Grayson had turned his face to the one that hovered above them. The lady’s eyes blazed suddenly as a streak of lightning split the sky, and the boy flinched at the crack of thunder that followed. Aunt Dimity’s arm tightened about him protectively as she went on.
“One year passed,” she told him, “and one day, and on the night of the son’s return a storm blew up at sea. It was a fearful, rollicking gale, with waves as tall as Penford Hall and winds strong enough to shred the stoutest sails. Huddled safely around their hearths, the villagers knew that no ship would risk approaching the Nether Shoals that night.”
“But she wouldn’t listen?” guessed Grayson, his eyes upon the window.
“She would not,” confirmed Aunt Dimity. “Though her mother begged her to stay at home, the lass would not be swayed. ‘I must be there when he returns,’ she said. And with that, she took up her lantern—a plain, shuttered lantern, no more than ten inches tall, the kind used in every village house—and set out for the cliffs, where she could watch for her love’s return.”
The boy tensed and drew closer to Aunt Dimity, envisioning the treacherous cliffs just beyond the chapel’s rear wall, and the long fall to the churning sea below.
“It was a terrible journey,” Aunt Dimity continued, her voice pitched menacingly low. “She could not take the easy path, for it wound within view of the hall, and the hard path was very hard indeed. Rain pounded like hammers, wind snatched at her cloak, waves crashed before her, and dark shapes swirled on every side. A dozen times she fell, and a dozen times she pulled herself back up ... and up ... and up ... until she stood upon the wind-lashed cliffs.”
“And then?” Grayson breathed.
“Then it happened. The thing no one can explain. As she held the tiny lantern high, it began to glow with an unearthly light, softly at first, then more brightly, then blindingly, until it blazed forth like a beacon, piercing the curtain of darkness like a white-hot bolt of lightning.” Aunt Dimity let the words linger, let the image of the blazing lantern fill Grayson’s mind, before continuing, more quietly.
“In the first gray light of dawn she saw the ship, the great four-master bearing spices and gold and the treasure of her heart, floating in the safe waters beyond the Nether Shoals. From it came a tiny boat, gliding like an arrow across the rolling waves, straight for Penford Harbor.”
“He met her on the quay,” whispered Grayson, back on familiar ground.
“And he told her of the light that had guided his ship to safety. And she told him of the lantern....”
“And together they told the duke....”
“And the duke was filled with wonder,” said Aunt Dimity. “From that moment on, he loved the lass as dearly as he loved his son. To honor her, he built this chapel, on the very spot where she’d stood, and he brought craftsmen to make the stained-glass window bearing her likeness. And in the chapel he placed the lantern, to remind his descendants of the miraculous light that had saved his son, a light that blazed forth bright as lightning, fueled by the power of a young girl’s love.” Aunt Dimity looked down on the tousled head at her shoulder. “And once every hundred years...” she prompted softly.
“And once every hundred years,” the boy murmured, “the lantern shines of its own accord, and the duke of Penford must fête the villagers, in memory of the village lass, or Penford Hall will crumble and the Penford line will fade forever from the face of the earth.”
“You must find the lantern, Grayson,” urged Aunt Dimity. “You must save Penford Hall. Look, Grayson. Look at the lady.”
Grayson stared up at the window. The lady’s raven hair swirled wildly around the hood of her pale-gray cloak, but her chin was up and her shoulders were back. She thrust the lantern defiantly into the face of the storm, and her liquid brown eyes were fixed on something that remained forever out of reach. Grayson rose to his feet, pulled upward by the strength and courage in the lady’s eyes.
Aunt Dimity’s voice seemed to come from a long way off: “Neither mother’s cry nor duke’s command could stay her, neither wind nor wave could sway her, for her heart was true, her hope undying. Tell me, young Master Grayson, shall you be any less steadfast?”
Lightning flashed and thunder cracked and rain pounded down like hammers, but Grayson Alexander, who would one day be the fourteenth duke of Penford, stood unflinching.
1
Twenty years later
“All of the good men are either married or gay,” Rita declared. “And now Richard’s married.” She closed the file drawer with a bang.