Seacliff

Chapter three: The summer wanderer

1919

The stranger slept soundly by the fire-screen in the front room when Saoirse opened her eyes the next morning. Her muscles ached from the overnight exertion. Yawning, she stretched on the settee and struggled to remember what had nudged her into consciousness.

The doorbell rang again.

Saoirse rose to her feet and crawled to the front hall in a sleep-deprived daze. Paying no mind to what she wore or how she looked, she pulled the door open and squinted.

"Good morning, Mrs Quinn," Dr Mortimer greeted cheerfully. He smiled, until he noticed her unkempt state and averted his gaze. "I do apologise," he mumbled, "shall I return later?"

Saoirse glanced down at her silk camisole tucked into her tweed breeches that only reached her stocking-less knees. Her hair was in disarray, also, soaked in seawater from last night's efforts and now untamed fresh off the pillow.

"No, not at all." She stepped aside and invited him in. "In fact, it's quite good you're here. I'd like to show you something."

The doctor hesitated.

"The knickerbocker nurse, the Yanks used to call me," Saoirse said. "Or Sister Saw, but that's too grim a tale for this early in the morning. Come in, Dr Mortimer, please. I'll put the kettle on and make myself presentable while you take a look at what I wanted to show you."

He removed his hat, crossing her threshold. "I did not mean to offend you, Mrs Quinn, I only thought – "

"Oh, Saoirse, please!"

Would she ever reacquire civilian manners? Thankfully, Dr Mortimer was a good sport.

"Then I must insist that you call me James in return... Saoirse."

She beamed, pleased. "Come along, James."

James followed her into the front room as she took his hat and coat for him, but stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted the unconscious man on the floor.

"I'll be damned!" he exclaimed. "Is that Sorley?" He rushed over to the stranger, dropping to one knee beside him.

"Sorley who?" Saoirse left her guest's belongings on the nearest armchair and proceeded to pin her curls up in a tangled bun. "Do you know this man? I fished him out of the sea last night." She slipped into a cardigan and sat on the settee. "It was a devil of a job getting him here and patching him up..."

Worry creased the young doctor's features. James kept two fingers on the man's carotid pulse under his jaw, looking at his pocket watch at the same time. Then he felt the stranger's forehead.

"Is he still very warm?" Saoirse asked. "Odd, isn't it? His skin was warm even last night, right after I dragged him out of the sea." She sniffed at the air in the stranger's direction. "No foul smells. His wound must be fine, I don't think he's running a fever."

"No, he's not," James confirmed and stood up with a sigh.

She frowned. "What's the matter, then? Do you know him, really?"

"I wouldn't say I know him... has your aunt not told you about her cheeky summer wanderer?"

Saoirse's eyes grew wide as saucers. "That is Somhairle?"

Aunt Aoife had left her niece extensive notes on how to care for the 'poor orphan' with the waist-long hair and a penchant for running around naked on the beach, who might visit her during the summer months – hence the moniker, which meant 'summer wanderer' in Gaelic. His real name remained unknown.

"Yes, Sorley," James repeated the sobriquet's English equivalent. "He won't be very happy you've cut his hair."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to be alive," Saoirse countered.

A nasty gash on the back of Sorley's head had required stitches and she'd cut as much of the hair around it as she could. The rest of his seaweed-streaked tresses, clumped with filth and blood, she'd trimmed short to ease their washing. They now only reached his broad, brawny shoulders.

"Has he always been uncommonly warm?" Saoirse wondered aloud, watching the man sprawled on the carpet, immovable under the duvet she'd draped over him.

"He has always been uncommon, yes," came the evasive answer. "Your aunt was extremely protective of him, so I never learned too much."

Aoife had specified in her letter that, should Somhairle visit her again, no one was to know of his existence, except the bright young Dr, who needs your guidance and protection as much as my darling wanderer does. They are both precious creatures, Saoirse recounted her aunt's words to herself, too sweet and tender for this cruel world to understand, and you, my dear, so loving and sensible, so fierce and tenacious like an Amazon – tusa atá gcuid Saoirse.

You are their freedom, her aunt had written. Saoirse had taken it to mean that she ought to be their friend, rather than allow herself to become a recluse. Now she felt there might have been more to her aunt's poetic turn of phrase and she could think of one way to test her suspicions.