Sea Jade

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  Lien ran to him at once and sought to draw him back to his chair. But though he leaned weakly upon the window sill, the captain stood his ground.

  “The dog’s been barking his fool head off,” he said. “There’s someone prowling around down there in the back garden.”

  Lien bent to peer through the opening and said that she saw no one.

  The captain snorted. “If you’d forget that vanity of yours and get yourself glasses, you might be able to see beyond your nose. Take a look out there, Miranda, my girl. Tell me what you see.”

  I drew a fold of drapery behind me to shut out the lights of the room and looked down into the dark garden. From the lower windows of the new house a faint illumination had been flung across leafless bushes and flower beds. As I stared, I saw movement upon a path. A man stepped into the light and looked up at the captain’s windows. For an instant I glimpsed a heavily bearded face, the shine of a head that was nearly bald. The dog was barking madly now, and the figure faded into shadow even as I looked down.

  “There is someone there,” I said over my shoulder.

  At once the captain pushed past me to roar out the window in his surprisingly lusty voice, demanding to know who was down there and what he wanted. There was no answer and the captain seemed satisfied that he had frightened the fellow off.

  “No matter,” he said as I closed the window. “We keep the downstairs door locked at all times. Don’t we, Lien?”

  His wife bowed her glossy black head in agreement. “The door is locked. Come to your chair, please.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll find out what’s going on,” the captain said, leaning on Lien’s arm as he moved back to his chair. “I like all hands on deck and accounted for. With no stowaways.”

  Lien brought the small teakwood table and placed it before the captain. Then she drew up a chair for me and began to serve the meal. To my delight, the food was Chinese and I was able to eat as skillfully as the captain with my chopsticks. My father had been fond of Chinese dishes and we had enjoyed them often at home. Lien had cooked shrimp and bits of lobster and other sea food in a savory sauce, accompanied by vegetables done so slightly that they were still crisp, and the rice was fluffy and dry.

  It troubled me that the Chinese woman would not eat with us, but the captain shrugged the matter aside.

  “In her own country she would eat with the women, never with the men. Here she prefers to eat alone.”

  The relationship between these two puzzled me—perhaps because it matched no pattern with which I was familiar. The captain seemed to depend upon his wife in many ways, yet he treated her with the casual manner he might have bestowed upon a servant. What the woman herself thought or felt I had as yet no way of knowing.

  The captain watched with approval as I began to eat. “You’re hungry as a sailor, girl. It’s a fine thing to savor good food. I like a hearty eater.”

  Lien did not at once sit down apart from us to her own meal, but hovered nearby, ready to replenish our bowls at the slightest look from the captain. More than once when she came near, I glanced at her feet, wondering at what must be considered their abnormal size for a well-born Chinese woman. The captain caught my look.

  “Well may you stare,” he said, again speaking as if she were not in the room. “Lien is a most fortunate exception to a miserable custom. Her father was a scholar of some note in his country—a forward-looking man who wanted to see the barbarous custom of binding girl children’s feet come to an end. As it must one of these days throughout China. The Manchus, who are the country’s rulers, have never adopted the custom themselves. It is thanks to her father’s foresight that Lien is able to walk normally.”

  I glanced at the captain’s wife, wondering how a scholar’s daughter must feel living unaccepted in this strange household, and put to almost menial service by her husband. As I finished my second bowl of rice, thankful not to be dining with the others in the new house, I wished again that a friendship of sorts might be possible between us.

  “Thought I’d get you away from all those long, lugubrious noses,” Captain Obadiah said, grinning at me wickedly over his chopsticks. “The only fellow in the house with a sense of humor left is Ian Pryott. Have you met him yet?”

  I recalled the man who had stood in the library door upon my arrival and said I had not. The oddly mocking bow he had given me hardly served as an introduction. But so quickly had the occupants of this house made me edgy and uneasy that I welcomed the thought of someone who might be unrelated to the McLeans, and thus more friendly.

  “As Brock has been my right hand for the last few years, Ian has been my left,” the captain explained. “His father sailed before the mast on a few voyages of mine. Lost at sea, he was. The mother died a long while back and the boy was left an orphan. I took an interest in him and since his taste for the sea lies only in books, and not in sailing, I gave him a bit of education and put him to work in the company as a clerk. But he’s proved himself worthy of something better and lately I’ve given him the task of recording a history of Bascomb & Company, and I’ve moved him into the library so he can be close by when he wants to consult me, or when I think of a story for him. Nights he stays over in a second floor room nearby in the old lighthouse. He’s ambitious and talented. I like to see a young man who’s out for making something of himself and who won’t give up, even when circumstances are against him. Brock could do with more of that quality himself. Ian manages to be cheerful too—which is more than I can say for the rest of this pretty household. He’s helped Lien with her English and taught Laurel her lessons as well.”

  “Laurel doesn’t seem at all a happy child,” I said.

  “She’s not,” said the captain and I saw too late the opening the subject gave him. “She needs a mother badly. You’ll do wonders for her, I know. Sybil doesn’t care for children, and Brock has forgotten he’s a father. But you’ll change all that.”

  I had no intention of changing anything. I shrank from the way he so readily leaped to the conclusion that I would stay and that everything was already settled. As I gave my attention to the handling of chopsticks, my lack of response must have reached him, and he sensed my opposition.

  “Sybil has probably been snubbing you,” he remarked. “You must pay no attention, my girl. Her nose is out of joint on more scores than I can keep track of. Once you’re mistress of the house, you can give the orders.”

  I could imagine nothing I wanted less. “How could I possibly live in a house where everyone dislikes me, where no one wants me?” I protested.

  He surprised me by reaching out to touch my hand across the table. “I want you,” he said gruffly.

  The gesture touched me as nothing else could have. I felt a flash of affection for this old man who had been a hero to me through all my growing-up years and who was now only a shadow of himself. He sensed a softening in me and took crafty advantage of it at once.

  “When you look like that you’re a dead ringer for your mother. You bear her a startling resemblance, you know. Ian will be interested in this. It’s a part of Scots Harbor history—the role your mother played.”

  “What role did she play?” I asked, moving toward safer ground.

  But he was too wily for me. “The role of the everlasting Eve, of course. Just as she wound Brock’s father around her little finger, so you’ll wind Brock around yours. It doesn’t matter that he’s afraid of you now. That’s all it is, you know—the instinctive male fear of the trap. How could he resist you when you look the way you do, and when your mother’s blood runs in your veins? You’ll know how to deal with him, how to bring him to his knees.”

  The thought of Brock McLean on his knees, beseeching me for my hand in marriage was a startling picture. And a tantalizing one. Improbable, of course, however much I might like to see him there after his treatment of me—if only for the enjoyment I would have in refusing him.

  “He’s been without a wife for too long a time,” Captain Obadiah ran on. “It’s five year
s since Rose died. He’s ripe for loving, but the town women aren’t good enough for him, to my way of thinking. You’re the one to change his mind about marriage. You can do it if you try.”

  There was in me a faint prickling of temptation to try. A feeling based mainly on my desire to punish that arrogant man. My lips must have curved in a smile for the captain nodded at me.

  “You’ve caught the look, girl. Use it on him! He likes gentle girls like the wife he married. A tepid little body, I always thought. I’ve never cared for meek women, but you can fool him until he’s willing to bend. Then when you’re married, you can do what you like with him. You know that, don’t you?”

  His words brought me back to reality. To play-act in my mind at the subjection of so frightening and scornful a man, was one thing. To marry him was another. I turned my smile directly upon the old man, coaxing him away from the subject.

  “I saw your model of the Sea Jade over in the lighthouse. Was she really as beautiful a ship as that?”

  He seized the bait I offered, perhaps more because of the ship’s magic name than because of my coaxing.

  “She was a beauty indeed. Everyone claimed that Andrew built her too sharp for safety. But I proved them wrong. Andrew had a notion that he was the only man alive who could sail her through a typhoon, but I proved him wrong too. Between us—the Sea Jade and Cap’n Obadiah—we made a record that has never been broken, before or since. No other ship ever touched it. Seventy-four days back from Canton!”

  “Mr. McLean said the ship killed his father. What did he mean by that?”

  “As a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say that she did.” The captain’s laugh had a sour sound. “Though indirectly.” The thought must have been an unpleasant one because all mirth went out of him. He leaned toward me again and grasped my wrist, not affectionately this time, but so tightly that I winced. “I’ll not wait till tomorrow for your answer, girl. These days I can’t be sure of tomorrow. So I’ll have your promise now. I’ve seen you for myself. I can tell your worth. You’ll raise fine sons for Brock. Promise me now that you’ll marry him.”

  I was suddenly afraid of this willful old man who still had such strength in his fingers. I cried out that I could give no such promise. That I could not, would not marry Brock McLean.

  He flung my hand away from me so sharply that it struck against a teacup and sent it flying, spilling pale green liquid across the table. The cup crashed upon the hearth and at once Lien came to kneel before the fire and sweep up the shattered fragments. Her regret over the destruction was visible in her every movement. When I looked back at the captain I saw that an ugly expression had come into his eyes. “He’s ruthless,” my father had told me and I knew that this would be true.

  “Did Nathaniel ever give you an account of what happened aboard the Sea Jade?” the captain demanded of me.

  I shook my head, not wanting to hear the story, whatever it was, if it must come to me from prejudiced lips.

  “Do you want to have Nathaniel’s good name destroyed—and he not here to speak for himself? Do you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said. “My father’s good name speaks for itself.”

  The old man went on relentlessly. “I have only to tell the truth about that first voyage of the Sea Jade—as I didn’t tell it at the time. Nathaniel was my good friend. I was willing to lie to save him. But if you refuse me now, if you do not do as I wish, I can publish the truth. It’s not a pretty truth, my girl. It will destroy Nathaniel’s name in the record, and it will undoubtedly hurt you as well.”

  I was shocked and frightened, yet within me some small wellspring of strength that I had never before tapped surged up to give me a stubborn courage as I answered him.

  “If you did not tell whatever you had to tell when the thing happened, then I don’t believe you will tell it now. And I will not marry Brock McLean for such a reason.”

  The ugly look that had frightened me vanished abruptly and he startled me by laughing. To my astonishment, the sound had a hearty, approving ring, as though I had somehow managed to do the right thing.

  “You’ve called my bluff!” he roared. “A little trick of a thing like you! You’re right, girl. Whether I like it or not, you’re right. The old story is dead. What’s done is done and I’ll not undo it now. I’m pleased you’ve got the backbone to stand up to me. Never could endure a namby-pamby-afraid-of-her-shadow female like Rose. I don’t mean you’ve won, my girl. You’ll do as I want and you’ll do it soon. But I like the fact that you’re a scrapper.”

  A scrapper? I had never thought of myself in such a light, and his words brought me no ease. Captain Obadiah was one accustomed to having his way at all costs. I did not want to remain in this house to find out what he would try next to force my will to his. The sooner I escaped him the better. I must find out about trains for home. I must get away from this place.

  He had just signaled to Lien to remove my empty bowl and his own half-eaten food, when I saw his look change. He was staring fixedly at the door behind me, while a flood of crimson rushed into his face. He made a choking sound and put a hand to his throat.

  I turned and saw in the doorway the same bearded fellow I had glimpsed in the garden. He wore a seaman’s jacket and trousers, and there were boots on his feet. His bald head was bare and he touched a mocking forefinger to his temple.

  “Tom Henderson at your service, Captain Bascomb,” he said.

  The captain pulled himself to his feet, fighting for the power of speech. “Why … are … you here?” he managed hoarsely.

  The man’s grin was cocky. “You know well enough why I’m here, Cap’n. You knew I’d come back someday and then the jig would be up. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  The captain stared at him for a long moment of violent, inward struggle. Then he fell back, slumping in his chair. Lien rushed to him, bent over him. She spoke to me without glancing around.

  “Bring them from the other house. Quickly, please!”

  I sprang up and found as I turned toward the door that the bearded sailor had disappeared. I ran through the passage to the other house and breathlessly down the stairs. In the hallway below, Mrs. Crawford, bearing a tray of dishes, had just emerged from the dining room. When she saw me she blocked the doorway, her thin face registering disapproval.

  “You can’t go in there now,” she said flatly. “Mrs. McLean doesn’t like to be disturbed at mealtime.”

  From beyond I could hear the sound of voices, the small clashings of silverware and china.

  “Let me by!” I cried. “The captain is ill!”

  I think she might have disputed my entrance to the room even then, had not Brock McLean heard my voice and told her to let me in. I brushed past the woman, impelled by Lien’s urgency. They were all there at the table except the banished child: Mrs. McLean, Brock, Ian Pryott.

  “The captain is very ill!” I told them as they turned startled looks in my direction. “His wife wants you to come at once.”

  Without pausing to ask questions, Brock left the room with a limping stride. For the first time I noted that some physical handicap interfered with the motion of one leg. I could see that it gave him difficulty, though it did not slow him now. His mother rose with less haste and moved toward the door. When I would have accompanied her, she spoke to me curtly.

  “Please do not come with me. You have done nothing but disturb him ever since you arrived.”

  She swept past me with the haughtiest of airs, and at her going I heard a sound behind me. I whirled to find Ian Pryott looking down at me from his tall height.

  “Why does she treat me like that?” I asked, choked with indignation and hurt. “I have done nothing to harm the captain.”

  “I can tell you easily enough,” he said. “Your grandmother was a shopkeeper, your grandfather a fisherman. If it’s any comfort to you, my mother ran a grog shop and Mrs. McLean treats me in the same way. It is an offense to her sense of what is proper for the McLeans t
o have us in the house.”

  He spoke quietly, without bitterness, though his look was wry. When I would have left him to return to my room, he touched my arm lightly, arresting me.

  “Don’t go, please. I’m glad of an opportunity to talk to you, Miss Heath.”

  Was it possible that someone in this house could treat me kindly? I measured Ian Pryott with more caution than I would have been capable of only a few hours before. He was younger than Brock by a few years, I judged. Perhaps thirty to Brock’s thirty-five. He must have been as tall as Brock, for I had to look up at him, but he was far less stocky of build. There seemed a wiry strength in the man that I sensed through the very touch of his hand, as though some life force pulsed strongly to his very finger tips. His hair, brushed back from the forehead, was only a little darker than my own pale locks, and his eyes were the gray of the ocean off Bascomb’s Point. As I was soon to know, they were eyes never to be easily read. Even in such a household as this, Ian was able to remain his own man.

  He smiled at me with his quick, wry way of seeing past the façade a person might present to the world, cutting home to the truth, however unflattering. Whether he was handsome, as I had first thought, or whether his face was ill-proportioned and uncomely, I could never fully decide, for the sculpture of its planes received the light irregularly. And in any event, it never seemed to matter.

  I must have studied him as unblinkingly as Sybil McLean had studied me, for his smile broadened. “If I pass muster, Miss Heath, let’s leave the captain to the good ministrations of others for the moment. You don’t want to go back there immediately, do you?”

  “The captain is very ill … perhaps I should …” I broke off, knowing he was right. Concerned though I was for Captain Obadiah, I knew Mrs. McLean would not allow me to help. While I hesitated, Ian Pryott gestured toward the library across the hall.