Page 23 of The Viscount's Pearl
“It is rising,” she pointed out as though to a simpleton.
“There is plenty of time,” he said, piqued that she should think him ill informed, though truth be told he had forgotten about the tide. “It will be at its highest point by…”
“Half past twelve,” she said.
“Well, we will be long returned, wanting sustenance since it is hardly the right weather for a picnic. Fetch your collecting basket, we will have a brisk ride there and an hour or so for your shells.”
“I do not wish to bore you.”
“I could do with the walk.”
She hesitated but then gave a brusque nod and went to dress, returning in a grey dress topped with a pelisse in soft brown velvet trimmed with brown fur, a nod to Deborah’s concern that she would catch a chill, for the sun, while bright, was not warm.
Laurence gave orders to the driver that they were to go to Broadstairs, a town close by to the east, from where, at the current low tide, they could walk round to Margate in a couple of hours, which he felt would give them ample time for Miss Lilley to collect shells and for him to avoid any visits from the eager young woman of Margate and their mamas who might have heard he was in town. The carriage could go ahead and meetthem in Margate, rather than following them along the coastal pathways above the cliffs.
True to her word, Frances did not bring Deborah, and so once the carriage had been dismissed, they were alone on a windswept beach, walking along at her usual slow pace, eyes always searching.
“I am sure we will be comfortably in time to round Botany Bay before the tide is too high,” he said after a while.
It was odd to be alone in the company of a young woman. Laurence was all too aware that it would be frowned on by anyone of good standing and, should they meet anyone along the way, they would be sure to assume the two of them were at the very least engaged. Perhaps he should have insisted on the maid following them, for the sake of appearances at least.
She did not answer, only stooped to pick up a large mussel shell which was lined with shimmering mother of pearl, brushing the sand away from it and tilting it in the light before dropping into her basket.
“It is curious, is it not,” he tried again, for there ought to be some conversation, “that the moon should govern the tides?”
“The Greeks believed that the goddess of the moon was Selene,” she said, still scanning the sand, “and that her chariot of white horses pulled the tides to and fro. Even without the scientific knowledge we have today, they understood that the moon was linked to the tides. There are many such instances of stories hiding scientific knowledge within them. I believe that is why Lord Barrington likes reading myths and legends from around the world. He appreciates the truths hidden within fiction.”
“Are there myths and legends regarding shells?”
She paused from her searching and met his gaze, as though he had finally said something of importance. “Shells have been used as objects of great import all over the world,” she said.“Cowrie shells were used as currency in Africa, conch shells are blown for ritual sounds, shells were divine offerings to Aphrodite since she was supposed to have come ashore in one, as well as honouring her as the goddess of the sea. And of course, the scallop shell has been used for hundreds of years by pilgrims travelling to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. They wear one on their person and the way is marked with scallop shells. The scallop is seen as a symbol of renewal and rebirth, of becoming your true self.” She gave a shrug. “And of course they are used for decorative purposes, for jewellery and suchlike.”
He looked her over. She wore no jewellery at all, not even earrings, unlike most women of his acquaintance, who considered themselves only half dressed without their necklaces and earrings, their bracelets and brooches. “I would have thought you might like pearls,” he said. “Since they are found within shells.”
She nodded. “They are beautiful,” she said. “They remind me of shells when I see them.”
“Have you ever found one yourself?”
“Only tiny seed pearls, once or twice. Not yet grown to full size. They take years to grow. Once a bit of grit gets inside a shell, it must be covered in layers of nacre.”
“Nacre?”
“The pearlescent coating on the insides of shells. They build up over the piece of grit to make the pearl.”
“I believe pearls are a symbol of beauty and love,” he said, the gallant words coming automatically, though he immediately wondered if such words were too flirtatious. He was accustomed to speaking in such ways to the married women with whom he spent most of his time, but perhaps he should not have spoken in such a way when alone with a young woman. Pearls, after all, were frequently given to brides to be worn on their wedding day.
She grimaced. “I would prefer to think of them as symbolsof wisdom and experience,” she said. “A pearl is created over many years, an oyster turning something painful to itself into something bearable. The beauty we enjoy is a by-product of its efforts.” She stooped again, selecting a stone which had a hole through it, bored by the sea over many years, and held it out to him. “This is called a hag stone. You are supposed to be able to look through it at a witch and see through her disguise.”
He took the stone and looked down at it in his hand. It was tempting to look at her through it, to make a joke about seeing her true self, as he would have done with his sisters. If he had been wooing her, he would have made a seductive comment about seeing her stripped of her disguise, and enjoyed a little banter between them as to what she might therefore be wearing… or not. Neither seemed right. Instead he held it up and looked through it to the sea, then stiffened.
“Is it a seal?” He pointed out to sea.
She turned at once and they watched the spot he had pointed to, where the waves broke offshore and there was foam. And yes, there was a dark brown head, bobbing up and down, steadily regarding them.
“Do you often see them?” Laurence asked, enchanted. He had never seen a seal before and there was something about its curiosity that was endearing, how it stared at them even as they stared at it.
“Sometimes, when there are not too many people. Not on the main beach at Margate, but here, on the quieter shores.”
“Perhaps she is a selkie,” he said, smiling. “Should I ask her to marry me, do you think?”
