Peter, the next in age, was examining a small cut on his arm. When he glanced up at Beatrice his black eyes were expressionless, unreadable. She stepped back, flustered, and her foot knocked the bucket. ‘Oh, watch out, silly,’ cried Hetty. They all saw it rock then settle.
‘What’s your name?’ Angie asked.
‘Beatrice,’ said Beatrice, pronouncing it the English way.
‘Goodbye, Beatrice. Look, Hetty, stay here with the boys. I’ll be quicker. You’d better not go without me, Ed,’ she warned. She set off up the beach in the curious loping stride of someone not used to running. Hetty stared into Beatrice’s pail and then up at her stolidly, before turning and following her brothers back to the shoreline. There Edward filled time by practising cartwheels on the sand and Peter hurled pebbles into the waves with what Beatrice considered excessive force. Up by the dune, good-natured Angie could be seen stuffing towels, clothes and shoes into a straw bag. She hurried back to her siblings and the four of them ambled over towards the other cove, not even turning to wave to Beatrice.
She’d visited the other cove with her parents, but had been repeatedly forbidden ever to go there by herself because it got covered up so quickly by the tide. It occurred to her now that she should have warned the children, but they were already too far away to hear.
She watched until they were out of sight, then turned back to her task, hauling her bucket over to the next big rockpool. There, three pretty pebbles gleamed in the depths and she almost forgot about the children as she fished these out one by one, thinking they’d look well in her collection box at home. Then she sat back against a boulder, took an apple and a greaseproof package out of a shoulder bag and ate ginger biscuits while she made notes in an exercise book about her afternoon’s finds. She drew the fish and a picture of a mermaid swimming in the palace she’d imagined. Then she put away the notebook and spent some time fishing for a particularly elusive crab in a large shallow pool, the surface of which kept being ruffled by the breeze. It would be a good hour before she needed to return home to tea.
The sun crept across the sky. The tide was on the turn now. She could feel the tension of it, sucking and pulling in secret places under the rocks. She wondered idly where the other children had got to and whether they knew about incoming tides. Edward was older; she thought he must know. She’d wait for a while longer just to see, but she’d be in trouble if she were late home.
She stared over at the passage to the next cove. It was narrower than it had been. Every now and then, a wave would nearly reach the jagged black rocks of the headland. But then several would fall short and she’d decide she was being hasty.
Time to go. She swung her bag across her shoulder, lifted the bucket of sea creatures and the net and started up the beach, but each step was reluctant. When she reached the far side of the dunes and gained the path back to St Florian, something made her turn round. A cry, she was sure it was a cry. It might be one of the children. She couldn’t go on, couldn’t just leave them there in danger.
She left her things by the path and retraced her steps, but when she reached the place where the passage had been, she saw that the sea had nearly covered it. They hadn’t come back. They’d be drowned.
She eyed the vicious rocks, imagining where her hands and feet could fit, and looked down in dismay at her soft hands. She wouldn’t have to go very far – if she could just see the children and warn them . . . She placed her sandalled foot on the lowest ledge and began to climb.
Chapter 6
Oenone Wincanton, whose name was pronounced ‘In-ony’, came to tea with Beatrice’s mother the next day. Beatrice skulked in the hall, listening at the door.
‘Your daughter is obviously a tomboy. Ah, the dear thing, she sounds just how I used to be.’ Angelina’s mother gave a delicious rippling laugh and Beatrice couldn’t help smiling. ‘I had brothers, you see, and the things we used to get up to would simply make your blood freeze. That’s why you must let me help. Don’t worry, your little Beatrice will turn out beautifully with me, you’ll see.’
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. What did Mrs Wincanton mean by help?
‘But you know where we found her, madame,’ she heard her mother say in her accented English. ‘On the cliff! It makes my heart stop to think of it. Anything dangerous or daring and she cannot resist.’
When Beatrice had failed to return home the previous evening the Marlows had sounded the alarm. A search party found her as it was growing dark, clutching for dear life to a rocky overhang, unable to go either up or down, soaked by icy spray and terrified, while the Atlantic Ocean churned beneath. Oenone Wincanton had been with them.