Solace by the Sea
written by: Richard Bishop
Maidstone Cottage stands on a promontory overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. After the Spanish flu took my beloved wife and son, on doctor’s orders, I’d taken up residence to unburden my soul. Other than the cozy cottage, the other feature on the bluff was a small family graveyard of six plots. Five were recent, by the color of the soil, each one topped by a small wooden cross. The remaining grave remained a gaping hole, awaiting an occupant. On my daily strolls, I paid my respects to these lost souls who were my only companions on this lonely finger into the sea.
My days passed, bundled against the biting wind, staring out onto the cold gray ocean, seeking answers that never came. The crashing of the sea against the rocks and the screech of gulls fighting over a morsel of fish interrupted my pondering.
In the evenings, I’d gaze into the fire, drinking brandy until a fitful sleep full of dreams of happier times claimed me.
August and September came and went without my noticing.
October brought the first snow, all virgin white muffling the earth, but not my despair.
A thousand times, I considered throwing myself off the cliff into the sea. Would I join my wife and son in heaven or find oblivion, free at last from my dark thoughts? Or would eternal torment be the reward for my rash act?
Being the coward that I am, I wallowed in my sadness.
As the sun set in late October, it could have been November. A knock on my door disturbed my despair.
My grocery delivery wasn’t due until next week. Who could this be?
Never in the mood for visitors, I hesitated before answering the door.
Standing on my porch was a red-haired woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a light gray coat, sturdy shoes, and a wool hat. I noticed neither a carriage, horse, nor motor car. I surmised she must have walked here from the village.
“Good evening, Miss. How can I help you?”
She half-smiled. “My name is Maude Jenkins. I used to live in this cottage with my family until they succumbed to the flu.”
Surprise at the familiar tragedy must have shown on my face, because her expression softened.
“May I come in and look around, for old time’s sake?”
Behind her, I saw storm clouds rolling in from the sea. “Yes, of course. How rude of me. Please come in and warm yourself by the fire.” I stood aside.
She stepped into the cottage, brushing the snow from the shoulders of her coat and shaking out her hat.
“Come sit by the fire and warm yourself. May I make you a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please, that would be delightful.”
As I put water into the kettle on the pot-bellied stove to boil, she wandered around the house, stroking the furniture as if greeting an old friend. She settled into one armchair by the fire while I got busy assembling the fixings for tea.
“I only have milk and sugar, I’m afraid, no lemon.”
“Milk and sugar are fine, thank you.”
As I got the cups and saucers out of the cupboard, and to my surprise, I smiled at having a guest.
We talked long into the night, and our conversation turned to our mutual tragic loss. I became maudlin, and I must confess I was more than a little teary-eyed. We held hands, hugged, and comforted each other until the sky in the east threw rays of red light through the windows.
I excused myself to use the outhouse, and when I returned, my guest had gone. The storm had dumped a layer of fresh snow, but no fresh tracks led down the path to the village. There were, however, tracks leading to the path going down the cliff toward the beach.
She must have come by boat.
When I mentioned her name to the drayman, Mr. Peters, who brought my grocery order, his face twisted into a question.
He removed his woolen hat despite the cold and twisted it between his fingers. “About thirty, was she? Long red hair?”
“Why yes, that describes her. Do you know where she lives? I’d like to call on her.”
Mr. Peters stared at the toes of his boots, and when he looked up, he had the manner of a man about to deliver bad news. “It’s like this, Mr. Smith. When her family died of the flu, it was too much for her to bear, and she threw herself into the sea. We never found her body, but she left a note outlining her intentions.”
The words to express my jumbled thoughts and feelings escaped me, so I said nothing. I paid Mr. Peters for the groceries, and he left without another word.
For the rest of my stay, I walked to the promontory’s edge and stared into the raging sea, hoping for one more glimpse of Maude. But I never did, although sometimes I thought I could hear her voice in the wind. I’d shout my feelings at the sea until I ran my voice hoarse. I knew she listened and didn’t choose to reply. At some point during my ravings, the weight of my loss lifted from my soul, and my thoughts turned to the future.
By mid-March, I vacated Maidstone Cottage and returned to my law practice in Boston, a healed man. I’ll always be grateful to Maude Jenkins for listening to a man maddened by grief. Did the spirit of another grieving soul visit me, or was it my imagination that lifted me out of the darkness? I know not.
Over time, I rejoined polite society, but on stormy winter nights, my thoughts wander back to Maude Jenkins.
I hope she found her own peace.
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