Page 17 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)

The Ivers exchanged heavy glances, the type people used when they both knew something, were fully aware the people around them didn’t, and suspected that was going to be a significant problem.

“I’ve sorted out that Guilford is a strange place,” Kip said. “The trunk of clothes I was given offered a few clues as to what I am meant to be doing here. Am I missing something else?”

The real question was, How much was he missing? He simply wasn’t being told enough to take on his role with any degree of expertise.

“How different is what you’ve seen on Guilford to what you saw before coming here?” Mrs. Ivers asked. “Is it jarringly different or only little things?”

“Jarringly,” Kip acknowledged. “But it’s supposed to be.” Of course, what he’d expected was not quite as drastic as what he’d found. Still, the lack of modernization might have been part of the appeal to some people.

Mr. Ivers eyed him sternly. “The truth is staring you in the face, Kipling Summerfield. It’s right there looking at you. But this truth’s a hard thing to see.”

“You could just tell me what it is rather than speaking in riddles,” Kip suggested. “I’ve been handed more than enough of those since coming.”

Mrs. Ivers shook her head. “There’s really only one truth you need just now, Mr. Summerfield. Once you sort it, all the rest will make sense.”

“Terrible sense,” Mr. Ivers added. A “supporting character ominously foreshadowing something” speech delivered in only two words. The man might not be a serial killer, but he was proving himself an impressive actor.

Another knock sounded at the door. The Iverses exchanged yet another glance, this time one of surprise and confusion as opposed to “this guy we’re talking to is a moron.”

“Who do you suppose that is?” Mrs. Ivers asked.

“This is Guilford,” her husband answered. “Half the options are inside already.”

“How many people are on Guilford during open days?” Kip asked Mrs. Ivers as her husband stepped over to the door.

“Can’t say that I understand what you’re asking,” she said. Either she, too, was a tremendously good actress, or she legitimately couldn’t make sense of the very simple question.

An actor learned to recognize when other people were acting, in part because they were constantly trying to do better and learn from those who proved great. This was something else.

“The truth is staring you in the face, Kipling Summerfield,” Mr. Ivers had said.

The truth of what ?

Amelia stood on the other side of the Iverses’ now-open door. She carried a small basket and wore an uncertain smile.

“I cut some herbs in the garden today,” she said.

“I thought you might be able to use some.” Her explanation was offered almost in the form of a question.

And he knew the look in her eyes: it was the “Please like me” look he himself had often worn when going to auditions or wandering into a group of fellow actors.

It was the look of someone who hoped to make a friend, or at least a good impression, but had reason to believe she probably wouldn’t.

Mr. Ivers gave a simple, silent nod. The man was not one to usually be friendly or talkative, that much was clear.

Mrs. Ivers’s smile was quick and fleeting as she accepted the offering and slipped into a corner where a small table held jars and pots of what appeared to be other herbs.

It was only then that Kip realized this place didn’t appear to have a kitchen.

It was one big, open room, with a single door leading off.

That door was ajar enough for him to see a tiny bedroom on the other side, barely large enough to hold the bed inside.

This was the entirety of their house. No sink.

No stove. A quick glance at the baseboards and around the walls revealed no electricity.

Again, he didn’t see a bathroom. They were legitimately living the lives of a poor couple in perhaps not even 1800.

And they had a tiny child here with them.

Why was that being permitted? Who would even choose this situation?

“The truth is staring you in the face, Kipling Summerfield.”

He shook that off.

“I have a long list of repairs at the house.” He dipped his head to all of them. “Good day.”

They offered very quickly muttered words of farewell.

Neither of the Iverses had been gushing with friendliness before Amelia’s arrival, but what little welcome had been there seemed long gone now.

Maybe when he was alone at the lighthouse, he was to play the role of local carpenter and laborer, which eased some of the class restrictions that were so stringent at the time— thanks, historical accuracy .

But when Amelia was there, he would be playing the part of gentleman visiting the manor and would be treated accordingly.

This place was going to give him whiplash.

He stepped back outside and plopped his hat on his head once more. It fit snug enough that even with the stiff breeze, it was unlikely to be torn off his head. He flipped the collar of his wool coat up. It offered something of a buffer against that same cold breeze.

He’d not gone more than a step when Amelia’s voice called out to him. “I’ll walk back with you, Mr. Summerfield.”

He stopped and waited for her to catch up. She moved slowly and with some difficulty, but there was also confidence in her use of the cane. Was it acting? He was all but certain it wasn’t.

“The Iverses can be very standoffish,” she said with a tone of apology. “I don’t know if they were very welcoming to you.”

“We spoke before you came, and while they were perhaps not the most vociferous of people”—he’d learned the word vociferous on The Beau —“I didn’t feel ignored.”

That brought her hauntingly beautiful brown eyes to him with a look of both hurt and confusion. “Truly? They spoke openly with you? They were friendly?”

“In their own way.”

She walked alongside him, her basket swinging in the hand that did not hold her cane.

Her eyes were set on the path ahead, though he suspected she wasn’t really looking at anything in particular.

“They’re usually very suspicious of people who aren’t from the area.

I’m still attempting to convince them that I needn’t be treated with such wariness.

You seem to have managed it in less than two days. ”

“That, Miss Archibald, is because I am an incredibly affable fellow.” He used a feigned tone of arrogance that had won him a few hearts when Tennyson Lamont had employed it.

Her smile blossomed, one of the better reviews he’d had of a performance. “You’re also a very amusing fellow. I don’t know if you realize that.”

“My friend Malcolm says I’m sometimes more obnoxious than amusing.”

“He must not be much of a friend if he calls you obnoxious. Unless, of course, you truly are an offensive and objectionable person.”

Note to self: Obnoxious was, apparently, a stronger word two hundred years earlier, and Amelia wasn’t opposed to calling him out on his word choices.

“The word is clearly used differently here.”

“Then he was not being unkind?” She seemed pleased at the possibility.

“I cannot imagine Malcolm being unkind to anyone.”

“At the moment, I would say the same about you, Kipling Sum-merfield.”

He knew he didn’t hide his surprise at that declaration. He did consider himself pretty easy to get along with, but he hadn’t known her for even two whole days yet. How had he made a good impression already?

“You are in a less-than-ideal situation after a horrible ordeal in the ocean.” She shuddered as she spoke the last word. “Despite all that, I’ve never seen nor heard of you being unkind to anyone here.”

“Had you expected me to be?”

“A lot of people are.”

He studied her a moment, his heart unexpectedly going out to her. “Are these people unkind to you in particular?”

A fleeting and heartbreakingly sad smile tipped her mouth. “More often than I’d prefer.”

A particularly large wave crashed against the shore below them. Her eyes darted toward the sea, and he saw her stiffen. Perhaps a buffer from the view would help. Subtly, so he didn’t embarrass her, he managed to get on the other side of her, so he was between her and the ocean.

“If the Iverses aren’t very accommodating of people not from here, what do they do when all the visitors arrive?” he asked.

Being the grumpy lighthouse keepers might simply be part of the act. But the place was already not overly inviting. Maybe that was something else that needed to change if they were to save the place from bankruptcy.

“We don’t get visitors other than my uncle and my late grandfather’s solicitor. And I’m the only one they come to check on.”

He hadn’t meant the owners and managers of the place, which was what they’d established uncle and solicitor were code for.

“I meant all the visitors to the historical site,” he said.

Once again, she looked at him with complete confusion. People kept doing that. For some reason, it bothered him more that she kept doing it.

“There’s nothing on Guilford but the estate and the lighthouse,” she said. “There’s no ... historical site.”

There was a point at which a person took keeping in character too far.

No one was telling him what he was meant to do or what was expected of him.

He couldn’t even find out when the site was going to open for the season or what each day would look like.

And he suspected that if he even tried to ask why in the world there was no electricity or plumbing or how he could go about replacing his phone, they would all just look at him with that same blank expression and tell him they didn’t know what he meant.

The path he and Amelia were walking split into the main one leading up toward the house and the smaller one leading toward his work shed. “I will see you this afternoon, when I’m permitted to be in my second role of the day.”

“You sound upset,” she said.

The declaration contained a hint of worry, and guilt tugged at him. He didn’t think she’d been acting when she’d said people were often unkind to her. He didn’t want to give her reason to worry that he was going to join those ranks just because he was slightly exhausted. “I’m not angry.”

But she still looked wary.

“I am a tad frustrated,” he said. “I just wish there were someone on this island who would talk to me authentically without playing a part.”