Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  MAURICE

  “I don’t understand this,” she said, after reading the telegram four times over. “It says that Mr. Stimply died last December.”

  “Yes, exactly,” said her father.

  “But what does it mean? We saw him barely a week ago.”

  Cordelia had understood the implications of the telegram immediately, but her memory of the rough seaman was fond, and her expectations for her inheritance were so enthusiastic that she refused, for a moment, to consider anything that might dampen them. James knew his daughter understood and did not attempt to explain.

  “But if that wasn’t Mr. Stimply,” she said at last, “who was he, and why . . . ?” She raised her hands, palm up, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  “When a person pretends to be someone they’re not, it doesn’t bode friendly intentions.”

  “It does put a sinister color to the whole affair.” Rather than appear disturbed by this communication, she looked pleased. Mercia leaned forward and touched her daughter’s arm. “We are concerned about continuing this expedition till we know more about the man who visited us.”

  “Oh, but it’s clearer than ever!” said Cordelia. “The treasure! Did Mama tell you, Papa? Our Minmaneth—that is the treasure you were always searching for. Is a young goat—a young goat with two T’s is a kid with two D’s. Kidd. Captain Kidd. And whoever came into possession of Uncle Basil’s trunk couldn’t figure it out because they had never heard of Minmaneth. It was terribly clever of Uncle Basil!”

  “Your father came to the same conclusion,” said Mercia.

  “Oh.”

  “But if all that is so,” said James, “and it is still, let us say, questionable—then it perhaps makes our position the more perilous.”

  To Cordelia it made their position the more exciting. “But Papa, we can’t just turn around and go home.”

  James laughed softly.

  “We simply can’t! Aunt Grace says there is safety in numbers, though it’s John she thinks dangerous.” Both her parents noted the use of Mr. Benning’s first name.

  “We might be glad of Mr. Benning,” said James. Then he corrected himself slyly. “John. There’ll be the guide as well.” It was clear to Cordelia that her father was game to continue, and that only a call to sober consideration was holding him back. “Perhaps we should see what . . .”

  He interrupted himself to listen to the sound of scuffling feet in the hall, and they were startled by a crash against the door, followed by a long groan. By the time James was across the room, where he threw open the door, the scuffling had begun again.

  Two men were poised as wrestlers, each with a single foot on the floor—then a sudden shift tipped them to one side and John Benning was revealed in the act of throwing his opponent to the carpet. James’s tall presence caused the combatants to freeze in their struggle, and John released his hold on the downed man and sprung to his feet.

  “What in the world!” said James, more surprised than angry.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Underwood,” said John Benning. “But I came up the stairs and found this fellow eavesdropping at your door.”

  “I did nothing of the sort!” declaimed the man as he tottered himself upright. “This madman tackled me like a ruffian ball player!”

  “I kept you from running off, you mean,” said John.

  The irate man straightened his jacket and tie as he glared at Benning. He was a dark-haired fellow with a close-shaven beard, and though he was well groomed and well dressed there was something wild about him. “I am sorry,” the man was saying to James. “But I mistook your room number for my own.”

  “He mistook your business for his own, that much is true,” said John.

  “I was preparing to unlock the door . . .”

  “Most of us put a key to a lock, not our ear!”

  James patted John’s shoulder to indicate that further explanation was unnecessary. “James Underwood,” he said to the other man. “I am sorry for the trouble, but Mr. Benning is with us, and you will understand if he mistook your intentions.”

  “Percival Goodkind,” said the man, shaking James’s hand cautiously.

  “My card, sir,” said James, taking one from his vest pocket and proffering it to the man.

  “Thank you,” said the fellow. “I am without my card at the moment.”

  James smiled and nodded that he understood, and Mr. Goodkind retreated down the hall, rubbing his head.

  John appeared somewhat embarrassed. “I don’t believe for an instant that that was a mistake,” he said.

  “I don’t, either,” said James. “But it is your word against his.”

  Everyone was breathing suddenly, and Cordelia laughed with relief that the scene was over. She waved a hand at John’s apology, glancing down the hall to see that Mr. Goodkind had disappeared. Two doors down, Priscilla peered nervously into the hall.

  “We must ask the clerk about him,” James was saying. “In the meantime, John, I suggest you step into our rooms so that we can explain to you what this might have been all about.” It was then that he noticed Priscilla; he crooked a finger at her. “Come on, my dear,” he said. “We might as well get this out all at once.”

  46 Red-Painted Mystery

  EVENING CAME UPON BOOTHBAY HARBOR LIKE A GENTLE BREATH OF WIND; and indeed, the trees barely stirred in a warm breeze. A slight haze in the atmosphere, touched by the sociable glow of the lampposts, obscured the stars, but the streets were brisk with strollers and the benches and lawns along the water were dotted with the pale summer costumes of lovers and lone romantics.

  It is to be imagined that many a profession of love was made on such a night, when Venus or Jupiter, bright in the reflected glory of the westered sun, shone more beautiful than the stars through the summery mists; the fragrance of the breeze, redolent with flowers and the tang of salt, a distant foghorn, or the sound of water upon the shore would fill all but the sternest heart with the desire for another heart close by.

  Such effects were lost, however, in the vicinity of the Weymouth House, from which parlor windows, open to the warm night air, laughter issued in a most steady flow. Were we to leave the street and ascend the sloping lawn of the inn to peer after this merriment, we would first see Sundry Moss holding forth before a knot of rapt listeners who roared with glee as he described his futile attempt to knock down a suspected smuggler.

  Mister Walton, at a table in the opposite corner of the room, was playing at whist—partnering with Mrs. Eccles against Miss Bishop and Miss McCannon—while explaining to these women and several onlookers how he looked over the sights of a rifle at a bear as it stood upon its head.

  “Her digits fidgeted,” he said, and demonstrated with his fingers the precise manner in which an inverted bear might wiggle her toes.

  Miss Bishop covered her face with her cards, suppressing a shriek of laughter. “She fidgeted her digits?” said Miss McCannon, barely able to pronounce the phrase. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Yes,” said Mister Walton, who had to remove his spectacles and dab away his own tears with a handkerchief.

  “Mister Walton, you’re very naughty,” said Mrs. Eccles with a smile. “You have made me forget what I was about.”

  “Miss McCannon led with hearts, ma’am,” said he, still chuckling.

  “Ah, yes.” The old woman eyed the table sharply.

  “Someday, Mister Walton,” said Miss Bishop, “I would like to hear your account of today’s adventure.” She neatly played her side of the hand and gave him a wry look.

  “In any proper version of the story, of course,” he said, playing along, “we would actually see the monster. Perhaps it would attempt to climb aboard, till it collected a stern reprimand from your grandmother.”

  Mrs. Eccles seemed pleased with this image of herself, scolding a monster from the deck. “It wouldn’t get its arms around me,” she said bluntly.

  Mister Walton and Miss McCannon glanced reflexively at one another, and as quickly
looked away. Whether intentionally or not, the elderly woman’s words had roused in their minds the moment when they had been frightened into each other’s arms. He had the sudden urge to apologize again for his instinctive action, but obviously could not have done so in the presence of others.

  But there was another hindrance to a second apology as well, and he was truly beginning to feel it as the day, and then the evening, wore on: the contradictory sense of apologizing for something that had been so pleasant.

  He glanced again at Miss McCannon and felt a general and generally ignored sense of loneliness sharpen into something more specific. She was not a beautiful woman, but middle age and good humor had made her handsome. Her features were not fine, nor was she delicately built (she was, if anything, a little taller than Mister Walton); and yet she was filled with energy and intelligence, and there was something about her that appealed greatly to him. A certain regret was mingled with his admiration, since she had already made it known that this was to be her last night in Boothbay. It did seem too bad, to meet such an exceptional person so briefly.

  He looked at Miss McCannon’s hands, which he thought pretty; and catching sight of his glance, she turned her cards away, as if he were attempting to see what she held. He looked up, surprised and more than a little embarrassed, and met her soft smile. “I thought, several days ago, that my life was going to quiet down,” he said before thinking.

  “That would have been too bad,” she said carefully.

  It dawned on him that it was his play; befuddled, he discarded when he meant to trump. “Yes,” he said. “I quite like to meet people and do things.”

  The table had grown quiet. Miss Bishop smiled again behind her cards.

  A feeling of gratitude suddenly filled Mister Walton and he sighed happily. “Since returning home, I have had the most extraordinary adventures and met a great list of wonderful people. Until recently I have not properly appreciated the life and history of my own home state.”

  “If it’s history that interests you, you should meet my brother, Jared,” said Miss McCannon. The game recommenced as they spoke.

  “Is he an historian then?” asked Mister Walton.

  “Yes, of sorts. An antiquarian with the Peabody Museum at Harvard. He is working on a dig, right now, just a few miles inland.”

  “Then I could very well meet him, you’re saying!”

  “You must!”

  “This is an Indian site, then?”

  “At one time, actually,” she replied. “But he is digging deeper, in hopes of finding artifacts of the Red Paint People.”

  “The Red Paint People,” said Mister Walton, quietly trying the phrase. “I’ve read the name somewhere.”

  “We know almost nothing about them, but they are very ancient. Jared suspects they antedate the Algonquin tribes by a thousand years.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “Is it possible,” wondered Miss Bishop, “that just as we supplanted the Indians, the Indians in their turn drove an earlier race from the land?”

  “Anything is possible,” said Mr. Berkeley. “Irony is history’s favorite form of expression.”

  “And who shall drive us out?” wondered Mrs. Eccles.

  “I shouldn’t worry about it,” assured a young onlooker.

  “Perhaps the Abenaki and the Micmac thought the same thing when they took possession of the land,” said the old woman. She took possession of another trick and looked askance at the young man.

  “Why were they known as the Red Paint People?” asked Miss Bishop.

  “Actually, we don’t know what they called themselves,” said Miss McCannon. “We have named them so because of the stores of red ocher found in their graves.”

  “It’s fascinating!” said Mister Walton.

  “People have unearthed Red Paint sites for almost two hundred years now. It was generally thought to be a sign of bad luck, however. The red ocher made our superstitious ancestors think of devils, perhaps, and they often scattered what they found.”

  “Where is this place that your brother is digging?” asked Mister Walton.

  “It is on the Damariscotta River, in the town of Damariscotta.”

  “The shell heaps,” said Mrs. Eccles.

  “You’ve seen them,” said Miss McCannon.

  Mrs. Eccles nodded and managed another trick.

  “The shell heaps I have heard of,” said Mister Walton.

  “You must see them,” said Miss McCannon.

  “I will.”

  “I am going up the Damariscotta tomorrow,” she informed him. “Perhaps you would like to accompany me, as I am planning to visit my brother. I am staying with friends tomorrow night, but there are two or three fine places in Damariscotta where you could stay.”

  Mister Walton was taken aback by this invitation, and yet flattered. “That’s very kind of you.” He glanced at the faces around the table, sure that everyone else was sure that something was going on between himself and Miss McCannon. Miss Bishop looked nearly as pleased as he felt, and at a brief glance from both parties in question, she put her cards up before her face a third time. Well, he thought (and the thought made him a little light-headed), perhaps there is something going on between us.

  “I’ll wire ahead,” he said.

  BOOK EIGHTJULY 10, 1896

  47 Composition

  AUNT DELIA HAD ENJOYED FABRICATING THEIR LITTLE EXPEDITION BUT the masquerade was over, and the next morning she revealed that she would accompany them no further. The rest of the party—most particularly Cordelia—was disappointed that she would be dropping from their company, though in hindsight they understood that it was impractical for a woman in her late seventies to expose herself to the arduous pleasures of roughing it.

  “You go and have a good time,” she said, with a wave of one hand—as if encouraging them to have fun in the backyard.

  There was some fear concerning Grace’s reaction to this turn of events, but Aunt Delia sprung her change of plans even as they readied to leave the Bangor House, and was so hustley and bustley as she hurried Grace along that very little argument was had from that court.

  Aunt Delia went with them to the station and walked up the platform to see them on the train. Whether the old woman had foreseen what happened next, Cordelia was never entirely sure.

  The railway line that traveled to the interior of the state from Bangor did not generate a sympathetic reaction from Grace. She had never been to this end of the station and thought the platform, the train, and the people altogether too workaday.

  The scent of lumber and raw timber saturated the warm air of the western platform. The cars looked secondhand and even the engine had the appearance of hard work. The few passengers boarding this train were almost all of one working class or another—lumbermen mostly; but if certain subtle differences were obvious to you, you might pick out hunters, and fishermen, and guides, and adventurers.

  Grace was horrified to discover that there were no private compartments on this train, nor even private berths, but only curtained bunks in the sleeping car. James explained that they would not be spending the night on the train, but Grace invoked the principle of the thing and looked as if her feminine virtue were under siege.

  A sense of hesitation hovered over them as they waited for a porter to take their baggage; James and Mercia exchanged uncertain glances past Grace, and Aunt Delia gave her vapor-prone niece a sympathetic pat on the hand. A man stood nearby, dressed in rough clothes that must have itched in the warm July sun, for he scratched at himself with both hands as he walked down the line of cars.

  “Do you know, Grace,” said Aunt Delia soothingly, “I think you are looking peaked. Perhaps you should beg off with me, and we can spend another quiet day at the hotel. I could do with the company.”

  “But I mustn’t,” said Grace, with a tone in her voice that suggested that perhaps she could. “It’s quite necessary that I come along.”

  “Not at all,” said Delia, leading her niece aw
ay from the others and speaking in low tones.

  “But Cordelia and . . . Mr. Benning. Mercia is so . . . nonchalant.”

  “Certainly you can’t imagine that James will leave them alone for long.”

  “No, that is true. James is very levelheaded.”

  “And they will have Priscilla to accompany them. I know you think your daughter capricious, but you must trust in your own example.”

  Grace looked back at the train. The man they had seen scratching himself was still at it, and as she watched him he spat a wad of tobacco.

  “Well, if Ethan comes back with us, I suppose . . .”

  “Good heavens, Grace!” said Aunt Delia. “Can’t you see that Ethan needs some time with his uncle, now that his father is gone? Look at them.”

  Grace did; Ethan stood beside James, looking tall and straight with James’s arm upon his shoulder. The boy turned and smiled at his mother.

  Tears filled Grace’s eyes as it occurred to her just how desperately her son must miss his father. “You are right, of course,” she said. “I think, Aunt Delia, you planned this all along.”

  “Come,” said Delia, making no direct reply to this. “Before they load your bags.”

  In the eyes of her family, Grace Morningside was excessively prim, and this quality had only been strengthened by the absence of her husband. She knew that even her children thought her stiff, and that her daughter in particular felt constrained by her mother’s straitlaced rule.

  She was surprised, then, when her children expressed honest sadness at the announcement that she would not accompany them; and she was deeply touched when both of them offered to leave the expedition to accompany her home.

  “You go and have a good time,” she said to them, echoing great-aunt Delia in word if not in meaning; an undertone of self-sacrifice ran through her voice that she could not contain. She hugged her children briefly and bade them spread their wings without her.