure fits exactly under the bowsprit. I know however much I calculate I will need to modify the figurehead once she is in place. I have to make sure of the depth and breadth of her so that she will not be in the way of the heavy martingale backstay and bobstay chains that lead to the dolphin striker that lies on the bowsprit.
Isabella has come early, before the heat of the morning builds to an unbearable closeness, for the days are as humid and windless as the tropics.
Lisette’s mother died during the night and Lisette is sad and preoccupied. Isabella has insisted she can look after herself, to release Lisette for family duties.
I pause in my work to wipe sweat from my eyes and look across at Isabella.
‘Tom,’ she asks. ‘How do you get the figurehead down to the ship without damaging it?’
‘We use a cart which is set on the old tramlines left from the mine to get her down to the quay, then she will be winched up to the vessel where we will bolt her to the ship. I will use old sails to wrap her on the downward journey, but she is bound to be marked or chipped a little. I have to expect this and put it right when she is in position.’
I wriggle my shoulders to release the cramp in my neck and move towards her.
‘Normally, I would carve in the boatyard down near the harbour where I can turn and judge the shape of the vessel while I am carving the figurehead, but I work better up here where I am not interrupted and it is quieter.’
I look up at the figurehead. ‘My father came up this morning to make sure she fits into the cart. Time is short and he wants nothing to hold us up.’
Isabella gets up and wanders round the carving, looking at the way I have carved deep ruts into the wood for the drapery, incorporating it so the line is fluid behind the scrolls, so that once the figurehead is in the water she will seem to rise up from the waves as part of the ship.
‘It is beautiful, Tom. I do not understand how you can create movement and life from a piece of wood, but you do.’
Isabella is wearing a white blouse of some thin material and a skirt that is of a dark shiny material, held to the waist by a belt, the clasp of which is shaped like a butterfly. The sun has given her skin radiance and lifted her hair so that small pieces glint like shiny copper. She looks very beautiful and foreign and it is hard to tear my eyes away to continue my work.
She turns and moves away under the old sail loft to the window. Out at sea there is a schooner in full sail, passing the cove swiftly. Noises from the shipbuilding yard below rise upwards; strident, hot, busy.
I see she is uncertain of the thing that lies between us, but I am also uncertain. My father this morning eyed me in that way he has as he measured the figurehead.
‘Do you need Lady I sabella up here so often, Tom?’
‘I have still to go back to the face and I need her for the fall of the drapery.’
‘Aye, I see that, but for the moment you are doing the tailboards, son.’
‘I am, but I need to finish the face before Lady Isabella returns to Falmouth. We have such a short time to complete.’
‘Aye,’ my father says again, then struggling with himself, ‘Do your work, son, and let Lady Isabella depart with Magor. She is too much in this yard and tongues willwag. She is no’ but a girl, it’s up to you to do what’s proper, protect her reputation. Offend Sir Richard and we will all be out of work, lad.’
I did not answer him.
Isabella turns. We are close and I place a finger on her bottom lip.
‘I must go back to work, Isabella.’
She nods, but we do not move. She is so near to me I can feel the warmth from her body. I bend swiftly to her mouth, kiss her, my mouth just touching hers. Our lips part a little then we stay quite still like two birds.
There is such sweetness in this long chaste kiss that I see tears behind her closed eyelids. At length I draw away, whisper again, ‘I must carve. Should you go home?’
Isabella shakes her head. ‘No. I may walk a little or read. Go, carve, I will not disturb you.’
We smile at each other.
‘I carve better with you here,’ I say softly, going back to the figurehead.
Isabella turned again to the sea. The schooner had almost disappeared into the horizon. She looked out at the empty sea and wondered about that time before she was born when the cove had been full of sailing ships. All those men and boys taking a voyage into the unknown, never sure if they would reach their destination.
She turned and looked about her, saw the ladder up into the old sail loft and climbed it to see what lay up there. She was surprised to find a bedroom of sorts, neat and swept, a mattress upon the floor with a clean patchwork cover, a small chair and table holding a carafe of water.
Tom sleeps here! Isabella climbed into the room. What a view! Across the small harbour and beyond was a last white sail in the distance, and red and green fishing smacks and red lobster buoys bobbing beyond the harbour mouth. She sat on the mattress. Above her the sky, blue as his eyes, with small wisps of white clouds flying past. Why, it is the perfect bedroom! Isabella lay back, enchanted.
I concentrate on the scroll head I am working on. Have I got the angle right? Carved exact to the shape of the bow to meet the start of the trail boards? I can feel the familiar tension already, the anxiety of getting measurements wrong or even out by a fraction.
When I finish the scroll I am exhausted for I have been carving since early morning. I tidy my tools and look around but Isabella is nowhere to be seen. I pull my shirt off, visit the closet in the corner of the yard and then wash under the pump. I look to the sun to gauge the time; it must be near five of the clock.
I climb up the ladder to fetch a clean shirt and I am startled to find Isabella asleep on my bed, her knees drawn up like a child’s. As I stare down at her I feel tenderness, not lust. I lie on the bed, careful not to touch her, and fall instantly asleep.
When Isabella woke she could not think where she was and felt a moment’s panic, then turning she saw Tom asleep next to her. The sun was low, she should go, but she lay where she was watching him sleep. He had not put on his clean shirt and she knew his skin would be warm to touch. How smooth it was, that skin, how firm and brown and young. The image of Richard’s white body floated into her mind. The way, when he lay with her, she could feel the flabbiness of his stomach against her own. She shuddered and sat up and Tom woke.
He stared at her and moved towards her, still half-asleep. Isabella’s heart leapt as he pulled her to him, bent to her mouth, her face, her neck, put his hand over her breast. Isabella held his head to her and Tom began to undo the buttons on her blouse quickly and deftly, until he could place his hand inside her blouse and feel the warmth of her skin. Isabella gasped as he bent and took her nipple in his mouth and began to undo her belt. He could not find the catch on the waistband of her skirt and he pushed it up to her knees.
He was excited by the feel of her stockings but she pulled away, undid her skirt and wriggled out of it, then undid her stockings. She was left in her bodice and petticoats and Tom was transfixed as she took the pins out of her hair and let it fall in a small provocative gesture around her shoulders. He reached out to touch it, long, thick and shiny between his fingers.
He unbuckled his belt and pulled his trousers off. Isabella looked away, the colour rising in her face, then Tom pulled her on top of him and she bent to kiss him, her hair cascading around his face until he was buried in it. They rolled on the mattress, kissing and biting until their mouths felt bruised, and then Tom was inside her and Isabella cried out.
‘Ssh,’ Tom whispered, and gently covered her mouth with his own. Isabella came so violently her body shuddered for moments afterwards.
‘Mine,’ Tom thought, holding her. ‘Mine.’
Isabella floated, felt the smoothness of Tom’s skin under her hand, experienced a sense of euphoria. They lay like cats facing each other, rapt.
This idyll was broken by the sound of Lisette’s voice.
‘Tom? Tom Welland, I’m looking for Lady Isabella.’
I dive for my trousers but Isabella is paralysed. I put my finger to my lips and go to the hatch.
‘What is it, Lisette?’ I ask, faking a yawn.
‘What time did Isabella leave here?’ Lisette demands. ‘Did you walk her home?’
‘I did not,’ I say, ‘for it was still light and she was taking a walk, I think to her father’s gardens.’
‘It is too bad,’ Lisette says crossly. ‘Why can she not stay put instead of gallivanting around the countryside? As if I have not enough to do.’
‘Then why do you not leave her to her day instead of shepherding her every move like a sheepdog, Lisette? No wonder she escapes. She is not a child and you have disturbed my rest,’ I add, pretending at petulance.
‘I am sorry for that, Tom, but I have been to the house to find her and I am now to my mother’s cottage for the preacher. Isabella is in my charge and I have no idea where she is …’
‘Lisette, go to the preacher. I will go to try and find Lady Isabella for you and tell her … what shall I tell her?’
‘That I will be back to the house by nine and Cook has a cold supper ready and she should stay in the house …’
I try not to laugh. ‘Now, Lisette, does she need help to eat this cold supper, should I stay and spoon-feed her …’
Lisette tuts crossly at me. ‘I would be grateful if you could find her before dark, Tom Welland. Sir Richard expects me to …’
‘Then I will find her, Lisette,’ I say kindly, for I am sorry for her troubles. ‘Even if it means I miss my own supper.’
But Lisette has already turned and is hurrying across the yard to the road.
Isabella has been lying quite still, her eyes large with fear, but now she begins to laugh with relief.
‘I must dress, Tom …’
I watch her, fascinated by the complications of women’s clothes. She starts to pin her hair back up. Her eyes are shining and her dark skin is flushed.
I would know immediately.
‘You are very beautiful, Lady Isabella,’ I tell her softly. The shadows of the dying day are caught across her face and I am suddenly alert to the danger of her getting home unseen.
‘Wait! I will go and make sure the road is empty. Most people should be having their tea.’
I go down the ladder and across the yard to the gate. The road and coastal path are deserted. I go back and call her.
‘Come, Isabella, quickly.’
Isabella comes down the ladder looking suddenly small and afraid. I touch her arm.
‘Go and take the coast path and walk until you come to the stile which leads down to your house. I will take the road and join you there as if I have been searching for you.’
Isabella moves swiftly up the hill and bears right to the cliff path. I follow, but along the road until I reach the path. I turn onto it and see Isabella coming towards me.
‘Why, Lady Isabella,’ I say loudly, although the road is deserted. ‘What a surprise! I am sent by Lisette to find you and escort you home before dusk. Where have you been?’
Isabella is out of breath. She laughs, but I can see she is nervous and will be glad to be indoors. I walk with her to the front door.
‘Isabella, I will come and find you when I need you again for the face. We must be careful. You should not come to the yard too often. Lisette is like a guard dog where you are concerned.’
Isabella is silent. I see she is unsure whether I am distancing myself. I lift her small hand and hold it to my cheek. ‘I could not think less of you, Isabella, ever. It is not that I do not want you near me, only that I do not want to put you in danger. You see that?’
‘Of course.’ Her small mouth trembles. ‘I must go inside, Tom.’
‘Yes.’ But I cannot let go of her hand. ‘We will try and meet elsewhere … down in the cove. We will find a way …’
Isabella looks me in the eye and reads clearly all that I feel. She smiles.
‘Goodnight, Tom.’ Her hand slips from mine and she is gone through the door.
Bats swoop down at my head in the dusk as I walk back down the hill to my mother’s cottage for my meal. I would avoid going home but I am extremely hungry. My family are already at the table and all look up as I walk in.
‘Your tea is near spoilt,’ my mother says crossly.
I decide on a half-truth. ‘Lisette arrived in a state. She could not find Lady Isabella and the preacher was due at her mother’s cottage, so I said I would go and find her.’
‘And did thee?’ my father asks.
‘Yes, she was on her way home.’
‘Not with you, then?’ one of my brothers laughs crudely.
‘Obviously not,’ I say shortly.
‘We’ll have none of that,’ my mother snaps. ‘You may all have known Lady Isabella since she were a child, but she is a respectable married lady now and don’t you forget it.’
I eat my meal in silence. Since my years in Prince Edward Island I have grown away from my brothers. In the house I shared with the architect’s family I was treated almost as an equal. I learnt to converse, to listen, and to read. I learnt there is more to life than putting a meal on a table. I learnt that the world is vast and there is much to discover away from the land of your birth. I learnt that I want more of a life than the one my parents and brothers lead here in the village.
God gave me a gift. Through my fingers, through my love of wood lies the way forward to a better life.
I walk back to my room through the hot summer evening. It still feels close and I watch the glow-worms by the side of the road and feel a strange, sick longing for a woman not of my own kind, who belongs to someone else.
In the sail loft the covers are still rucked up and disordered. I catch the smell of Isabella on them. I lie exactly where she lay and fall into an exhausted sleep.
At dawn, when the sun was edging up, hazy in sea mist, blood red over the sea, glittering on the water as it burnt off and flamed into a new day, Tom finished carving the haunting and sensuous face of Lady Isabella Magor; as he remembered her, lying under him, arched and abandoned in that first act of love. The date was June 15th 1865.