On a Cold Dark Sea(73)

Anna can row as well as any of them; she has gone out in Papa’s boat hundreds of times. But she can’t get a grip on the wood, not with her frozen, clawlike hands. She could cry with frustration, but she won’t, because crying would only weaken her further. She must be strong, for Emil.

In the back of the boat, Mr. Wells is sulking, and the Armstrong women are murmuring to each other. They haven’t shown much interest in a rescue mission, but they haven’t spoken up against it, either. If Charlotte can convince Mrs. McBride to help, her sisters will fall in line.

“We need as many people rowing as possible,” Charlotte says, working hard to moderate her voice. Polite subservience is the way to convince a woman like Mrs. McBride. “Please. We haven’t much time.”

“I don’t know what good we’d do,” Mrs. McBride says doubtfully. “I haven’t rowed in years.”

“I have rheumatism in my wrist,” Mrs. Westleigh says, holding up one limp hand as evidence. “I wouldn’t want to make it any worse.”

Miss Armstrong offers only a startled look, which Charlotte takes to be answer enough. That ninny would do more harm than good messing about with an oar.

“You could work the tiller,” Charlotte tells Mrs. McBride. “Help us turn around.”

Mrs. McBride looks to her sisters for approval, and Charlotte wants to scream: Get up, you stupid woman! But she can’t lose her composure, not now. Reg could be in the water at this very moment. She must find out if it’s him.

Slowly, with the dramatic composure of someone who revels in attention, Mrs. McBride scoots to the back of the boat and grabs hold of the tiller. “Which way?” she asks.

“We’ll turn her to port,” Mr. Healy says. Then, when Mrs. McBride stares at him blankly, “Left!”

It can’t be Hiram, Esme thinks. He’s old and slow—she’s not even sure if he knows how to swim. But she has an eerily clear vision of Hiram plodding toward her through the water, his arms moving in methodical strokes, his face set in that familiar expression of amused detachment: You weren’t really going to run off with Van Hausen, were you? Silly girl—I’m here to take you home. As the boat slowly turns around, Esme feels a sudden urge to throw herself against Charlie’s back and pull his hands off the oar. She’s afraid of what they’ll find.

Other cries occasionally pop out from the void, like frogs croaking in a country pond. But they are intermittent and tentative, coming from nowhere and disappearing into nothing. The person closest to the boat—whoever he might be—is louder and more forceful. Seeing the boat’s movement, he urges them on with a desperate exclamation that is almost certainly the word “Help!”

Anna hears it clearly: Hj?lp. She pulls the sleeves of the coat over her clumsy hands and tries to clutch the oar, but it slides out of her grasp. No matter—the boat is moving at last. Emil is close; she can feel it. They will pull him out of the water, and he will be so wet and so cold, and she will wrap him in Charlotte’s coat and pull it tight around him. She will rub his frozen hands with hers, and she will bring him back to life.

All this time, Emil has been fighting. With every shout, every breath, he has been calling to Anna, telling her he hasn’t given up. If God has indeed spared him, Anna must prove herself worthy of his devotion. When he is here, beside her, and his shivering has calmed and he is able to speak, she will tell Emil yes. She will marry him. That will be her offering.

They are so close. Charlotte can see a white blur: the life belt, bobbing in the water. She can’t see the man’s face, only a darkness that could be Reg’s hair or could be an illusion of the moonlight. Soon, she will know for sure, but the boat keeps turning, and suddenly the bow is pointing away and Mr. Healy is crying out, “Stop!”

Charlie tips his oar up with an irritated sigh. He shoots Mr. Healy a look of commiseration: We’re the only ones here who know what we’re doing. Esme wants to tell Charlie what she suspects about the man in the water, but she can’t catch his attention.

Mr. Healy stands and glares at Mrs. McBride.

“What is it?” she asks.

“You kept us turning when we were meant to go straight,” Mr. Healy says, frustration evident in the tightness of his voice. “The man’s right there—can’t you see him?”

“It’s difficult to see anything,” Mrs. McBride says, all wounded pride.

“Turn us back to starboard. Right.”

“Now you’ve got me all flustered,” Mrs. McBride protests. She fiddles with the tiller. “This way?”

“Mr. Wells!” snaps Mr. Healy. “Will you lend a hand?”

Mr. Wells, legs stretched out leisurely before him, shakes his head. “Already told you, I don’t know nothing about sailing.”

Why aren’t we moving? Anna’s blood is pounding; she can’t sit still. Why do they keep talking when every second is a matter of life or death? She is the only one who knows what it feels like to freeze. How the cold paralyzes from the outside in, so your body dies around you even as you still breathe. The man’s face is hidden, but she no longer needs to see it; she is convinced, with blind certainty, that only someone as strong as Emil could have survived so long in this murderous northern sea. He’s gone silent, and Anna mentally wills him to hold on. He can’t give up, not when they’re so close. Then she sees a flash of movement. The man is moving his arms. Waving, or swimming, or both.