by Andre Norton
“Ahhh—” there was a sigh which was nearly a groan.
Shubal, his thin old hands pressing against his breast, wavered on his feet. Persis caught his shoulder, tried to steady him. Then Dr. Veering moved swiftly in and took most of the weight of the man’s frail body.
“He would come,” Molly said. “But he ain’t fit to be out of bed, he ain’t!”
Dr. Veering gestured and two of the servants waiting discreetly at the parlor door came to carry Shubal back. Persis was aware of Captain Leverett moving to join her. She spoke without looking up at him.
“They were together ever since they both were young. I–”
A hand caught hers, drew her fingers up to lie on a strong supporting arm.
“Your uncle must have been a very good master to win such devotion. Do not worry about his man; Veering will see to him.”
“I—” Persis’ sight suddenly blurred with tears. She stumbled forward to lay Molly’s flowers on the top of the coffin.
Captain Leverett did not leave her. The floor seemed to sway under her like the deck of the Arrow and she found herself clinging desperately to that strong arm as if it were the only promise of safety. All safe and normal life had been torn asunder. Shubal’s collapse had made her completely aware of that.
5
P ersis’ straightly stiff back was a credit to the drilling Miss Pickett had imposed upon her young ladies. Her hands, primly folded, rested on the still locked portfolio on her knees. But she watched very closely the man standing near the hearthside, nor did she miss the fact that his frown was growing deeper.
“I agree, Miss Rooke, that legal assistance is necessary in this matter. Unfortunately, there is none to be had nearer than Key West, and as to when you can journey on there—”
“I understand, sir,” she said firmly, “that there is a mail packet visiting here at intervals.” Her chin rose a fraction of an inch; she would not beg for help, if that was what he was waiting for.
“At intervals is right—long ones,” Captain Leverett returned. “Also, the quarters aboard the packet are very cramped. And, if they have already picked up other passengers, they would refuse you room. But perhaps something else may be done, Miss Rooke. I shall give the matter my fullest consideration.”
“Thank you, sir.” He was almost as formidable here in this room as he had been on board the Arrow. She could imagine him sweeping her off again to suit his own plans. It was plain to her that she presented a problem and one he wished were absent. Now she arose.
“We are most grateful for your hospitality, sir. The care for my uncle, and now for Shubal, has been all one could desire, even from a close kinsman. And Shubal cannot travel, ill as he now is. But certainly we have no right to continue to intrude upon your home. I have been told that there is a hotel for shipwrecked travelers, perhaps it would be better for us to move there—”
Now he was positively scowling. “Certainly not! Oh, it is not too uncomfortable, I grant you. But it is not for a lady, especially one now alone.”
“Sir, it is time I must learn to manage for myself. And with Molly, I am certainly not alone!”
He was halfway to the door as if he could spare her and her concerns no more time. But he spoke over his shoulder.
“Let me hear no more of such a scheme, Miss Rooke. You will remain under this roof until we can make acceptable travel arrangements for you.”
Persis almost gasped. Such brusqueness was sheer rudeness and her resentment awoke at once. This Captain Leverett had no control over her. Yet it seemed he expected her to meekly accept his orders, as if he were her guardian.
She clasped the portfolio tighter. It was true that she lacked some months yet of being legally of age. But her uncle had never mentioned to her that he had made provision for any guardian. Perhaps some stranger might take over, and she would not be even allowed to go on to the islands.
Would any lawyer in Key West be empowered under the circumstances to act for her on her own will? She had not thought of that before. If she only knew what the law might be in her case—not yet of age and without a guardian.
She went to look out of the window at the late afternoon scene. The heat was heavy, for the earlier sea breeze had died away. And she began to understand Lydia’s feeling that the Key was a prison. But she would not allow herself to be trapped! Surely Captain Leverett must be as glad to see the last of her as she would of him.
Persis returned to her chamber. The portfolio was still to be gone through, and on the chest in her room lay the watch with the key attached to its fob. Seating herself, she unlocked the case and shook out on the bed a number of documents. Two, fastened together with tape, she recognized as letters from those in the attic box. Then there was a long, thrice-folded sheet bearing an impressive seal and in fancy script at the top the words Last Will and Testament.
Persis scanned the strange formal language of that. A pension for Shubal, and one for Molly, as well as a bequest to Mrs. Robison, the cook who had ruled their New York kitchen. Mention of some books to go to Mr. Hogue, and arrangements for a funeral which had been decided upon as decorous before Augustin Rooke had made his decision to come south.
Last of all—“the remainder of my estate and properties to my niece, Persis Rooke.” No mention of guardianship. Clearly Uncle Augustin had never thought he would die before she came of age. But he had known his health was precarious before he started—or perhaps he would not admit that to himself.
She read some letters—the most recent one first. It was from a lawyer—a Mr. Lampson Brown in the Bahamas—urging Uncle Augustin to either come or send some reliable agent for the settling of Madam Rooke’s estate. Though he mentioned no sums in the letter, it was plain that the inheritance was enough to warrant concern.
The taped letters were much older, of course, time-browned. Persis spread out the first—the ink was very faded. She looked to the window—it was not only that her eyes were unaccustomed to the crabbed writing, but the light had begun to fail swiftly. Clouds were gathering, and again the wind was rising. Such gusts followed that the curtains were blown out into the room and she hurried to close them, securing the shutters when she saw the whipping of the fronds on the palms below. Was a second storm on the way?
Lighting the bedside candle she held the letter page close to that to be able to read at all.
The subject matter was what Uncle Augustin had told her. And the hand was that of an educated person, the contents much to the point. Papers had been found after the death of Amos Rooke which made it clear he was in debt to his New York kin. The writer offered to send the sum so long owed. Her expression was stiff and Persis thought she was unhappy to admit the cupidity of her dead husband, but honesty had won out. The page was signed “Caroline Rooke.”
But the second letter contained information Uncle Augustin had not mentioned. It was longer than the first and the hand was shaky, though when Persis compared the dates of the two it had been written only four years after the first.
“To Augustin Rooke, Esquire,” she read in a half whisper as she struggled to distinguish the words—
I have to ask of you a very great favor, but it is necessary for my own peace of mind that this be done. As you know my late husband had a son born of an irregular union before our own marriage. However, he acknowledged this boy openly and made him his legal heir, since it was clear that at our time of life we would have no children.
Unfortunately this boy, James Rooke (his name assured to him by adoption) was of a wayward and passionate temper. He quarreled continually with his father, took up with bad company, and was a constant source of unhappiness and disgrace for my husband—though he gave James many chances to reform.
When the sea war broke out again with your country, James, much against his father’s wishes, sailed on a privateer fitted out here in the islands. This was later captured by one flying the American flag. We have heard nothing from him since—save a rumor that he was killed during a boarding action. Y
et until his death my husband clung to the hope that James might still be alive. This, I will admit, I fostered, since it relieved his mind during his long illness.
I made private inquiries which stated that James was seen to fall wounded on boarding the deck. This has been since accepted by our courts to mean death, so his father’s estates were passed to me.
But very recently I heard another tale—that James, though wounded, escaped, and since has not been seen. I have traced the ship which fought with the Heron and discovered that, by some strange twist of fate, it was owned by you. Since it was not lost, and you may be able to find some of those who served on board—can you supply me with any information they may have about this affair?
James was twenty years of age, of a brown complexion, with dark hair. He had a sword scar across the back of his left hand and was of a reckless spirit.
I await, sir, your reply, since this is a matter of grave importance.
Persis’ first conclusion was Amos’ wife must have hated James. The fact came through plainly that she had only put up with him for the sake of her husband. And she dreaded James’ turning up to claim the estate. How had Uncle Augustin answered this? Persis searched among the papers on the bed.
There was another legal looking document which she puzzled through—a deposition—or the copy of one (for it had copy written across the back) taken from two men. A Captain Willard Owens–Why, she knew Captain Owens. He had retired, but twice he had visited her uncle in New York.
The other was a Patrick Conner and had the word Bosun written in beside it. Both men swore on oath that they had seen such a man as was described in the letter, that he had been wounded, and had died of his wounds the same night—to be buried at sea.
So. Persis laid down that paper. Madam Rooke had more than one reason to be grateful to Uncle Augustin. He had refused the repayment she had offered him, and then he had assured her inheritance. Now she could better understand why Madam Rooke, in turn, had passed a goodly amount of that inheritance over to the older branch of her husband’s family. Certainly she had not held the death of her trying stepson against the New York Rookes.
The girl made a neat pack of the letters and papers, relocked them into the portfolio. The key she put away in her small jewel box. But had Uncle Augustin blamed himself for James’ death? He certainly had died with a troubled mind.
As she replaced the portfolio in her trunk, Persis was even more keenly aware of the wind now buffeting the house. Some of that fear born in the last hours on the Arrow moved her. But she was safely on land now, not out on the open sea.
Then a sound arose above the wailing of the wind, a sound eerie enough to startle her. It stirred in her again that other fear, the one which had gripped her last night when she had stood in the hall sure that a “presence” had passed her by. Shivering, she picked up the candle and went to the door.
According to Uncle Augustin’s watch it was only near twilight. Yet night had fallen very quickly. She wanted to be with someone, the memory of those moments of sheer terror during which she had been frozen against the wall growing in her.
She heard a bustle below, a slamming of shutters being barred against the outer world. The door to the veranda was also slammed. Another storm! Persis thanked fate that she was not at sea for this one. Vigorous as wind and wave were, the key was safer than a ship.
Lydia came out of a nearby chamber, also holding a candle.
“This will be a bad one. Do you have a waterproof cape?” she asked.
“No.” Persis was bewildered. Was Lydia suggesting they go out into the rising fury of the wind?
“A pity. Hold this, will you.” Lydia gave her the candlestick she was carrying and proceeded to shake out a gray bundle she had folded under one arm. It was a cape provided with a hood. She shrugged the folds of cloth over her shoulders, pulled the hood over her head with little regret for the elaborate arrangement of her fair hair.
“I’m going up on the lookout,” she stated.
Persis thought of that narrow, railed walk on the roof. What could Lydia mean? The gusting wind might well tear her off that perch. Her consternation must have been mirrored on her face for the other girl laughed.
“Oh, there’s no danger really. Henderson, my brother’s lookout, is already there. And he will have rigged ropes to hold on to. Just as Mason is waiting below ready to carry a message should a distress rocket be sighted.”
“Captain Leverett would take his ship out in a storm—?”
“How else did he reach the Arrow? He is pledged to do so by his license. The Nonpareil has even weathered a hurricane. Yes, Crewe is waiting for any signal.”
She took back her candle and flitted to that other steep stair. Persis hesitatingly went in the opposite direction, slowly descending step by step into the dim, shuttered gloom of the first floor. To go out in a frail ship braving the very teeth of the storm—yes, the man she had known on the wave-washed deck of the Arrow could and would do that. He could not be denied the virtue of courage, no matter what other flaws of character he might have.
Mrs. Pryor was busy in the parlor, checking the windows and shutters. She turned to Persis with an abrupt question:
“Are the shutters in your chamber well secured, Miss Rooke?”
“Yes. Will this be a very bad storm?” It seemed to the girl that the house, sturdy as it appeared, was beginning to shudder under the steady blows of this wind.
“It would seem so. And we are, in a manner, vulnerable here. Though the house is set on stakes and so yields a little to the wind. Otherwise it might, in the worst blows, be pounded off the mound. All the fires are out in the kitchen; we shall have only cold food until this has safely passed.”
Now she had to raise her voice to be heard over the outside shriek. How could Lydia be out in this—up on the roof? Persis marveled at the girl’s recklessness.
“Lydia went up to the lookout,” Persis blurted out. She had no control over her hostess’ actions, but perhaps Mrs. Pryor could do something.
Mrs. Pryor shrugged. “She and her brother—it is in their blood. And she knows the dangers, though they have plenty of lifelines fastened there. What she will get out of it, save thoroughly wet clothes—” Again the housekeeper shrugged. “And the Captain has already put to sea.”
“I don’t see how he could—” Persis ventured.
“Best ride out a blow at sea than have his ship torn from its mooring and perhaps beached.” The housekeeper made sure of the last fastenings. “Laws, now, just look at that!” She gestured to water seeping in under the closed window. “We’ll have to plug that before it reaches the carpet!”
Persis trailed behind as Mrs. Pryor purposefully hurried toward the kitchen. Mam Rose, Sukie, and the other maid crouched on the edge of the hearth as if they were chilled, and a fire still flamed there. Molly stood by the big table, both hands over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut as if she could so deny the fury of the wild elements without.
“Get up!” Mrs. Pryor advanced on the group by the hearth. “Water is seeping in the parlor. And perhaps other places along the east walls. Find the rags, the old towels, and get ready to mop up.”
“Water done come in plenty, Miz Pryor.” Mam Rose made no attempt to move, as she screeched her answer. “It’ll git in through de turtle pen iffen it rise some more.”
Mrs. Pryor marched across the floor of the kitchen, stooped to pull up a trapdoor. Flinging it full back she picked up a storm lantern and lowered it, focusing its gleam downward. Mam Rose and the two maids edged reluctantly away from the fireplace to gather up mops and armloads of strips of cloth out of a bin.
“Nigh right up to top, ain’t it?” Mam Rose demanded.
Persis had gone forward to look down into a dark pit the housekeeper had uncovered. The light did show the water swirling about. Mrs. Pryor studied the way that arose up a ladder leading to the kitchen.
“Not enough to worry about,” she reported briskly.
Mam Rose’s thi
n shoulders hunched. “I’m not stayin’ here do the pen break and them big turtles git loose. Don’t aim to have one of them climbing up.”
Mrs. Pryor slammed the trapdoor back in place. “That’s hardly likely to happen, Mam Rose, as you well know. And the sooner you get to mopping the better—all of you.”
Seeing Persis’ puzzlement she explained. “That is a fresh-water cistern down there. And part of it’s a bathhouse. There’s a stake side pen between it and the canal where we generally keep a supply of turtles. Turtle soup is excellent, if a little rich.”
“You mean this house sits out over part of a pond?” Persis asked.
“Yes. It was channeled from the spring on purpose for protection against Indian raids. One could even escape that way into the canal by going through the turtle pond.”
Persis could see the advantage of a supply of water, though she suspected it might be brackish and un-drinkable if the overflow of the seaward canal rose in it. But swimming through a pond of turtles to escape a raid—it sounded like the wildest kind of fantasy. Yet Mrs. Pryor apparently accepted the idea as an added advantage of the house.
“The whole house is not over water,” Mrs. Pryor must have caught some of her unease, “just the kitchen. Captain Leverett when he built used the Key method of mounting the house on heavy stakes driven well into the mound. The building, as I said, may shift a little—and it has—but it cannot be ripped loose. And hereabout it is only good reasoning to have another exit in case of trouble. There have been several massacres on Keys in the past and people have learned to take precautions. The cistern is filled by the rain troughs—it may rise and then run off into the canal. We wedge the door here when that happens.”
Persis tried to imagine a cellar, or what would have been a cellar in any proper house, filled with swirling water, including turtles. All she gained from that was a personal belief it was all a part of the barbaric wrecker life with which she need not concern herself. Turtles! She had seen some of the monsters turned over on their backs, their scaled limbs pawing futilely, and she had felt deeply sorry for the poor creatures, having thereafter no wish to taste the much vaunted soup.