A fraud and a cheat.
The words buzzed in Faith's head as she continued her damp promenade, staring distractedly at the passing islands. How could anybody suspect her father of fraud? His bleak and terrible honesty were the plague and pride of the family. You knew where you stood with him, even if where you stood was within the blizzard of his disapproval. And what did Uncle Miles mean by "fraud" anyway?
By the time she returned to the shelter of the saloon, Uncle Miles and her father were back in their seats. Faith sat down on the snake crate again, unable to meet anyone's eye.
Uncle Miles squinted at a rain-spotted almanac through his pince-nez, for all the world as if the family really were on holiday, then peered out across the seascape.
"There!" He pointed. "That is Vane."
The approaching island did not look large enough at first, but Faith soon realized that it was drawing up to them end on, like a boat with a tapering prow. Only as the ferry navigated around the island and began traveling down its longer flank could Faith see how much larger it was than the rest of the shoal. Great black waves shattered themselves against the deep brown cliffs, throwing up wild arcs of foam.
Nobody lives here, was her first thought. Nobody could ever live here by choice. It must be where the outcasts live. Criminals, like the convicts in Australia. And people running away, like us.
We are exiles. Perhaps we will have to live out here forever.
They passed pitted headlands and deep coves where solitary buildings skulked along the shoreline. Then the ferry slowed, turning laboriously with a churn of water to enter a deeper bay with a harbor ringed by a high wall, and beyond that ascending rows of blank-eyed houses, slate roofs slicked with rain. Dozens of little fishing boats tilted and shrugged, their cat's cradles of ropes ghostly in the mist. The gulls became deafening, all squabbling with the same broken note. There was motion on the ferry, a communal letting out of breath and readying of luggage.
The rain became fierce again just as the ferry came to rest beside the quay. Amid the shouting, rope-throwing, and maneuvering of gangplanks, Uncle Miles dropped coins into a couple of palms, and the Sunderly luggage was manhandled ashore.
"The Reverend Erasmus Sunderly and family?" A thin man in a black coat stood drenched on the quay, water spilling off the broad brim of his hat. He was clean-shaven, with a pleasant, worried sort of face, currently a little blue from the cold. "Mr. Anthony Lambent sends his compliments." He bowed formally and handed over a rather damp letter. As he did so, Faith noticed the tight-fitting white stock round his neck and realized that he was a clergyman like her father.
Faith's father read the letter, then gave a nod of approval and extended his hand.
"Mr…. Tiberius Clay?"
"Indeed, sir." Clay shook him respectfully by the hand. "I am the curate on Vane." Faith knew that a curate was a sort of under-priest, hired to help out a rector or vicar who had too many parishes or too much work. "Mr. Lambent asked me to apologize on his behalf. He wished to meet you himself, but the sudden rain …" Clay grimaced up at the leaden clouds. "The new holes are in danger of filling up with water, so he is making sure that everything is covered. Please, sir—will you permit me to have some men assist with your luggage? Mr. Lambent has sent his carriage to take you and your family and belongings to Bull Cove."
The Reverend did not smile, but his murmured acquiescence was not without warmth. The curate's formality of manner had clearly won his approval.
They were drawing looks, Faith was sure of it. Had the mysterious scandal reached Vane already? No, it was probably just the fact that they were strangers, loaded down with absurd amounts of luggage. Subdued murmurs around them caught her ear, but she could make no sense of them. They seemed to be a mere soup of sound with no consonants.
With difficulty, the Sunderly luggage was arranged into an ungainly and alarming tower on the roof of the large but weathered carriage and strapped into place. There was just enough room for the curate to squeeze inside with the Sunderly family. The carriage set off, jouncing over the cobbles and making Faith's teeth vibrate.
"Are you a natural scientist, Mr. Clay?" asked Myrtle, gamely ignoring the growl of the wheels.
"In present company, I can but claim to be a dabbler." Clay gave the Reverend a small, damp bow. "However, my tutors at Cambridge did succeed in hammering a little geology and natural history into my thick skull."
Faith heard this without surprise. Many of her father's friends were clergymen who had stumbled into natural science in the same way. Gentlemen's sons destined for the Church were sent to a good university, where they were given a respectable, gentlemanly education—the classics, Greek, Latin, and a little taste of the sciences. Sometimes that taste was enough to leave them hooked.
"My chief contribution to the excavation is as a photographer—it is a pursuit of mine." The curate's voice brightened at the mention of his hobby. "Alas, Mr. Lambent's draftsman had the misfortune to break his wrist on the first day, so my son and I have been recording the discoveries with my camera."
The carriage headed out of the little "town," which to Faith's eyes looked more like a village, and climbed a rugged, zigzag lane. Every time the carriage jolted, Myrtle clutched nervously at the window frame, making everyone tense.
"That edifice out on the headland is the telegraph tower," remarked Clay. Faith could just make out a broad, dingy brown cylinder. Shortly afterward a small church with a tapering spire passed on the left. "The parsonage is just behind the church. I do hope that you will do me the honor of calling in for tea while you are on Vane."
The carriage seemed to be struggling with the hill, creaking and rattling so badly Faith expected a wheel to fall off. At last it juddered to a stop and there was a sharp double rap on the roof.
"Excuse me." Clay opened the door and climbed out. An animated conversation ensued above, in a blend of English and French that Faith's untrained ear could not disentangle.
Clay appeared in the doorway, his face drawn with distress and concern.
"My most profuse apologies. It seems that we have a dilemma. The house you have leased is in Bull Cove, which can only be reached by a low road that follows the shoreline, or by the high track that passes over the ridge and down the other side. I have just learned that the low road is flooded. There is a breakwater, but when the tide is high and the breakers fierce …" He crinkled his forehead and cast an apologetic glance toward the lowering sky.
"I assume that the high road is a longer and more wearisome journey?" Myrtle asked briskly, with one eye on the morose Howard.
Clay winced. "It is … a very steep road. Indeed, the driver informs me that the horse would not be equal to it with this carriage in its, ah, current state of burden."
"Are you suggesting that we will have to get out and walk?" Myrtle stiffened, and her small, pretty chin set.
"Mother," whispered Faith, sensing an impasse, "I have my umbrella, and I do not mind walking a little—"
"No!" snapped Myrtle, just loud enough to make Faith's face redden. "If I am to become mistress of a new household, I will not make my first appearance looking like a drowned rat. And neither will you!"
Faith felt a rising tide of frustration and anger twisting her innards. She wanted to shout, What does it matter? The newspapers are tearing us to pieces right now—do you really think people will despise us more if we are wet?
The curate looked harassed. "Then I fear the carriage will need to make two journeys. There is an old cabin nearby—a lookout point for spotting sardine shoals. Perhaps your boxes could be left there until the carriage can return for them? I would be happy to stay and watch over them."
Myrtle's face brightened gratefully, but her answer was cut off by her husband.
"Unacceptable," Faith's father declared. "Your pardon, but some of these boxes contain irreplaceable flora and fauna that I must see installed at the house as soon as possible, lest they perish."
"Well, I am quite happy to wait in this cabin and spare the horse my weight," declared Uncle Miles.
Clay and Uncle Miles dismounted, and the family's personal trunks and chests were unloaded one by one, leaving only the specimen crates and boxes on the roof. Even then the driver stared at the way the carriage hung down, grimacing and gesturing to indicate it was still too low.
Faith's father made no move to step out and join the other men.
"Erasmus—" began Uncle Miles.
"I must remain with my specimens," the Reverend interrupted him sharply.
"Perhaps we could leave just one of your crates behind?" inquired Clay. "There is a box labeled 'miscellaneous cuttings' that is much heavier than the rest—"
"No, Mr. Clay." The Reverend's answer was swift and snow-cold. "That box is of particular importance."
Faith's father glanced at his family, his eyes cool and distant. His gaze slid over Myrtle and Howard, then settled on Faith. She flushed, knowing that she was being assessed for weight and importance. There was a dipping sensation in her stomach, as if she had been placed in a great set of scales.
Faith felt sick. She could not wait for the mortification of hearing her father voice his decision.
She did not look at her parents as she stood up unsteadily. This time Myrtle said nothing to stop her. Like Faith, she had heard the Reverend's silent decision and had turned meekly to toe the invisible line.
"Miss Sunderly?" Clay was clearly surprised to see Faith climbing out of the carriage, her boots splashing down into a waiting puddle.
"I have an umbrella," she said quickly, "and I was hoping for some fresh air." The little lie left her with a scrap of dignity.
The driver examined the level of his vehicle again and this time nodded. As the carriage rattled away, Faith avoided her companions' eyes, her cheeks hot with humiliation despite the chill wind. She had always known that she was rated less than Howard, the treasured son. Now, however, she knew that she was ranked somewhere below "miscellaneous cuttings."
The cabin was set into the hillside facing out to sea, and was rough-hewn from the dark, glossy local rock, with a slanting slate roof and small, glassless windows. The floor inside was scattered with earth-colored puddles. Overhead, the rain's drum-roll was slowing.
Uncle Miles and Clay dragged in the family's trunks and boxes one by one, while Faith shook out her dripping bonnet, feeling numb and useless. Only when her father's strongbox landed with a thump at her feet did Faith's heart skip. The key had been left in the lock.
The box contained all her father's private papers. His journals, his research notes, and his correspondence. Perhaps it held some clue to the mysterious scandal that had driven them here.
She cleared her throat.
"Uncle—Mr. Clay—my … my kerchief and clothing are very wet. Could I have a little while to …" She trailed off, gesturing toward her sodden collar.
"Ah—of course!" Clay looked a little alarmed, as gentlemen often did when something mysterious involving female clothing was in danger of happening.
"It looks as if the rain is letting up again," observed Uncle Miles. "Mr. Clay, shall we take a little turn on the cliff, so that you can tell me more about the excavation?" The two men stepped outside, and after a while their voices receded.
Faith dropped to her knees next to the strongbox. Its leather was slick under her fingers, and she considered peeling off her wet, skintight kid gloves, but she knew that would take too long. The buckles were stiff, but yielded to her hasty tugging. The key turned. The lid opened, and she saw creamy papers covered in various different hands. Faith was no longer cold. Her face burned and her hands tingled.
She began opening letters, teasing them out of their envelopes and holding them by their edges so as not to smudge or crumple them. Communications from scientific journals. Letters from the publisher of his pamphlets. Invitations from museums.
It was a slow, painstaking task, and she lost track of time. At last she came upon a letter whose wording seized her attention.
"… challenging the authenticity of not one but all the fossils that you have brought to the eye of the scientific community and upon which your reputation is based. They claim that they are at best deliberately altered, and at worst out-and-out fakes. The New Falton find, they say, is two fossils artfully combined, and report traces of glue in the wing joints …"
A knock sounded at the door, and Faith jumped.
"Faith!" It was her uncle's voice. "The carriage has returned!"
"One moment!" she called back, hastily folding the letter.
As she did so, she noticed a large, blue stain on her wet, white gloves. With horror she realized that she had smudged the letter, leaving a thumb-shaped smear.
