Lighthouse Bay
Harrow. But the hope does not last, for at dusk Arthur thunders down the stairs and a moment later is standing in front of her, his brows drawn down so hard that they create grim shadows on his face. Isabella puts aside her embroidery ring and tries not to blink, or flinch, or indicate in any way that she knows what is coming.
    “Whatever is wrong, Arthur?” she says. Forcing her hands to be still, she takes a match and lights the oil lantern above her head, closing the latch softly.
    For a few moments, he can’t form words. He splutters and spits, then finally says, “I will not tolerate you showing such attentions to another man.”
    She maintains her feigned puzzlement, but feels the sting of Meggy’s betrayal. “And nor should you tolerate it, and nor should you ever need to tolerate it,” she says evenly.
    “Don’t play the innocent with me!” he shouts, and she imagines that everyone below deck, all the way down the corridor to the crew’s quarters, hears it. The ship may be one hundred and sixty feet long, but everything is close to everything else below deck. Arthur, sensing he is embarrassing himself, drops his voice. “Meggy saw you with Harrow.”
    “Mr. Harrow was comforting me,” she says. “There was nothing in his touch beyond ordinary human compassion.”
    “Comforting you over what?” He says this with bafflement, truly believing she has no need for comfort.
    What boiling hatred she feels for him then, for his blindness and his complete absence of compassion. “Mr. Harrow’s wife died. I thought he might understand how I feel about Daniel’s death.”
    “How you feel, Isabella, is not something to broadcast about to strange men on a—”
    “To a fellow human, who has also suffered a great loss,” she says, her words riding over his even though she knows it is the habit of hers he despises the most. Isabella, you ought to listen more and speak far less.
    Arthur splutters a little more, pacing in the small space, his shoes clacking on the wood. The smells of rain and rime are strong, and she thinks about the sea out there restlessly churning; and the restless churning is in her guts too.
    Finally, he says, “The child’s death hasn’t made you special, Isabella. You are still merely the woman you always were. Youdeserve no special treatment, you are not above the rules of proper society.” His eyes flick to her wrist. “At least you have taken off that tatty ribbon.”
    She bristles, but doesn’t bite.
    He squares his shoulders, twitches his nostrils. “You are to stay below deck until we reach Sydney.”
    “What? No!”
    “Stay here in the saloon or in our bedroom. Keep Meggy company. I don’t care what you do. But stay away from the crew. Guard your modesty. And don’t go about seeking comfort for old wounds that have long healed, just to draw attention to yourself.”
    “I haven’t healed!” she cries. But he has already turned and disappeared up the fore hatch. She wants to carve her embroidery scissors into his forehead; perhaps write Daniel’s name there, to put back into his mind the baby that he lost, that they lost. Isabella feels she shall go mad. Every nerve in every tooth is tingling with frustration. The rage builds inside her, under her ribs, around her heart. She wants to break something or someone. Right now, it’s Arthur, but if Meggy came down the hatch she would enjoy tearing her face off too. Where does this violence come from? She was once a gentle woman. How gentle her hands were, when she held the light, sweet limbs of her son.
    Confined below deck. The trapped air and the smells from the cargo hold, not to mention the crew’s quarters. She’ll be sick. But Arthur won’t care if she grows sick. Why does he want her at all, if she is such a disappointment and an irritation? How can he bear to be married to her any more than she can bear to be married to him?
    Isabella realizes she is crushing her embroidery ring hard between her hands, and the

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