25

 

 

THE WIND PICKED up while she was shopping, and as soon as she let herself into the cottage, the rain spattered against the front windows. Her timing was perfect.

Gwynn put the kettle on for tea; the tray, as always, was already set—Mary had left it out as her last act before leaving that morning. There were ginger biscuits, too, but Gwynn decided to leave them for afters. She moved one of the small boxes of matches from her cloth bag to her purse, in case she ran into Giles Trevelyan with his unlit pipe. She slid the emergency candles and the extra flashlight batteries into the drawer beside the sink, then unwrapped a pair of tall green candles and the wax buttons, and pulled the brass sconces from the shelf beside the garden door. She warmed a couple of buttons between her fingers, rolling them about until they were soft and pliable, then dropped them into the holders—polished and gleaming, no doubt under Mary’s ministrations—and jammed the tapers in after them. Then she stood back and examined her handiwork: neither of the candles listed drunkenly. Pleased, she brought them out to the low table in the sitting room.

The rain had picked up and now thrashed violently against the windows. Gwynn turned on the lights and drew the front draperies against the encroaching storm. A gust of wind rattled the glass in the casements as she did this, a protest at being shut out of the light and warmth. That reminded her, and she opened the door on the stove and examined the embers, which still glowed red. She laid a few scraps of kindling over the coals and blew on them gently, urging them to flare up and catch. Satisfied, she fed the fire a small split and closed the door.

Gwynn had bought a steak and some mushrooms at the market, and dug a potato out of the darkness under the sink. There was a half-bottle of red wine left over from the previous evening, and as she cooked her dinner, she drank some from a balloon glass she’d found in the back of the cupboard. She flicked through the music on her iPad and called up Never Stop Moving by John Jones; her little Bluetooth speaker on the bookshelf put out just enough sound, and she found herself swaying lightly, singing along to “Ferryman.” Laughing, she twirled. For the first time in a long time she felt like dancing.

It was like dancing, wasn’t it? Sex, done right. She laughed again.

She mashed the potato with butter and garlic, then dumped a bit of the red wine into the steak pan, to deglaze it. Then she poured the result over the meat and potato both. After taking her dinner through to the sitting room, she lit the tapers. She adjusted the volume of John Jones’ voice, and then, because it seemed the thing to do, she flicked off the lights, leaving only the candles’ wavering flames to illuminate her romantic dinner for one. There, Leah. A dinner date with myself. And John Jones. Who needed anything else?

Well, maybe one thing.

Gwynn paused, fork in midair, imagining Colin’s tanned face, his watchful gray eyes, his narrow hips. Then she scolded herself. He had a life. She had a life. He was off with Pig Iron. Where would he sit, anyway? She’d have to rearrange everything again, clear off her work on the dining room table, perhaps even pull that table away from the window to allow two to sit there comfortably. It seemed, here, with the draperies closed against the storm and the fire burning cheerfully in the stove behind her, to be far too much trouble. She lifted her wine glass, took another sip, and raised it in toast to herself.

She wasn’t lonely. She didn’t really know why Leah at the shop would have thought so. Perhaps Leah was thinking about Gwynn Chelton, living up here in Gull Cottage on Eyewell Lane for nearly all her adult life, nearly all of it alone. Still, from the sounds of things, the old woman had been quite capable of living with herself. Gwynn toasted to that and took another drink as the last of John Jones’ songs faded out.

 

AS GWYNN SET down her glass, she heard a sudden wild pass of wind along the narrow street outside the front window, and with a half-hearted flicker, the electricity cut out. At almost the same moment there was a crash from the kitchen, and a sudden blast of air through the cottage snuffed the candles. She was surrounded by total blackness.

After her first small shriek—surprise, she told herself, not fear—Gwynn pulled herself to her feet and looked around the small room. The fire in the stove still blazed through the glass window, throwing a small red shape on the floor before it. As she stared, trying to gain reassurance from it, it darkened and disappeared, then reappeared again, in a wave, much as though someone had passed between it and her.

She felt the hair on her arms stand up.

“Who’s there?” she demanded sharply.

There was no answer. She fumbled on the table for the matches and knocked the box to the floor. She knelt to find it, struck her kneecap on the table, and the silverware clanked against the plate. She swore, straightening up with the box in her shaking hand; several matches fell out before she was able to grip one and strike it against the side. The flame flared up and she touched it quickly to one wick and then the other. She grabbed one of the candle holders and turned, holding it aloft like a weapon.

She was alone in the room.

For a moment she merely stood there, candle in hand, her other palm pressed to her chest where her heart pounded against her ribs. Calm yourself. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her mouth, then took another.

At the window she pulled the curtain aside. All of Eyewell Lane was dark and indistinct beyond the rain-streaked glass. Another wave of air bent the candle flame sideways, and she quickly turned to the kitchen.

The door to the garden had blown open, and rain hurled itself in on the wind, puddling across the kitchen floor. Gwynn cupped her hand around the candle flame and hurried to slam the door against the storm. She had to lean into it, and then, at last, she threw the bolt.

Hadn’t she thrown the bolt already?

Gwynn set the candle on the countertop, then pulled tea towels from the top drawer to throw onto the floor. Then, for good measure, she took the flashlight from the cupboard and flicked it on. The beam was sickly yellow—she’d forgotten. She dug out the new batteries—thank God for foresight—and hurriedly changed the old for new.

Then she looked over her shoulder at the door. She hadn’t opened it today, hadn’t had the heart to look out on the thorns. Had she locked it yesterday? Had she checked the bolt before going to bed? Perhaps Mary had unlocked the door when she had been in this morning. Perhaps. That had to be the answer. Had to be. Repeating this mantra to herself, she retrieved the dirty dishes from the sitting room and piled them in the sink. No electric, no water. Mary would sniff in the morning, but a power cut was hardly Gwynn’s fault.

She took the flashlight and one of the candles upstairs with her.

 

HER CELL PHONE rang as she was finishing an awkward brush of her teeth with a dry brush. She still couldn’t recognize the jumble of numbers that showed themselves on the lighted screen, but, needing to hear another human voice, she answered anyway.

“Gwynn.”

The human voice she wanted to hear.

“Power cut up there?”

“It is,” she said.

“You’re all right?”

“I am.” Despite her earlier fright, she had to laugh at the monosyllabic conversation. What was it about that man that turned her so laconic in speech? It wasn’t just Colin, though; Mary spoke in the same short declaratives as well. Nearly everyone she’d spoken to in the village did. Perhaps it was just in conversing with her, the woman from off. Perhaps they were more forthcoming with one another? She had no way of knowing.

“Need anything?”

You. “No,” she said. “Thanks. I’m fine.”

“All right, then. Lock your doors.”

Gwynn bristled slightly at the order. She was an independent, intelligent person. Surely she could be trusted to lock her own doors. Surely she could be trusted to take care of herself. Unless.

“Already did,” she replied tartly.

There was a sound that might have been impatience, or might have been a laugh. “Phone if you need me.”

Then the call was cut, and she was left holding the phone, staring at the glowing icons on the screen. She hadn’t told him about the kitchen door, and probably wouldn’t, either. Why admit to the stupid shock? To be frightened in a strange cottage by a little wind: she felt foolish enough thinking about her spleeny reaction, without sharing it with anyone. He’d only think she was angling for him to come spend the night with her. Which, upon reflection, would not have been a bad thing.

So there it was, she told herself, waving a hand dismissively in the dark. She made a circuit then of the house, checking the kitchen door again by the light of the flashlight and the sound of the storm, checking the front door as well. She imagined everyone else doing the same to the sound of the wind and the rain, women like Mary Tennant passing silently through their houses like ghosts, making sure their families were secure against the wild world and its storms.

It was—almost—a comforting image. Gwynn took the flashlight upstairs with her again, balancing it on end on the nightstand as she drew on her pajamas and crawled under the duvet. Despite all her protestations on the phone, she wished there was someone here for her to keep secure. More than that, she wished there was someone who, after checking the locks, would curl up in the wide bed with her, and protect her as she slept.

Except she didn’t need protection. She didn’t.