by Miley, Mary
I nodded in a vague way. Which cousin had tried to kill young Jessie? Henry or Ross? Surely not one of the twins. How was I going to find out what was in that letter?
“Vegetables on the south side,” commented Grandmother. “You need lots of sun for vegetables.”
“And rain. As you can imagine, we get plenty of that. We grow most of our own herbs and vegetables now. The squash we just ate was grown right here.”
“I’ve never seen asters this tall,” said Grandmother.
Aunt Victoria preened as if she did the work herself, taking as much pride in her gardens as she did in her children. “I wanted purple in that spot. I tried lavender but this climate proved too wet for lavender. However, the fall asters thrive there.”
Around the south side of the house lay the vegetable garden with its neat rows of staked tomato vines and string beans, lettuces, lacy carrot tops, and a dozen herbs whose names I had never heard. For a lifelong city girl whose closest look at crops had been from a train window, this was all very intriguing. I’d never admit in a million years that I hadn’t realized carrots grew underground.
Chen the Chinaman rose from his knees in the herb patch to present us with a solemn bow. I hardly saw his face beneath the wide coolie hat woven from tough grass, but I noted the absence of a queue. Male Chinese performers I had known on the circuit—Fong and Tang, the Chinese Flowers, Shanghai Circus, the Mandarins—had all worn queues, something I thought their religion or culture required. Evidently not.
As the ladies rhapsodized over the vegetables, my mind circled back to Grandmother’s letter. Had Jessie been seriously at odds with Ross or Henry, I wondered, or was she just upset about some childish prank that got out of hand? What could they have done that she would make an accusation like that? Shoved her off a swing? Surely it was just roughhousing or tough talk. Then I wondered uneasily just when Jessie had written this letter. A year before she had disappeared or a week before? If it had been a short time before she went missing, it put an entirely different light on the matter. Had Grandmother mentioned this at the time of the search? Could it be linked to her disappearance? Had one of the boys threatened Jessie or frightened her away? What exactly had she said in that letter? And more to the point, was she prone to melodrama or exaggeration? I was stuck. I could hardly ask Grandmother Beckett about a letter I had supposedly written myself.
We spent an hour meandering about the gardens, pausing for rest on wrought-iron benches, chatting like old friends about the price of beef—I had little to contribute here—and the difficulty of finding and keeping servants who didn’t rob you blind—ditto there. But I knew how to listen and cluck in dismay at the right time. Playing a civilian was turning out to be a manageable role. It was the sinister undercurrent of death that made me wonder whether this charade was going to be as easy as Oliver had promised.
17
My first night in Jessie’s soft bed, now pushed back against the interior wall where it had always stood, was a restless one. Visions of the dead Indian girl, crumpled up and thrown away like so much trash, kept me at the edge of wakefulness all night. When I finally dozed off, I slipped into a disturbing dream where young Jessie was standing next to my bed, talking to me. I couldn’t understand her because her voice was miles away in some clammy, dark place, even through she herself was quite close. I thought when I saw her that she was dead too, just like the Indian girl. Then Jessie was the Indian girl; then she wasn’t.
I woke knowing I was dreaming, not seeing a ghost. With Jessie occupying my every waking moment, it was no surprise that she had started sharing my dreams as well as my routine. I had heard of a Broadway actor who, after playing the same role on stage for years, began to have trouble distinguishing his character’s personality from his own. Eventually he abandoned himself to the role and became the person he portrayed on stage. It didn’t seem as incredible to me now as it once had.
I was becoming Jessie and living her life. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wanted me to know something about a dark, damp place. A cellar? Hurry, I sensed she was saying. Hurry.
I gave up trying to sleep when a young girl with a likable face and a tray of coffee and warm cinnamon bread knocked at my door. Lorraine, her name was, and she was newly hired. My own maid! Grandmother had one too. This was the life of Riley, I thought, propped up against a pile of pillows like a harem girl and drinking my coffee with thick cream and sugar while Lorraine looked through my valise for something suitable for me to wear this morning.
Five weeks until I could return to Sacramento to sign off on my inheritance. Five weeks and one day until I could leave for a long tour of Europe. I wiggled my toes and stretched against the cool linens. During those weeks, this city girl would spend her time reading some of the books in that lovely library and exploring the countryside. Starting today. Shoving the real Jessamyn Carr out of my head, I reminded myself sternly that I was in this for the money. I couldn’t back out now. A brand-new life. Security forever. The fate of the missing heiress was none of my concern.
Coffee and rolls was not breakfast, mind you, it was just to tide one over until the morning repast in the dining room, served buffet style in the English tradition. Meal consumed, I was planning to fetch a sweater and head to the cliff when Caroline—short hair—asked, “Do you want to come to the stables with us, Jessie? Val and I are riding this morning.”
No danger there. Jessie’s pet horse had died a couple years ago. My eyes had grown misty last night when Valerie—long hair—told me about it. Yet I sensed the girls were up to something.
“Certainly,” I said gamely, figuring it was best to get these little incidents out of the way so I could relax in my role.
Uncle Oliver did not ride and had never set foot in the stables, so he knew nothing of the animals or the groom except his name. “Since Anton was hired fairly recently,” he told me, “you needn’t worry about him.” So I was not worrying as I followed the twins to the stables.
The path led through a patch of woods thick with ferns, down a hill, and over a tiny stream we crossed with a single leap. As we approached, I could see the groom in a paddock brushing down one of the horses, his powerful arms sweeping across the animal’s flanks with a sense of confident familiarity I could not achieve if I lived to ninety. His back was to us, but I could see he was fair and tall, a powerfully built man. We were quite close before he heard us and turned.
“Buster!” exclaimed Caroline. “What are you doing here today? Where’s Anton?”
Buster’s grin revealed a number of missing teeth. Dropping the brush, he wrapped his arms around his own broad shoulders in a happy hug. “Hey, Miss Caroline. Hey, Miss Valerie,” he said, his voice low and his speech deliberate. When he looked at me, the grin grew to a mile-wide smile. “Hey, Miss Jessie. I heard you come back.” And as I met his eye, he gave me an exaggerated wink.
It was not a lascivious wink; it was a friendly one that begged for a response. Not knowing quite why, I winked back. “Hey, Buster,” I said in a conspiratorial tone of voice.
“How is my darling Star today?” Caroline was crooning and kissing her horse’s nose as she threw a question over her shoulder. “Where’s Anton? This isn’t his day off.”
Buster thought long before answering. “Anton sick. I heard Miss Jessie come back. I knew you come back, Miss Jessie. I knew it.”
Success in vaudeville depends on quick reaction to every unexpected turn of events, so dealing with a sudden script change was nothing shocking. I considered my next move. Buster was not the regular groom, Buster was simpleminded, and Buster had known Jessie. Slow didn’t mean stupid. I needed to tread softly.
With a noisy clatter, the girls began hauling bridles and blankets out of the tack room and, with Buster’s help, outfitted the appropriate beasts. I was introduced to Star, who had a white patch on her forehead, Socks, who had two white feet, Lady, a placid mare with a back as wide as a Windsor chair, Blackie, a black gelding, and Chestnut, who was reddish
brown. Excessive imagination did not seem to be a Carr family trait.
The girls’ plan was transparent—to test whether or not I could ride like Jessie.
“Won’t you come with us on Mother’s horse?” Valerie asked with a sly look at her sister. “We could saddle him while you run back to the house and change.” Ah, the little angels were going to try to pass off one of the friskier geldings as their mother’s horse when it was obviously the mare.
I declined with regret, citing my lack of riding habit. “I’m looking forward to taking a walk along the cliff on my first day home. I haven’t seen the ocean in a long time.”
“I don’t suppose you’d fit into your old riding habits?” asked Caroline.
I looked bewildered.
“Your clothes are all still in your room. Mother wouldn’t throw anything out. Didn’t you look in the wardrobe and drawers?”
“It never occurred to me. But I shouldn’t think anything would fit. I may not have grown much but I have grown.” I could postpone this but not sidestep it, so I decided I might as well make it happen to suit myself. “I’ll try to come up with something so I can go with you another time.”
“Jessie, have you heard of Anastasia?” asked Caroline.
“Who?”
“The Grand Duchess Anastasia of Russia, who was murdered by the Reds at the end of the Great War with the czar and her whole family.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Very sad. What about her?”
“She came back, you know. She says she wasn’t really dead, only wounded. A soldier rescued her. She reminds me of you. She says she is Anastasia but not everyone believes her. Some people say—”
I finished for her. “They say she’s just after the money.”
“Henry and Ross say you’re not Jessie.”
“And what do you think?”
Each girl looked at the ground and waited for the other to reply.
“You will all know for certain when the trustees complete their investigation.”
“When will that be?”
“Soon, I hope. I’d rather my cousins believed me, as do my grandmother, my uncle, and your mother. Anastasia’s case is quite different. She has no near relatives left who can identify her or ask her questions that only the real Anastasia could answer. They were all killed by the Reds. I can prove I’m Jessie because I know things only Jessie would know.”
“Like what?”
“Like your eighth birthday present was a pony you named Muffin. And that your Mother used to read to us from the Oz books at bedtime. Caroline’s favorite was Ozma of Oz. I forget your favorite, Valerie.”
The twins gaped like carp. “How did you know that?” Caroline gasped.
“Only one way,” I said. Buster was standing next to Star with one huge hand cupped to give Caroline a leg up. He hoisted her into the saddle as if she weighed no more than a kitten. “Now go on, have a good ride. I’m going for a walk.”
Still speechless, the girls took off at a sedate trot. I waited for them to get out of earshot before I turned to Buster with an encouraging smile. Time to find out what he knew.
“It’s good to see you again, Buster.”
“I knew you come back.” He gave a broad wink as he began collecting the currycombs and brushes.
I winked back. “You’re still working here,” I said.
“I come Sundays. And sometimes Anton sick.”
“I’m glad you’re still here.”
I followed him inside. It was a spacious building with eight stalls, five horses, a tack room, a tiny apartment for the groom, and a loft. He pointed to an empty stall.
“She gone.”
He meant Jessie’s horse. “Yes, I heard. I was very sad.”
“Old.”
“Yes. Did you bury her?”
“In the field. I love them.”
The horses. “Yes, I know. They love you.”
“They love me.” A calico barn cat wove in and out between his legs, purring contentedly. “I knew you come back.” He bent to stroke the cat, then looked up at me with a frown. “I kep’ the treasure safe.”
“You did?”
“You want to see? I kep’ it safe.”
He showed me to a small corner room furnished with an iron bed and washstand. The walls were not finished, just studs and outside clapboards, but Buster reached up to a spot just below the ceiling where a board had been nailed between two studs, creating a hidden pocket. Without a crowbar or anything but his bare hands, he wrenched the board away. Behind it was a box about the size of three books, coated with seven years of dirt.
The sudden motion also tore off a wasps’ nest that had been concealed in the compartment, releasing a swarm of furious insects bent on revenge. Buster snatched the box, and we made a dash for the stable door, swatting at our attackers as we ran. Outside at last, we lost them.
I collapsed on the grass, panting. “Did they get you?” I cried, taking stock of my own injuries. “They got my arm twice. And my ankle, right through my stocking.”
Buster crouched beside me, holding out the box for me to take. His hands revealed several stings.
“Stay here,” he said. “I know what to do.” And before I could caution him, he headed back to the stables.
Left alone, I opened the clasp on the box. It was full of agates—blue, green, red, pink, white—all collected, I presumed, by Jessie and Buster seven or eight years ago. There were also several large glass beads of a kind I had never seen. Clear with tiny, multicolored flowers inside, they seemed an artistic miracle. Beneath them all was a lock of auburn hair tied with a scrap of ribbon.
Just then, Buster emerged from the stables carrying a tin cup in one hand and a toothbrush and an orange box of baking soda in the other. “They all gone now. I know what to do.”
“The agates are so pretty,” I said, as he stirred some baking soda into the water with the end of his toothbrush until he had a thick paste. “And these colored beads are beautiful!”
“Bennis beads.”
“Bennis beads?”
“You said they are Bennis beads.”
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“I remember.”
The big man stopped stirring and sat beside me on the grass. Wordlessly, he set the tin cup between us and began smearing the paste on his hands. I did the same, dabbing it on my arm where one of the wretches had gotten me but good. To reach the sting on my ankle, I removed my shoe and rolled down my stocking. Buster’s eyes followed my every move, locking onto my bare foot and growing wider and wider as I applied the baking soda.
I guessed he didn’t see a lot of female bare feet. “One of ’em got me good here,” I said, but Buster remained awkwardly silent. I glanced up at his face. His mouth hung open, his eyes bulged. He looked at me like I had some awful disease.
“You’re not Jessie. You’re not Jessie. Where is Jessie?”
“What do you mean, Buster? Of course I’m Jessie.”
“You’re not Jessie.” He scrambled backward like a crab, repeating the words over and over, louder each time. I nearly panicked, fearing he would leap up and run to the main house, shouting all the way that I was an imposter.
“Wait, Buster! Wait! Don’t go! Tell me why I’m not Jessie.”
He paused and squinted down at my foot. It was something to do with my bare ankle.
Finally he pointed and said, “Jessie has red on her foot there. You’re not Jessie.”
“Oh, that. The red place. It went away.”
“You’re not Jessie. I want Jessie to come home.”
Here it was my first full day, and I’d blown the con. Jessie had some sort of red mark on her foot. A birthmark probably. Oliver would never have known. Buster knew. He must have walked barefoot with Jessie along the shore, hunting these very agates. He knew about the birthmark.
And if he went up to the house now and blabbed, the whole swindle was over.
“Wait! Wait, Buster. Come sit here beside me and let me tell you
the secret. You can keep a secret, right? You kept the treasure secret all those years.”
“Jessie’s treasure.” Glaring at me, he snatched the box out of my hands and clutched it to his chest, but at least he didn’t run off.
“Sit with me, and I’ll tell you the secret.”
Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground.
I took a deep breath. “You’re right, Buster. I’m not Jessie. I couldn’t fool you, could I? But I’m pretending to be Jessie, so I can find her. You could help me find Jessie, if you would. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He did not respond.
“I’m trying to figure out where Jessie went. You knew about her treasure. You might know where she went. Did she tell you where she was going? Did she give you her treasure to keep until she returned?”
Buster pulled up bits of grass and let the wind carry them away. He did not look at me.
“You love Jessie, right?”
His eyes filled with water, but still he said nothing.
“I love Jessie too. Maybe together we can find her.”
Just saying the words released a weight from my soul. After weeks of pretending that Jessie’s fate was none of my concern, I had admitted the truth. Maybe it was because we shared the pain of being orphaned at a young age; maybe it was the way I had immersed myself in her life. Whatever the reason, I despised the way Uncle Oliver waved his niece aside like an unpleasant smell. So she wasn’t sweet and demure; she was scrappy and tough. I liked her all the more for it. In vaudeville, they’d say she had heart. I wanted to know what had happened to Jessie.
“Buster, did Jessie tell you she was leaving?”
He shook his head mournfully.
“Tell me about Jessie. Did you hunt agates together?”
He squeezed the precious box against his chest and nodded. “We go in pirate caves.”