Grenfell’s verse—like Grenfell himself—needed seasoning, thought Anna. “I’d stick to the knees, Grenfell,” she counseled. “Unless something else occurs to you.”
“Something else? What else, Mistress Anna?” A pair of guileless admiring eyes were looking into her sparkling turquoise ones. “Do you mean I should perhaps espouse your eyelashes, the tip of your piquant nose, your dainty chin?”
“Inventories are tiresome, Grenfell. I—look out, there’s a carriage coming.” She maneuvered Floss to one side. “Move aside, Grenfell, you’re blocking the road!”
Grenfell blinked, for as usual he was quite unaware of the physical world about him. But he hastily made way for the carriage that rolled by them with a nod of orange plumes.
“Do you know who that woman is?” Anna asked sharply after the carriage had passed and the dust had subsided.
Grenfell shook his head so emphatically that the tassels on his popinjay green doublet quivered. “I never saw her before, Mistress Anna.”
“Neither did I, but her carriage was stopped at Mirabelle’s front gates as I came through them just now. She was sitting there as if—as if she was waiting for me to come out.”
Grenfell gave her a blank look. “But why wouldn’t she just come up to the door and ask for you if she wanted to see you?”
“I—don’t know,” admitted Anna. “But she gave me a strange feeling, as if—oh, well, never mind. ’Tis a small island. Doubtless I’ll see her again.” She frowned after the carriage and decided that she would have Mr. Porter, Mirabelle’s factor, inquire about this stranger in St. George and find out what she was doing here.
“Come on, Grenfell,” she said, irritated that she could not with good grace ride on to St. George herself and ask her own questions, for Grenfell would demur and find some reason not to ride into town—he always wanted to keep Anna to himself. “Let’s ride down to the beach. Floss will enjoy a run through the surf and I wouldn’t mind dismounting and taking off these boots and running through it myself. Suppose I tuck up my skirts and you pull off your boots and we splash about like fishermen’s brats?”
He looked so scandalized that Anna hid a smile. But he followed after her meekly as she whirled Floss about. Lovesick Grenfell would follow wherever spirited Anna led.
They rode wildly down the beach and Grenfell lost his hat, which had been clapped fashionably under one arm. Anna pulled Floss up and laughed at him while he bumbled into the surf after it. But she began to feel friendlier toward Grenfell on the white beach in the dazzling sunshine; his love for her was so childish, but so real, so self-evident in every word and look. She took off her boots and tucked up her skirts and ran through the water, pursued by an awkward but enthusiastic Grenfell.
And afterward, they sat on the sand, gasping and laughing and drying their wet legs in the sun—Grenfell looking both shocked and dazzled at the sight of Mistress Smith’s dainty calves, and a glimpse of those white knees to which he wrote enthusiastic sonnets. When Grenfell told her he would not be over tomorrow as he had to squire his mother into St. George to have her new wig fitted since the wigmaker was grown too feeble to ride although he still plied his trade, it occurred to Anna that Grenfell might make inquiries for her even better than the factor, for his mother was a born gossip and attracted all the gossips of St. George to her carriage.
The last thing she said to him when he left her at the gates of Mirabelle was, “See if you can find out who that woman was, Grenfell—the one in the orange-plumed hat.”
Grenfell promised cheerfully to inquire, adding, “But you're right, Mistress Anna. On such a small island, you’re bound to see her again.”
Anna did see the woman again. It was two days later when she rode into town in a carriage with Mr. Porter, Mirabelle’s factor, ostensibly to supervise the unloading of the Marylee, one of Papa Jamison’s little fleet of three ships—the Marylee, the Annalee, and the Bettylee, which sailed throughout the islands, trading. But Anna’s real reason for coming along was boredom. Sometimes plantation life, pleasant as it was, palled on her, especially when Papa Jamison was away, and she yearned to see the tall ships maneuvering delicately down the Narrows with reefs to either side, past Five Fathom Hole, to beat their way into St. George’s harbor.
Today there was a ship about to leave harbor, the Dolphin, and as Anna strolled along the quay in her light blue gown, with little black Boz importantly carrying a silk parasol over her head to protect her complexion from the sun, she looked up and saw the same woman watching her from the railing of the departing ship.
Their eyes locked—and held. Like two antagonists, thought Anna, puzzled. Did she imagine it or was there a sudden gleam of menace in those amber eyes? The ship was making way out of the harbor now, her sheets catching the wind, and Anna studied the woman narrowly. She leaned negligently on the rail with the slightly bored stance of one who has taken many voyages and expects nothing new of this one. When she moved, Anna saw that she had a supple narrowness but was yet possessed of a magnificent figure, startlingly displayed in the same apricot satin gown trimmed in ermine tails that had seemed so out of place in the warm climate of Bermuda.
From the quay Anna watched the Dolphin depart, blown out to sea on a stiff wind, watched until the Apricot Woman’s fox-colored hair blended with the departing ship in the distance. And it was there, standing on the quay as that taunting face faded from view, that the memory that had eluded Anna on the road burst suddenly upon her, and she knew where she had seen hair like that before.
It was when she was seven years old. One afternoon she had accompanied Aunt Eliza on a rare journey into the town of St. George and after Eliza had made her meager purchases they had strolled through the bright sunshine down to the docks. It was on this same quay that she had seen the tall man with the fox-colored hair, exactly the shade of the Apricot Woman’s. He was bent over a small keg, disputing its ownership heatedly with a rough-looking fellow. His back was to them, but his fox-colored hair shone orange in the sun.
Beside her, Anna had felt Aunt Eliza suddenly grow tense. At that moment, the fox-haired man suddenly seized the keg, wresting it away from his adversary. The violence of his gesture jerked him half around and brought the child and the older woman into full view.
Anna was almost jerked off her bare feet as Aunt Eliza seized her hand and whirled to run away. Anna was fleetingly aware that he had tossed aside the keg as he roared, “Ho there!” And then she was running down the street, trying desperately to keep up with Aunt Eliza, who had tucked up her homespun skirts in one hand and was moving faster than Anna had ever seen her move.
At that point a team of horses pulling a wagon piled with cedar logs intervened across their path and Anna’s bare feet came to a skidding halt. Beside her Aunt Eliza was panting from exertion and the child glanced back to see that the fox-haired man, who had only one leg, but whose strides were long and determined nonetheless, was fast catching up with them.
Eliza would have darted around the wagon but the cedar logs’ owner, a planter on a fractious sorrel horse, was right behind his wagon. At her advance the sorrel reared up and Eliza fell back with a cry, slipped, and went down on one hip into the road.
Before she could scramble up, the planter had dismounted, asking anxiously if she was all right. Aunt Eliza was saying “Yes, yes,” in a distracted voice as he helped her to her feet. And now the fox-haired man had caught up with them as she stood dusting off her skirts with her big workworn hands while the planter chided her about dashing out into the road without looking. Eventually he finished his lecture, remounted, nudged his sorrel horse with his knee and departed, following his wagon, which was now some distance away.
There was no escaping the fox-haired man now. He had stood by quietly during the planter’s tirade, but now he stepped forward. Anna remembered his wooden stump, his one big dusty boot, and his whiskey breath as he bent over her before she turned her head away. His broadcloth trousers had several unmended rips near the knee
s, and gravy and claret stains marred his handsome fawn velvet doublet.
“Where can we talk?” he had demanded hoarsely.
“I’ve naught to say to ye, Claes.” Eliza, trembling a little from her fall but erect as a poker, had gazed back at him defiantly, and Anna could feel the convulsive pressure of the hand that clutched her own.
“Ah, yes, ye do.” Claes’s voice became insinuating, and a broad smile lit his face that might once have been handsome before dissolute living had etched it with lines. “I’ve been quiet these seven years, haven’t I?”
“And well paid ye were for your silence.” Grimly.
“Aye, but the necklace money is long spent and I’ve a deep thirst that is hard to slake.”
“Then ye might try working for a living—as I do!” snapped Eliza.
“Come, come, Elise, we’re not at odds!”
Seven-year-old Anna had looked up sharply. This strange man with the gutteral accent had called her aunt “Elise” and Aunt Eliza had not even seemed to notice. “I only ask some token to help me leave this godforsaken shore where I find myself cast without funds,” he said persuasively.
“The necklace was of pink freshwater pearls from Scotland,” Eliza had protested. “They should have kept you well for a long time. Even the big wrought silver links were valuable.”
He gave her a commiserating nod. Almost he might have been agreeing with her. “But I need a bit more now. For as ye’ll note, I lost my leg in a collision on the river—”
“Ye’d already lost it when I gave ye the necklace—which was not really mine to give.”
Claes shrugged and his pointed face became sly. “Nothing belongs to the dead, Elise—all belongs to the living.”
Torment and futility and rage struggled for mastery on Eliza’s worn and honest face. “You’ve kept my secret?” she asked at last. The child thought she sounded fearful.
Claes nodded, his amber eyes watchful, alert.
“There’s a ring,” sighed Elise. “ ’Tis all I have left. I’d meant it for the child’s dowry, heaven help me.”
“She could have all the dowry that anyone—”
“No, she could not!” Eliza’s voice rose in near hysteria and Anna shrank against her, clinging to the folds of gray homespun that clothed Eliza’s long shanks. “I’ll bring the ring to you tonight. Where are you staying?”
“At the inn. But there’s no need for you to come yourself. The child here can bring it.” He reached down with tobacco-stained fingers and touseled Anna’s bright hair.
Eliza struck his hand away and her face was white. “So that’s your game?” she grated. “You mean to take the child from me?” She backed away from him, dragging Anna with her, and there was panic in her voice.
“No, no!” Claes tried to soothe her.
“There’d be no reward in it for you, Claes,” Eliza declared wildly. “You who know so much—d’ye not know they’d not accept her? D’ye not know why? Must I tell ye?”
“Keep your voice down,” Claes said uneasily, his gutteral voice with its strange accent becoming upset as he looked around to see if anyone was standing near enough to hear. “I promise ye I’ve no mind to take the child—I’ll not even ask ye where ye’re living. Do ye but bring the ring to me tonight. I’ll sail away tomorrow and ye’ll see me never again. I swear it!”
“Ye swore last time!”
“Aye, and meant it too! And I’ve kept my part of the bargain, Elise. I’ve told no one where you and the child are hid.” Little Anna was puzzled at that. They weren't hiding—they'd never hidden. Not from anyone. She listened intently to Claes’s next words. “Ye’d not have seen me this time, Elise, save that the ship chose to stop here for water and I’ve lost all my money gambling with these local—” he mouthed a foul oath that Anna could not understand and Eliza pulled her sharply away from him, putting her body between Claes and the child.
Anna’s last sight of the fox-haired man had been when she looked back as Eliza hurried her away. He had been standing spread-legged in the street, balanced on his wooden leg and his good one, grinning after them.
That night Eliza had climbed up on a wooden table and reached a long arm into the beams and from a roof chink had taken a knotted kerchief. Untied, it had revealed a big gold ring set with a single large sapphire, which she had displayed to Anna.
“ ’Twas your mother’s,” Eliza said as she pressed it mournfully to her lips. ‘‘And I’d meant it for you—as a keepsake. But I guess she’ll forgive me for the necklace and this too—for I've been faithful in all else.”
Little Anna was mystified, and the more so when Eliza took he: by the arm. “You’re not to go to bed yet, Anna. Tonight—just until I return—I want you to wait for me in the rocks.” Eliza’s honest face was worried. “I won’t be gone long—I hope. If I come back alone, I’ll come down there and get you. If I come back with someone, you’re to stay where you are no matter how loud I may call to you or what I say. Do you understand?”
The child nodded and felt some of Eliza’s deep panic seep into her own heart. She let Eliza position her in a cleft deep in the shadow of the rocks, heard herself cautioned again to stay there. In an unusual show of emotion—for her—Eliza bent down and pressed a kiss on that small upturned trusting face. Anna was surprised to feel tears on Eliza’s lined cheek.
“If you don’t come back till morning?” she asked in a small voice. “What do I do then?”
Eliza bit her lips. “Wait till well after the sun is up,” she said. “And then go up to the big house and tell them something has happened to me and ask them to take you in.”
As Eliza took the ring and disappeared into the night, little Anna felt a thrill of fear. She was hiding from the man at the dock, the man named Claes. But why?
It was still dark when Eliza returned. Grim-faced and weary, she had come directly to the place where she had left Anna and taken the tired child back to the little seaside hut they occupied together.
When Anna asked timidly why she had had to hide, Eliza had brushed her question aside without explanation. “ ’Tis time enough for ye to know when you’re older,” she was told tersely. “There’s no need to clutter your childish head with old wrongs and old troubles, and matters that cannot be fixed. You’ll keep your silence about what you saw and never speak of what you heard today.”
Anna had not.
And the very next day, she had wandered up from the beach and down the long leafy drive toward the big white cross-shaped house and seen Samantha Jamison sitting listlessly on the broad veranda, being fanned with a palmetto fan by a little black slave boy.
Samantha had called to her and been enchanted by the golden-haired child. Later she had asked Anna to dinner, and there had been a new dress and a glittering table with a bewildering array of dishes and the servants who worked alongside Aunt Eliza actually serving her, and in all the excitement little Anna had forgotten all about the menacing stranger they had run into on the dock. The incident had been pushed far back into her mind, like an unpleasant nightmare—best forgotten.
And if sometimes she had wondered about the incident, and about the man Claes who had been paid for his silence “these seven years” with a necklace, and who had been finally bought off with a sapphire ring that had belonged to her mother, a dangerous man from whom she must hide, she had thought of him as an ogre rising up out of Aunt Eliza’s mysterious past, and vanishing along with Aunt Eliza into that quiet grave up in the cedars.
Her own life had flowered as “daughter of the house” at Mirabelle, and these unpleasant echoes of a long-ago past had drifted down and down into her subconscious, like discordant chords of music—forgotten when the beautiful melody rose and soared.
But now as she watched the Dolphin disappear over the blue horizon, Anna flayed herself for not remembering earlier the foxhaired man, Claes, and what had been said about a necklace of pink pearls with silver links.
That ornate necklace of pink pearls and silver links—th
e Apricot Woman had been showing it to her, flaunting it, daring her to mention it, perhaps! With her half-malicious smile and glittering amber eyes—eyes exactly the color of the red-rimmed eyes of one-legged Claes in that dusty street so long ago—why, she had been taunting Anna with the necklace!
And Anna, caught off guard and years away from her memory of Eliza’s confrontation with the stranger, had not made the connection until too late.
It was the woman’s fox-colored hair that had brought it all back to her in a rush of memory.
What might that woman not have told her—if only she had known what to ask? What might she not have said if Anna—chancing embarrassment—had bluntly stated, “I recognize that necklace. Where did you get it?”
Had the woman worn a gold and sapphire ring as well? Anna racked her brain but all she could remember was the peach gloves and the pink pearl necklace with the silver links.
That gold and sapphire ring, like all knowledge of her true origin, she had crammed into the past, as she tried to forget that she was not like other girls who had parents of their own and grandparents and sometimes even great-grandparents.
And now with the Dolphin sailing away from her, she had lost her chance to find out.
But as she rode slowly back to Mirabelle, sober now and thoughtful, the encounter set her to wondering about the mother she had never known and the people who would never “accept her.” What dark secret had Aunt Eliza kept hidden from her all those years?
She brooded about it for a while, and, Grenfell being no help, she made her own inquiries. But it seemed that the Apricot Woman had not put up at an inn, she had stayed on board the Dolphin, which had after all put in only briefly for fresh water and then departed—some said for Jamaica, some for Barbados.
So no past mysteries were unlocked and as life cascaded by her in Bermuda, a life of luxury with every eligible bachelor at her feet, Anna swiftly forgot it. Time passed for her delightfully, with never a care to blot the horizon.
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