THE OLD
CAPE HOUSE
BARBARA EPPICH STRUNA
Booktrope Editions
Seattle WA 2013
COPYRIGHT 2013 BARBARA EPPICH STRUNA
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Cover Design by Loretta Matson
Edited by Nicola Burnell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-167-9
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-263-8
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"Artfully weaving together historical and contemporary narratives, The Old Cape House conjures up the magic and mystery of Cape Cod legends, past and present. A delightful read for lovers of history and storytelling."
—James Lang, Author of Learning Sickness: A Year with Crohn's Disease (Capital Books, 2004) and Cheating Lessons: Learning from Academic Dishonesty (Harvard University Press, 2013).
“Struna's novel is a beautifully written story that grabs the reader from the beginning and doesn't let go.”
—Saralee Perel, Award Winning Columnist and Author of Cracked Nuts & Sentimental Journeys: Stories From a Life Out of Balance.
I dedicate this book
to all women of the past
who sought freedom to be themselves
and dance under the moon.
Table of Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
PRAISE FOR THE OLD CAPE HOUSE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
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59
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE
December 1715
EASTHAM – CAPE COD
THE DAMP WALLS OF EASTHAM’S JAIL felt cold to the touch. Maria Hallett was grateful that her dear friend Abigail had insisted she dress in layers. The extra clothes were warm to her back during the night as she lay on a small, narrow bench against the wall. The rough, uneven cobbles were slippery underfoot as Maria pushed her crude bed toward the opposite wall and under a high slender window. If she climbed atop the bench, grabbed the iron bars, pulled herself up on her toes, she could catch sight of the sky. The crisp air chilled her body more than she could stand but the sight of the soaring gulls and billowy clouds gave her a glimpse of freedom and hope for mercy.
Two days had passed with no comforting word from anyone. The third morning’s sunrise brought with it the arrival of Abigail. Relieved to see a familiar face, Maria reached out through the tall iron bars of the door and pleaded with her, “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Be calm, my dear. I’ll tell you what I know.” Abigail held the young girl’s trembling hands. “Your trial is tomorrow. The weather is too treacherous for the magistrate of courts to come from Plymouth. Reverend Treat and the elders of the church will preside.”
“Please don’t leave me,” Maria begged.
“I’ll remain at the proceedings until a verdict is reached.” Abigail touched Maria’s cheek. “Pray, Maria! If asked, I’ll speak in favor of you as much as I can. I must go now; they have given me only minutes with you. Pray!”
Maria stretched her fingers through the bars and into the frigid air. She begged again, “Abigail, don’t leave me!” As her friend disappeared behind the heavy wooden door that led to the outside, she screamed in desperation, “ABIGAIL!”
Maria sat on the rigid bench and fixed an empty stare at the toes of her tattered leather shoes. She leaned her body over to one side and slowly dropped down onto the thin cushion of skirts that served as mattress and pillow. Her legs curled into a fetal position and as Maria’s eyes closed, she remembered when she first met Sam.
1
Nine Months Earlier – April 1715
EASTHAM – CAPE COD
MARIA HALLETT FEARED THE WRATH OF HER FATHER. Afraid to disturb his sleep, she silently dropped the latch on the weathered door. The grasses, damp with dew from the cool night, wet the leather shoes of the fifteen-year-old girl as she walked to work. She hummed a childhood lullaby through the pine grove; the gentle song was her only comfort since her mother’s death. As she stepped forward onto the dirt path that led to Smith’s Tavern, questions about her future filtered into Maria’s head like the sunlight through the trees across the foggy cart way.
“Good morrow, Mr. Smith.”
“Good morrow to you, Maria,” the tavern owner echoed back. Descending the cellar stairs to take count of his supplies, Smith called over his shoulder, “There’s plenty for you to do. We’ve new faces in the village and my rooms are full. Start with those dirty tankards and platters on the sideboard.”
Maria went to work cleaning the tables. She moved quietly among the local townsfolk, and travelers all mingling about the tavern, tending to their individual business. Maria wished she was one of them.
At the noon hour, she asked Smith, “May I stop for a short while, Sir?”
The tavern owner agreed but cautioned the girl. “Remember I don’t pay for sitting.”
Outside the warm spring air smelled fresh and salty to Maria as she settled under a beautiful blossomed apple tree. She pulled her coarse linen skirting around her legs and down to the grass. Beside her was a tied canvas cloth holding her mid-day meal. She opened the thick material and flattened it across her lap. Clouds drifted above her head as she took small bites of a greasy strip of beef, then a dried apple and finally a nibble of biscuit.
In the distance, a man approached. As he came nearer, Maria noticed he was older than she was, tall in height and very pleasing. His long black hair fell loose around his broad shoulders.
Maria straightened her back and hoped he would notice her.
The stranger’s face became more animated as he walked nearer. “Good day, Miss.”
Maria lowered h
er eyes.
He picked a blossom from a branch above her head and offered it to her.
She slowly looked up at him.
With a bow, he said, “Your beauty brings wonder to my eyes and far surpasses this delicate blossom.”
His words sounded gentle to Maria. She blushed as she reached out for his gift.
He laughed and in one bold movement sat next to her under the tree. Leaning close to her shoulder, he said, “Don’t be afraid of me, I’m on my way to seek fortune from the sea. But finding you under this splendid tree is a happy distraction–one, which I’m eager to keep enjoying.”
Maria thought him very well mannered.
“May I introduce myself?” he asked.
Maria nodded in approval and this time did not lower her eyes.
“I’m Sam Bellamy. With whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
She nervously adjusted her cap and in a whisper replied, “Maria Hallett.”
“May I call you Maria?”
“Yes.” She felt a smile grow across her face.
“Are you traveling or do you live nearby?”
“I live a short distance from here and work at the tavern.”
He glanced over to where she pointed.
His scent of rum and tobacco drifted towards Maria. She took a deep breath and watched him, noticing his clothes, his hair, and his blue eyes. For a moment, Maria’s words seemed to be trapped inside of her. She just smiled and studied him even more. He was interesting. He made her laugh. Within a short time, Maria found her voice and began to chat back and forth with him in idle conversation. He seemed as if he was listening to her and Maria found his attention irresistible. She felt special. She twirled her hair around her finger; he leaned back on his elbow.
As the hour passed, the two grew friendlier and Sam inched his body closer to Maria. He placed his hand on her knee and asked, “Shall we meet again?”
Maria knew a girl of her age should not be alone with strange men, but Sam intrigued her. Uncertain, but curious to discover more about this mysterious man, she couldn’t help herself and dismissed her concerns. “There’s the old abandoned McKeon house, not too far from here.”
Sam smiled. “Where is it?”
Maria gave him directions and they set the time for noon the next day. He helped her up from under the tree and kissed her delicate hand. She felt her cheeks turn red as the charming stranger whispered, “Until we meet again, Miss Maria Hallett.”
He looked pleased as he stepped backward, turned and walked away. She watched him disappear around a bend in the road. Maria gathered her things and wondered if this could be a chance for happiness. Could it be a way to leave her father and the loveless life that she was accustomed to? Unafraid, she would go to meet him, against everything she knew to be right, and find out more about this Sam Bellamy.
2
Present Day – Early June
CAPE COD
CARS AND SEMI-TRAILER TRUCKS WHIZZED BY the blue van as I reached for a bottle of water. I took a drink, glanced at the number of miles that had passed and decided to tell everyone behind me how far we’d travelled, even if they didn’t want to hear. “We’ve driven 456 miles and we’ve got 350 more to go before we reach Cape Cod.” No response from all four kids, as usual. Even Paul, my dear sweet husband, was quiet, dozing next to me, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his head bobbing up and down. As the odometer on the van clicked off another 50 miles my precocious four-year-old, Molly, started singing and woke Paul from his nap.
“Did you get a chance to sleep honey?” I asked.
Paul rubbed his eyes. “A little. How far to the next exit?”
“About 15 miles. Hey, do you remember the day we told the kids about buying a house on Cape Cod?”
Paul looked over to me. His hand gently stroked my hair and the nape of my neck. “How could I ever forget, Nancy Caldwell? You were like a little kid about to do something you knew you shouldn’t.”
“I remember my heart went through the roof the day we walked into the old farmhouse.” I stared ahead at the road. “If you recall, we fired ideas at each other all the way back to the cottage about how to fix up the antique house, and how its location could help sell more of your art.” I laughed out loud. “We tried so hard to justify buying it. We absolutely had no extra money.”
Paul was gazing out the side window. He turned back to me and said, “You know, I sensed even then that we were all beginning a new chapter in our lives.”
Glimpses of the children popped in and out of the rearview mirror. I called out to them, “After we get settled into the house, who’s going to be my assistant researching the legends of Cape Cod?”
Brian looked disgusted as he played a game on his phone. At sixteen, our unhappy son was headed to a new high school on the Cape for his junior year. Thirteen-year-old Casey always ignored me. She continued to look at the trees flying by, keeping a beat with her head to the music coming from her headphones.
Persistence was my strong suit so I tried to get the family talking. “Remember the house that we saw on Goody Hallett Drive, in Eastham before we bought the farmhouse?”
“Oh yeah,” Paul answered. “The realtor scared the kids that morning with her recap of the Maria Hallett and Sam Bellamy legend.”
I took a deep breath and dramatically chanted, “Maria Goody Hallett haunts the bluffs in Eastham, for nigh’ 300 years, forever looking for Sam Bellamy, the lover who abandoned her.”
Brian leaned over and poked Casey. She turned on him with a prickly voice. “Stop it!”
I yelled over my shoulder. “You could be a little nicer to one another. I know we’ve been on the road a long time but we all need to co-operate.” At last, everyone was paying attention to me and I couldn’t resist throwing out another tease. “It’s funny how all of you got so scared when you heard the Bellamy-Hallett legend.”
Casey shouted above a loud truck that was passing and tried to defend herself with, “Yeah, but it was creepy Mom! Sure glad we didn’t buy a house on THAT street. And Brian, you’re such a jerk.”
Brian just smirked at his sister, pleased to get a response.
I gave up. Maybe some different music would help the miles go faster. As I waited to hear my favorite new age instrumental come through the speakers, the van began to pass through Eastern Pennsylvania and New York on Interstate 90.
Rolling hills and lush farmland blended with the modern smooth sounds that now filled the van. Every time I drive with music in the background, I feel like I’m in a movie, I can’t help myself. I always imagine there’s a camera filming from above as I drive down the highway, hopefully on my way to a new adventure. As soon as cruise control steadied the van to a good speed my feet and legs began to move to the rhythm of the music. Leaning back, I felt happy. Memories flooded my mind from all the vacations on Cape Cod, and the years of our dreaming about moving there. How during last summer’s visit, the van had broken down in the small town of Orleans and needed repair before we could leave. How we’d decided to visit a real estate office and found four property listings for quick drive-bys. How the last one we saw in Brewster had caught our eyes as well as our hearts.
I could hear Molly’s little voice singing over my music.
Jim called out, “Mom, we better stop soon!”
I pulled into the next rest stop and the family began to straighten themselves, unplugging earphones and turning off iPods. I tossed the keys to Paul as I got out of the car. “Come on. Let’s power-walk!”
Over my shoulder I told Jim, “Grab Molly’s hand!”
***
Hamburgers, french fries and soft drinks were spread over the table inside the rest stop in a jumble of papers and napkins. Hungry hands reached for ketchup and straws as all of us enjoyed our feast. I tried to catch Molly’s attention. “Are you going to come with me to see the Provincetown Pirate Museum?”
“Yeah,” Molly answered with a giggle.
I lowered my head to get close to he
r and spoke in my best pirate voice. “Arrrrrrgggg! We’re goin’ to have some mighty fine adventures livin’ on ol’ Cape Cod. What say ye, my little lass?”
Casey, embarrassed, said, “Shhhh, Mom. Don’t do that. Everyone can hear you.”
I didn’t care. My coffee tasted good, and I was keyed up about moving. After all, we were on an adventure. “I can’t wait to discover who lived in our old Greek Revival house.” Paul simply placed his hand over mine in agreement.
***
Crossing over the Sagamore Bridge, we had less than an hour before we would reach Brewster, located on the bayside of the Cape. Incorporated in 1803, this Sea Captain’s Town was quiet and, like most New England villages, was steeped in folklore and a few ghostly tales. The local historians would refer to its location in the 1700s as North Harwich.
***
As we pulled into the driveway, the darkness hid the beauty of the house with its white clapboard siding and classic lines. Set back and up a slight rise on the Old King’s Highway, its two acres had a bonus of a nice old barn and an attached cranberry shed. Abandoned for years and labeled a ‘handyman’s special’, it had looked friendly when we purchased it, but now, in the dark of night, it almost seemed ominous.
As the dome light lit up the van, Paul said, “I’ll go in first and make sure everything’s okay.”
I was thankful we’d already made several trips to the Cape, prior to our final arrival, with the essentials that would make our first night bearable. By the time Paul returned, everyone was ready to get out and find their beds.
“Be careful where you step when you get inside,” Paul warned. “The contractor and his crew didn’t finish everything.”
Once the complaints and grumbles ceased, and the kids were settled, Paul and I were too tired to set up our new bed frame. We crawled onto the mattress, which for now lay on the floor. I couldn’t sleep. Random thoughts flew around my head. Who else had stared at these ceilings and passed through these doorways? Were they sad or happy people? Had anyone died within these walls?
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