events of that morning, searching for some clue that she might have missed, just before he had left the cottage with Owen McGee. They had sat down to breakfast at 9.30. Then Owen had arrived at 10 and she had made breakfast for him. Kingsley had decided that it was too rough to cross back to Magheraroarty and that, instead, they could spend some time writing. He had chosen to stay indoors while she went for a short walk with Owen. When they returned, Kingsley told Owen he’d give him a hand securing the curragh since there was a high tide expected.
She turned her back on Meenlara. An enormous gust of wind hit her a fierce blow. The last words he’d spoken were something like:’Here are your pencil and paper if you start first.’1 She could feel the tears of panic and frustration begin to trickle from her eyes, blown sideways by the force of the wind. That parting phrase had been so mundane for a man who was brilliant with words. He hadn’t called her ‘My Bobbie’,2 or spoken of all they’d meant to each other for the past twenty-one years, through the spectacular heights of passionate love and sparkling success, to the seeping despair of lonely nights and shattered dreams. But there was no time for crying. Kingsley had to be found.
It was around 10.30 when he’d left the cottage with Owen. She had spent a short while tidying up after breakfast and by the time she’d gone out to join him it must have been 10.40. She had walked to the Head side of the island where they often went to sit and write, close to the cliffs.
As the sight of those treacherous cliffs came into clear view in her mind’s eye, a cold shudder ran through her. He was always stepping too close to the edge, seemingly oblivious to any mortal danger. His need for adventure was never far from the surface, his restless spirit demanded constant travel and exploration. Freedom! Perhaps for the first time many small pieces began to form themselves into a giant jigsaw, with Kingsley’s lifelong search to be whole, to be free, to be true to himself becoming illuminated at the core. For Kingsley had been tethered all his life. A brilliant mind shackled, even by Harvard, by dear friends, by the need to always conform. Even bound by the love of his devoted wife. But surely he wouldn’t have left the island without her?
Lucy picked up her pace again, retracing her steps to the cottage. Even some distance away she knew that the approaching figure was Owen and not Kingsley. He hadn’t seen Kingsley either. Almost dazed now, she left Owen and walked back towards Meenlara. This time she walked nearer to the caves and began to call out: ‘Kingsley! Are you there, Kingsley?’
As she called, the faces of friends and foe began to assail her: Her sister, Ruth; Kingsley’s brother, Louis; the dear smiling eyes of Æ; the shadow of a young man who was sadly lost; the stern countenance of President Lowell. A bout of anxiety assailed her and she ran, almost stumbling, back towards the cottage. Owen was still working where she’d left him.
‘Owen!’ she panted, struggling to catch her breath.’I’m uneasy about Mr Porter. Come with me at once and we’ll look for him.’Thus began their search of the island. It was almost noon by the time they’d searched the Meenlara side of the Peninsula. Lucy had gone out to Gobrinatroirk, sending Owen towards Ilannamara. She continued to search along the Tory side, marking the point she had reached with her handkerchief. The two of them criss-crossed the island, going as far as Horn Head.
Exhausted, Lucy sat down on a rock to take a minute’s rest. It was now 3 p.m. and the thunderstorm was beginning to team down in torrents. She closed her eyes and let the elements soak her. Kingsley’s handsome face materialized before her. It was a snapshot, a moment when Kingsley sat in his rowing boat, smiling, happy to be back on his beloved lake. The words he had once written to her also formed in her mind: ‘I love you more than the seven worlds or the nine heavens. I only live because of you and when I am beside you. Every moment when I am separated from you is a moment of living lost from my life. I love you.’3
All morning she had been pushing the terror down low and deep, swallowing the rising fears. She closed her eyes tightly and clung to the granite rock, willing her strength not to fail her in this her greatest trial. She breathed in the cool sea air and listened to the screeching gulls, their cries muffled by the rising wind.
She looked up and Owen was beside her. His face was pale and there was worry in his eyes. ‘Owen!’ She suddenly awakened from her reverie. ‘Run down to Pat Coll and ask him to help us.’ Owen nodded, and ran towards the thin scattering of houses. Lucy hurried back to the cottage to get the waterproofs. When Owen and Pat returned they donned the jackets and the three of them set out to search the entire island. The rain had softened the earth now and Lucy half-ran, half-stumbled over tufts of grass and clambered over large, slippery boulders.
4. Arthur Kingsley Porter in a canoe, Lake George, New York, 1912.
Harvard University Archives, HU6 1706.125(2).
‘Kingsley! Can you hear me, Kingsley?’
‘Mr Porter! Mr Porter!’
The thunderstorm raged unabated. The search continued along the Glenveagh Bay side. Then back to Meenlara while Pat searched the Tory Island side. Lucy began to run blindly back towards the cliffs, tripping, half-falling, seized by a mounting dread as the hours ticked by and there was still no trace of her beloved Kingsley.
At 5.30 p.m. the storm began to subside.The threesome searched on while the islanders also streamed out to join in the search. The Porters had been good to the locals and they were genuinely well liked. It would be a catastrophe if anything happened to the wealthy American, the owner of Glenveagh Castle. It would even be worse if any aspersions were ever cast on the locals, that in some way they had been involved. No islander would want that kind of infamy.
It was now evening but the search continued. There was no sign whatever of the husband she had loved, assisted, protected and adored. By 8 p.m. Lucy, Owen and Pat were exhausted. The whole island had been thoroughly searched.
The wind and sea were much calmer now. Lucy knew she couldn’t bear to spend another night on the island. Owen offered to row her back to Magheraroarty. The islanders still had hope that he would be found. But Lucy’s hope had long since been extinguished during her nightmarish, eight-hour ordeal.
When Lucy reached the pier at Magheraroarty, her dear friend Æ took her hand and helped her ashore. Having faced the worst in the midst of the search on Inishbofin, her demeanour was now stiff and composed. On the drive back to Glenveagh Lucy broke the silence as she turned to Æ.4
‘Kingsley will not return tonight,’ she said. ‘Kingsley will never return.’
Chapter two
Early Life: The Scandal That Shook Darien
Arthur Kingsley Porter was born on 6 February 1883 in Darien (pronounced Dari-ann), a small community on Connecticut’s ‘Gold Coast’, situated between Norwalk and Stamford.1 Even in the Porters’ time it was considered an affluent town where wealthy businessmen chose to set up home, while commuting to work in New York City. The early Puritans, known as the New Haven Colony, had travelled from England during the 1630s to 1660s and had settled in the area.2They bought land from the Siwanoy, a peaceful Indian tribe. These early settlers applied their staunch Protestant beliefs, conservative values and strict work ethic to gradually establish prosperous communities throughout Connecticut. In 1848 the New Haven railroad’s first scheduled line was built through Darien, and this created even greater wealth and affluence for the town.
Published accounts of the early life of Arthur Kingsley Porter have been, until now, extremely scant and brief. One typical report stated that ‘fortune seemed to favour him from the beginning’.3 In fact, all the literature consulted converged on one main point: the Porters of Connecticut combined economic privilege with the finest pedigrees in education. This, however, is merely the surface veneer: the true story of the formative years of Arthur Kingsley Porter reads more like a modern-day soap opera, involving a series of tragedies and sensational public scandals that were played out in the full glare of the national press.
Timothy