Ladies in Emerald
Part I
As soon as the sun rose out of the sea, its light streamed through the dark red curtains of the whitest and most spotless room ever imaginable, it shone upon two little beds, each covered in matching red covers, separated only by a small width of space; on clothing that sat neatly folded on dark wooden chairs that sat by the side of each bed; on the one picture that hung above the mantel piece of the white wall; and on the placid faces of the sleepers.
It awakened Miss Hermione Granger, who sat up straight in her bed and greeted it with a bright smile. "Oh Minerva, the suns up."
Miss McGonagall awoke and smiled too, just not as widely. "The first glimpse of it for a week." Said Miss McGonagall.
"Isn't it strange," said Miss Hermione, "That when we went to sleep the storm was still raging?"
"And now – the sea has not gone down yet. Listen."
"The tide's coming in. Let's go out and look at it." Cried Miss Hermione, delicately getting out of bed.
"You are impulsive, Hermione." Said Miss McGonagall.
She was forty-eight, and three years older than her sister. She could, therefore, smile indulgently at the eagerness of youth. But she rose and dressed in a loose, dark green dressing gown and walked out of the silent house behind her sister.
They had lived there for many years, tucked away on the top of a projecting cliff on the Cornish coast, half way between the light blue sky and the dark blue sea, like two witches, hidden in an enchanted bit of the world who had grown grey waiting for angry villagers who never came. Theirs was the only house on the wind swept height. Below them in the bay on the right, a tiny fishing village of Trevannic; below, down to the left lay a sandy little cove, only accessible by a narrow gorge that split the majestic stretch of cliffs. To that stone weather-beaten house their father had bought while they were young, after having retired from the army with o pension and a grievance and there. After his death, they had continued to lead their remote and gentle lives.
The salt-laden wind buffeted them, brushing strands of hair across their faces and swirled their night gowns around them as they leaned over the stout stone parapet their farther had built along the edge of the cliff, and drank in the beauty of the calm morning. Miss Hermione pointed to the gilt-edged clouds and likened them to angel's thrones. Miss McGonagall derived a suggestion of Pentecostal flames from the golden flashes of sea-gulls wings, then she referred to the appetite they would have for breakfast. To this last observation Miss Hermione did not reply, as she was leaning over the parapet intent on something in the cove below. Presently she clutched her sister's arm in a white knuckled grip.
"Minerva, look down there – that black thing – what is it?"
Miss McGonagall's gaze followed the pointing finger. At the foot of the rocks that edged the gorge sprawled a thing checked black and white.
"I do believe it is a man!"
"A drowned man! Oh, Minerva, how dreadful!"
She turned brown compassionate eyes on her sister, who continued to peer keenly at the helpless figure below.
"Do you think he's dead, Minerva?"
"The sensible thing would be to go down and see," replied Miss McGonagall.
Of course it wasn't the first man to be cast up by the waves that they had stumbled upon during walks, where wrecks and loss of life at sea were commonplace happenings. They were dealing with the sadly familiar; and though their hearts throbbed as they made their way down the gorge and sped down the rocky path, they set about their task.
Miss Hermione reached the sand first and walked as calmly as she could to the body which lay on a low shelf of rock, only to turn to face her sister with a happy cry.
"Minerva. He's alive. Come quickly." And as her sister rushed to her side, Miss Hermione continued in a quieter tone. "Have you ever seen such a beautiful face in your life?"
As Miss McGonagall bent over the unconscious form to check for signs of life herself, a foolish moisture gathered in her dark green eyes that had no business being there. For indeed there lay, sprawled out with a cat like grace was the most romantic figure of youth they had ever seen. He had long black hair, perfectly chiselled face, a feminine mouth and the most delicate, long fingered hands in the world. Miss Hermione murmured that he looked like a Greek god. Miss McGonagall sighed. The man was ridiculous. He was also soaked and moaned as if he were in pain. But as gazing in wonder and admiration at the young man was doing no good for him when he was half-drowned, Miss McGonagall sent her sister in search for help.
"The tide is still low enough for you to get around the points. See if you can find Weasley and Ronald. Get them to bring a stretcher. And ask Mrs Weasley, for some brandy."
Miss McGonagall did not allow the sentimental to weaken the practical. Miss Hermione, though she would have preferred to stay by the side of the beautiful youth, relented and went forthwith on her errand.
"And send Seamus Finnegan on his bike to find Dr. Pomfrey."
Miss McGonagall, left alone with him, rolled up her green robe and pillowed his head on it, brought his limbs into an attitude of comfort. Once done, she sat on the rocks nearby and wondered who on earth he could be and where in the world he came from. His clothes consisted of a pair of black trousers and a white shirt with a collar, and he was bare feet. Miss McGonagall glanced at his feet. The sole were soft and pink like the palms of his hands. Now had he been the coarsest and most callosity-stricken shell-back half-alive, Minerva McGonagall would have tended him with the same devotion; but the lingering though unoffending Eve in her rejoiced that hands and feet betokened gentler work than that of a sailor or fisherman. And why? Heaven knows, save that the stranded creature had a pretty face and that his black hair was flung over his forehead in the most interesting manner. She wished he would open his eyes. But as he kept them shut and gave no sign of returning to consciousness, she sat there waiting patiently.
At last Miss Hermione appeared around the corner of the head land, followed by Arthur Weasley and his son Ronald carrying a stretcher.
"What you got there, Miss's?"
"I would have thought that it was rather obvious Mr Weasley."
While Miss McGonagall administered the brandy without any obvious result, the men looked at the cast away, scratched their heads, and guessed him to be a foreigner; but how he managed to be there alone with no wreckage to supply and clues surpassed their powers of imagination. In lifting him on to the stretcher, the right ankle was uncovered and shown to black and swollen. Old Arthur examined it carefully.
"Broken." He said.
"Oh, poor lad, that's why he's moaning so." Cried Miss Hermione.
The men grasped the handles of the stretcher.
"I'd better take him home to my old woman." Said Arthur Weasley thoughtfully.
"He can have my bed, father." Said Ronald.
Miss McGonagall looked at Miss Hermione and Miss Hermione looked at Miss McGonagall, and the eyes of each lady were wistful. Then Miss McGonagall spoke.
"You can carry him up to the house, Weasley. We have a comfortable spare room and Pomona will help us look after him."
The men obeyed, for in Trevannic Miss McGonagall's word was law.