by Andre Norton
Finally she arose and went to her uncle’s chamber, tapping softly. The door opened and she faced Shubal who looked even more worried and shrunken. His finger was at his lips, already urging silence as she squeezed through the small space he did not quite dare bar. He hissed at her in a half whisper:
“He’s asleep, Miss Persis. But I don’t like the look of him at all, no I don’t.” He shook his gray head. “I wish that our Dr. Lawson could see him. He knows the master, all about what ails him—”
“I am told that the doctor here is very good.”
Shubal shrugged. “That is as may be, Miss. But he ain’t knowed the master for years, like Dr. Lawson. And the master—he’s worse than he’ll let on. Seems like he called on all his strength to make this here trip and now that’s giving out on him—fast. He won’t take no more food. Just tells me not to bother him when I bring it. But how can he keep up his strength when he won’t eat?”
There was a querulous note in Shubal’s voice. He twisted the fingers of one vein-ridged hand in the other. During the years he had been with Uncle Augustin, his master had been the true center of his life.
“When he awakes, Shubal, let me talk with him. I know you are doing all that you can, but maybe he might listen a little to me.” Persis was not sure of that, but she had to answer the pleading in the old man’s eyes.
“Miss Persis, I think—” Shubal’s quavering voice broke and his eyes dropped. Once more Persis felt that stab of fear. She knew very well what Shubal feared. It lay like a cloud over her mind also. And Uncle Augustin had never meant as much to her as he did to Shubal.
“We must keep from such thinking,” she said gently, “we must just hope. After all, wasn’t he much worse right after the first attack, Shubal? And then he surprised even Dr. Lawson when he made such a good recovery.”
“He was in his own home then, Miss Persis—and—” Shubal’s thin old voice cracked as he went to the foot of the bed.
Persis stood by the door. Her first fear was blossoming into a panic she fought against. She would have to, for she would be the one to make decisions now, take the responsibility. And she shrank from that. Going back to her own chamber she sat once more in the chair by the wide window. The wind blew steadily and cleanly from the sea, cooling her flushed face. There she sat and tried to think of the future.
Uncle Augustin must now believe that he would never reach the Bahamas. He was a man who never before had discussed any such affairs with her, who had shut her out from this family secret. He had told her because he believed she would now be the one to carry on.
And here she had no Mr. Hogue to depend upon. None save herself. Shubal, Molly—they would look to her, not she to them. She felt very young and frightened. But she was not stupid. A long buried core of stubbornness arose in her to give resolution. There were men of law in Key West, and she could ask that one of honesty and integrity be named to aid her.
The thought of going back to New York crossed her mind, fleetingly—to be discarded at once. What would face her there but broken fortunes, a future so dark it had driven Uncle Augustin to make this trip, and he was not a man to be frightened by shadows. So if there was this estate waiting in the Bahamas, then it would be up to her to claim it.
Persis drew a deep breath. She did not like what she thought might lie ahead, and she longed for someone to depend upon for advice. But if that was the way the future was going to be, she must be prepared to face it.
Decisions could be made, but the means of carrying such out was another matter. She had no idea what funds Uncle Augustin could control now. There was this matter of the wrecker’s fee for example—
Persis looked around the room. She did not even have as much right here as she would in an inn chamber. It was manifest that Uncle Augustin could not travel, even if the Arrow could be made seaworthy again. Perhaps if Captain Leverett went to Key West—But he might not take them now. Her suggestion of a headache grew worse and she longed to throw herself on the bed and just forget about everything. Except that she could not do.
Now she was startled again by that queer moaning sound which had first so excited Lydia and sent her racing to the roof walk. Another ship was edging along beyond the Stormy Luck, in fact two ships, the first having the second in tow. Captain Leverett bringing in the Arrow?
Men gathered on the wharf, one was holding a huge shell into which he blew as if it were a trumpet—producing that wailing moan. Persis arose hastily. If the master of this house was returning she had no wish to be discovered in his bedchamber.
As she hurried out into the hall she heard voices below, but not clearly enough to distinguish the words. With the Stormy Luck at anchor and her captain perhaps in this house, some of that trouble prophesied by the servants might well speedily develop now.
She hesitated uncertainly at the head of the stairs. To remain in the Captain’s room was unthinkable. To descend and perhaps walk straight into a family dispute was even worse. But at last she crept down the stairs, alert to any sound which would mean she might again be an unwilling eavesdropper.
However, it seemed Persis was too foreboding. As she went out on the veranda, she caught the sound of a voice from around the corner.
“—a good catch.” Grillon stood at the corner, holding to one eye a glass much like that Lydia had used on the roof.
“Give the devil his due.” The Bahamian captain continued, “If I were to be reefbound in these waters I’d be glad to know Leverett was on the prowl. That ship lists—but she’s still afloat.”
“You’re more generous than he is.” Lydia moved into view, her wide skirts brushing provocatively against Grillon. “You wouldn’t hear him say the same about you, you know.”
“Oh, I know how I stand with Crewe Leverett, m’dear.” His drawl was lazy, a little amused. “But because we bristle up every time we face one another is no reason not to respect the man’s seamanship. He’s a good wreck-master. I’ll grant him that. Only he’s too free with that tongue of his. As he’s going to find out someday.” There was no disguising a note of satisfaction as he put down the spyglass and smiled at Lydia in a way which somehow made Persis a little uneasy.
“Nothing can disturb Crewe,” his sister snapped pettishly. “He’ll always go his own way! Just as he always has—no matter who suffers by it.”
“As you believe that you do, my sweet?” Grillon was still smiling. “Fie, now, that’s cutting a little thick, ain’t it? I don’t see you’ve wanted for much—”
“How can you say that, Ralph?” Her delicate face was flushed, her plump hands balled into fists as if she would like to batter him. “Doesn’t he keep me penned up here—on this god-forsaken island—where nothing ever happens. I’ve begged even to go to Key West. Marcie Daw is willing to have me stay with her. And her father’s the Commandant of the base. Crewe can’t believe they aren’t proper people to visit.”
“Ah, but he knows that the Stormy Luck makes port there regularly,” Grillon laughed. “I don’t think he trusts either of us overmuch, m’dear.”
Once more Persis was an eavesdropper and was ready to tiptoe back into the hall when shouts from the wharf startled her into looking seaward. Without realizing what she did, she moved closer to the pair at the other end of the veranda to see the better.
“Behold, the master arrives!” Grillon commented. Now his smile had a wry edge to it. “Well, m’dear, perhaps we had better prepare for rockets. Maybe you’d better get out of their range.”
Lydia grabbed his jacket in a tight grip, her chin was up and her jawline stubborn.
“I won’t! Crewe may give orders here, but about this he doesn’t give them to me! Just let him try it!”
Grillon laughed. “That’s my Lydia. But, m’dear, this has to be settled between Crewe and me, no petticoats about.” He set down the spyglass and rested his hands lightly on the girl’s shoulders. “It has to be that way and no other, girl.” Then he set her aside as if she weighed nothing at all.
&nbs
p; “What are you going to do?” she demanded.
“I don’t propose to meet Crewe Leverett under his own roof,” Grillon returned. “Best we meet eye to eye out there.”
Persis had taken two quick steps backward so she stood within the doorway. She was ashamed she had not once made her presence clear, but now she spoke.
“Miss Leverett—”
Lydia looked over her shoulder. Her expression was hardly a welcoming one.
“I understand,” Persis plunged on, “that I have been given Captain Leverett’s own chamber. Of course that is not right now that he is returning—”
Grillon laughed again, lounging back against the rail of the veranda. But Lydia’s frown deepened.
“What does all this have to do with me?” she demanded impatiently.
“Why, you’re mistress here, ain’t you, sweet?” observed the Bahamian. “The young lady rightly wants to know what you decide. Quite properly I would say. It’s plain she and Crewe can’t—”
Lydia jerked away from him. “Leave it to Mrs. Pryor. Her word carries more weight here than mine, always has.” She turned her back on Persis and looked out toward the wharf.
Grillon winked at Persis and nodded.
“I saw Mrs. Pryor just a few minutes ago,” he said as Lydia continued to ignore the other girl. “I think you may find her in the kitchen, Miss Rooke.”
Persis managed a “thank you” and then fled. Did Grillon suspect she had overheard much of their conversation? She fully deserved the feeling of guilt she carried with her.
A door at the other end of the hall opened on three steps down into what was plainly the kitchen. There was an open fireplace with old-fashioned spits and chains, and an oven built inside it. The heat, even though an outside door stood wide open, was enough to make Persis feel as if she had walked into a fire.
A small black woman, her thin chemise blouse plastered to her shoulders in wet patches, her full red skirt only partially covered by a coarse apron bearing the stains left by her work, was thumping out pastry on a board with the vigor of one battling a long-sought enemy. Sukie and another maid were washing vegetables and cutting them up.
Persis’ entrance brought a sudden silence, though the cook continued her energetic thumping. Her eyes were not on the girl rather than the task before her.
“Mrs. Pryor, where is she?” Persis addressed them all. For a long moment she thought no one was going to answer. They merely stared as if she were an apparition which they had never expected to see. Then the cook raised a floury hand and pointed to the outer door. She said something but in a thick dialect Persis could not understand.
So the girl brushed past the table and went on into the open. Mrs. Pryor was there, superintending the stretching of a line across a portion of the mound top uncovered by the house, two boys making it tight. She glanced around as Persis’ slippers crunched on the layers of broken clam shells which seemed to cover most of the ground.
“It’s a good day for drying, Miss Rooke. Your maid will not have to wait long before she can put iron to your things.”
“Please,” Persis had only one thought in mind now. “Captain Leverett—I was told I have his bedchamber—which was most generous of him. But now that he is returning—”
“You may have no worries, Miss Rooke. The Captain will stay on the Nonpareil, of course. He spends many of his nights there when it is in harbor. It is he who gave the orders that you were to have his chamber.”
Persis found the other’s calmness somehow a little irritating.
“I understand that there is also a matter of rescue fees. Since my uncle is at present unable to discuss the matter, I do not want to trouble him. Can you explain just what is expected of us?”
She saw Mrs. Pryor’s lips tighten. “I do not know where you have heard such nonsense, Miss Rooke. Of course there are no fees. What you must have thought of us! There is a hotel down the Key built by Captain Leverett’s orders to house the crews of wrecked vessels, if their ships cannot be made seaworthy again, until they can take passage to Key West. And oftentimes there are more passengers than we are able to shelter here. But you and Mr. Rooke are the Captain’s guests. Please understand that he would be greatly offended if you believed otherwise.”
There was no possibility of questioning further that emphatic statement, Persis decided. Perhaps Molly had misunderstood the man on the wharf or he had been teasing her.
“Thank you for explaining,” she said contritely. “But I still feel it improper to keep the master of the house out of his own—”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Pryor was brisk. “He would feel it improper to have it otherwise. You can hear it from his own lips, if necessary.” There was a shadowing of offense in that which Persis was quick to note.
“No, your word is quite enough, Mrs. Pryor. And I thank you for it.”
The lady, who had been somewhat on her dignity, relaxed a little.
“You are very welcome, I am sure. By the way, Dr. Veering is to see your uncle this afternoon. If you have any questions to ask him, that will be an excellent time to do so.”
But those questions were never to be asked. For when Persis reentered the house it was to hear Shubal’s thin old voice raised loud enough to echo through the hallways.
“Miss Persis, oh, Miss Persis!”
She ran for the stairs, one hand on the banister to drag herself up there faster. The old servant stood in the door of her uncle’s room, his face gray-white with fear.
“Miss Persis—he—he—”
She pushed past Shubal. Her uncle rested half off the bed, his face as blanched as Shubal’s. One hand clutched the netting, which had torn in his grip. He looked at her, his eyes wild as she had never seen them before.
“Amos—traitor—Amos—!”
“I went for some water.” Shubal shuffled along to join her. “He was just lying quiet. I thought he was asleep. But—Miss Persis—he must have tried to get up—to get to the window—see?”
He pointed to a bedside table now tipped over on the floor, the candlestick hurled by the fall nearly into the middle of the room.
“Why would he get up, Miss Persis? What did he want?”
“I don’t know. He must be delirious. Shubal, go down to Mrs. Pryor, ask her to send for the doctor at once. No, first, let’s get him back into bed.”
As thin as Uncle Augustin had become, it took the two of them to settle him back on his pillows again, and his breathing was very slow and shallow.
“He must have heard them,” Shubal said in a half whisper, motioning toward the window. “Loud talk down there. Two men were quarreling. I heard only a few words when I came back and found him so. He—he kept saying that Amos was back—that he had come to kill him!”
“It’s all right now, Shubal. You go, I’ll stay with him.”
Persis gently freed the hand clawing at the bed netting and held it between hers.
“It’s all right, Uncle Augustin. There is no one here.
Don’t you remember—Amos died a long time ago. Don’t you remember telling me that? He can’t be here.”
He stared at her blindly. There was a gathering of white froth at one corner of his mouth and he still struggled to get up, but such was his weakness she was able to keep him in bed.
“Amos traitor—said—murder—I never murdered—” Then his body went limp and his hand relaxed in her grasp. For the last time those vivid blue eyes closed.
4
T hrough the dark of the night the wind whispered in a way Persis had never before been aware of hearing. From her unbarred window she saw only a faint glimmer which must be a lantern on the wharf. But she did not focus on that, rather her eyes turned inward on pictures her memory presented.
Uncle Augustin was—gone.
And, to her dull surprise, his death had left a bigger void in her life than she would have guessed possible. She knew now his will had ruled her days, so much so that she could not think of life going on without him.
; Slowly she stepped back from the window. Within the room only a single candle battled the shadows. Persis felt a flash of anger. Why had she been left in so much ignorance by Uncle Augustin? She was neither foolish nor flighty, but neither had she ever been allowed to think for herself.
Shubal had gone to pieces and she had taken enough initiative to order him to bed. Dr. Veering had given the old man a sleeping draft at her request. But that was all she had been able to do.
For Captain Leverett had simply taken command. In a way, he had acted as high-handedly as when he had swept her off the deck of the Arrow, displaying a little of the same impatience—or so she thought. Distraught as she had been at her uncle’s final collapse, she had not been a hysterical female, though one would have believed so the way he had given orders right and left.
There was lacking in him that reckless air which Ralph Grillon showed. The Captain might be only a little older than the Bahamian, but his self-confidence was so complete that he was as impervious as Uncle Augustin to the will or desires of others.
He–
Persis tensed. How could she have forgotten! The portfolio which had been Uncle Augustin’s last charge to her! Hours ago she had sent Molly off to bed, and promised to sleep herself. Only sleep had not come; her mind kept reenacting that last scene when her uncle had called in fear the name of a man long dead.
What had moved him to talk of murder? Persis shivered, drawing her shawl closer about her. The story he had told her about the Rooke who was a Tory—was there more to it than what Uncle Augustin had chosen to say? Had he known Amos Rooke as more than just an infamous family legend?
Uncle Augustin had reached the age of seventy-five and this was 1837. Persis made some hazy calculations. Why, he must have been at least in his early twenties at the time of the British evacuation of New York. And, though the part of the family that had backed the Revolutionary cause had withdrawn from the city several years earlier, he would have been old enough to have known Amos Rooke, even hated him for his betrayal of both family and country.