by Jessica Wolf
“I’m telling the truth. Honest.” Her wide, blue eyes stared up at him, imploring.
Brigette shifted uncomfortably on her feet, pebbles crunching beneath her shoes. Reed glanced between the two girls before sighing. “Show me then.”
Esther let go of her father’s hand and scurried back down the shore. Reed started after her, Brigette following close behind. The mist began to lift, giving Reed better visibility into the distance. Esther stood where a massive rock jutted out of the water near the edge of the shore.
He stopped short when his eyes fell across the scene laid out before him. Over his shoulder, Brigette gasped. He reached forward to push Esther behind his back. “Dear God, you weren’t lying,” he breathed.
Four people lay on the shore, some half submerged in the water, some discarded further up the rocks. Two sections of wood bobbed on the edge of the ocean, drifting further and further away with each pull of the tide. A trunk, massive and made of oak, lay at the foot of one of the men. Sand covered their wet and slimy clothing. Spots of blood dotted the terrain around them.
Reed turned to Brigette. “Go to the house and have Mrs. Peters fetch the doctor and send down Jameson. We’ll need help moving them.”
Brigette faltered, her face tight with confusion and shock. “Up to the house, sir?”
“Yes, of course. Where else?” he snapped, pointing to the hill. “Go. And take Esther with you.”
Brigette bobbed a curtsey and grabbed Esther’s hand, pulling her along, much to the little girl’s displeasure. After a moment’s hesitation, Reed went to the two people nearest the edge of the ocean. He hooked his arms underneath a man’s shoulders and dragged him further up shore. He repeated the process for the second man and then returned to the ocean’s edge. Squatting, he prodded the shoulder of the last person, a young woman. She lay on her stomach, her head turned to the side. A mass of sand-covered, black hair obscured her features. To Reed, she looked close to dead, but the gentle rise and fall of her back told him she still clung to life.
He lifted her into his arms and hurried toward the house, passing Jameson and Peters on the way. He stopped long enough to catch their attention.
“Bring those men and that trunk up to the house. Has Mrs. Peters sent for the doctor?”
“Yes, sir, but he won’t be able to come until he’s finished delivering the Monroe’s baby.”
“Fine, but hurry with those men.”
Reed crested the hill and picked up his pace. His home—Yellow Brook Hall—was still one hundred yards away. It sat atop the hill, its yellow paint chipping, revealing the dark, rotting wood beneath. The attic window was broken and boarded shut. A glass dome—the greenhouse—stuck out from the back of the house, broken, dirty windows and all.
He rushed up the front steps and pushed open the door with his hip. His boots echoed on the marble floors. “Mrs. Peters,” he called. “Mrs. Peters!”
A woman with a round stomach and blotchy face turned the corner, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes, sir? Oh goodness,” she said. Her eyes took in the woman in his arms with calculated alarm. “Bring her this way.”
“Jameson and Peters are bringing the others.” The woman in his arms, who had once felt as light as a feather, had grown heavy over the long walk. Water dripped from her hair and the hem of nightgown. He could feel her delicate curves underneath his hands. Heat rose on the back of his neck.
Mrs. Peters led Reed down the east hallway toward the main staircase. She may have been on the plumper side, but when faced with an urgent issue, Mrs. Peters became quick as a hare. She took the stairs two at a time, her hand gripping the marble railing. Once at the top of the stairs, she brought Reed to one of the few guest rooms, pushing the door open with a flourish.
“I haven’t had time to clean it,” she said, a faint blush covering her cheeks.
Reed grunted, pushing past her into the room. “It’ll do.”
The room was medium sized and sparse. A four poster bed rested in the center of the space, the green sheets tattered around the edges. Faint rays of light shined through the corner window, illuminating layers of long forgotten dust. Reed placed the young woman on the bed.
He hovered for a moment. Mrs. Peters pulled the hair away from the woman’s face, revealing her features. A long, thin gash stretched from her left eyelid to her chin. Blood crusted the wound. Her lips, full and defined, were chapped and split.
“Is there anything you need?” he asked, backing toward the door.
Mrs. Peters glanced over her shoulder then shook her head. “No, sir. I want to clean this wound before tending to the others.”
“Of course. I’ll leave you to it.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Is she going to be all right?”
Reed cursed, his muscles tightening in surprise. “Esther, do not scare me like that.” He started off toward his office. He was already in need of a stiff drink and the day had barely begun. Something warned him, though, that the day was far from over.
Esther followed him, her little legs struggling to keep pace with his long strides. “That lady—will she be all right?”
Reed stopped at the door of his office, his hand on the knob. “I have no idea.”
“When can I see her?”
He snorted. “See her? Why would you want to see her?”
Esther shrugged. “She’s magical.”
“Magical?”
“Like a mermaid, but without the tail. I read about them in one of my books.”
Reed rolled his eyes. “Remind me to look over the books Brigette gives you.”
“But can I see her, Father?”
“Perhaps once the doctor says she’s recovered. Until then, I want you to stay out of Mrs. Peters’s and the doctor’s way. Understood?”
She pouted, her nose wrinkling. “Yes, Father.”
“Sir, there are no other furnished guest rooms. Where should we put the men?” Peters’s question pulled Reed away from the room he so desperately wanted to disappear in to.
“They can stay in my room,” Esther offered.
Reed held up his hand, silencing her, his eyes on Peters. “Are there any other rooms?”
“No, sir.”
“Set up cots in the Great Hall. I’m sure they can survive there.”
“What about the broken window, sir? There’s a nasty draft and–”
“They will survive,” Reed repeated, his tone stern.
Peters nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
Reed sent his daughter to occupy herself until supper. At last, he was left alone in his office to think. He settled back in his chair, a glass of wine in hand. What was he going to do with these people? Yellow Brook was no hospital. He liked his life the way it was. He woke at dawn and spent his days in solitude. Brigette taught Esther the best she could in the afternoon, and at evening, father and daughter ate together in relative silence. Things were quiet, calm. But these people, whoever they were, wherever they had come from, messed with his routine. Reed didn’t appreciate that. He’d worked hard to distance himself from the rest of Eastbourne.
After Katherine had died, people flocked from town. They brought food and sympathy, but Reed wanted neither. He wanted his wife back; that was all he wanted.
He spent the better part of that afternoon staring blankly at the house checkbooks. The thought of the people now under his roof—in particular, the young woman—kept him from focusing. He wondered who she was. She wasn’t English, he knew that. Italian, maybe. Her olive toned skin was unlike any he’d ever seen before. The ladies of Eastbourne kept their skin as white as china, never tanned by the sun.
Someone knocked on his office door.
His neck snapped up, cracking. “Come in,” he said, voice gruff. He rubbed his tender muscles.
Peters stepped into the doorway. “The doctor is here, sir.”
Reed stood, readjusting his waistcoat. “Show me to him.”
Chapter 3
Someone pulled on L
uciana’s eyelid. She groaned, lifting her arm to bat the hand away. The fingers dropped her eyelid and her arm fell onto the bed. She closed her eyes tighter, warding off the noise that increased around her.
Everything about her hurt.
Her entire body was sore. Even her fingernails were sore from. The cut on her cheek burned. Her head throbbed.
“Miss? Miss, can you hear me?”
Luciana opened her eyes. For a moment, the light from the oil lamp beside her blinded her. Her sight soon recovered and she found herself staring into the thin, aging face of an old man. He smiled. Several teeth were missing from the top of his mouth, but his smile was genuine. He patted her shoulders, leaning away from her face.
“So you’ve decided to come back to the land of living, yes?” he asked. Without giving her the chance to answer, he continued. “Just as well because I can’t stand to deliver a baby one minute and pronounce someone dead the next.”
“Don’t crowd her, Doctor Holt, please. I may be a simple housekeeper, but I know crowding when I see it.” Doctor Holt backed away to reveal the red face of a middle-aged woman. She wore a white cap on her head, graying curls sticking out of the sides.
“Yes, of course.” Doctor Holt cleared his throat, snapping his bag closed. “I must tend to the others, but in the meantime, Mrs. Peters, give the girl some broth. She is running a fever, but I doubt that will last long.”
“And if it does?”
Doctor Holt hesitated, pursing his lips. “Worry about that if you ever come to it.” He patted her shoulder and left the room.
After the door closed, Mrs. Peters moved toward a cream colored wash basin, wringing a rag over it. She muttered under her breath about the doctor’s incompetence and failing eyesight before at last turning to Luciana.
“Well, my girl, my name is Mrs. Peters. I’d very much like to know your name. You and your friends are somewhat of a mystery around here—a very welcome mystery, might I add.”
Luciana opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She touched her throat, her brow twitching together into a frown. Her mouth was dry and scratchy. She opened her mouth again, forcing out a horrid croak.
Mrs. Peters grimaced. She grabbed a glass of water from the side table. “Here. Drink this.”
Luciana propped herself on her elbow. Her entire body screamed out in pain as it shot throughout her limbs and head, but she drank the water eagerly. It refreshed her weary mind and tired body. When she’d swallowed the last drop, she fell against the pillows, gasping.
“Goodness,” Mrs. Peters said, setting the glass aside. “It’s like you’ve never seen water before.”
“No.” Luciana shook her head. Her voice was raspy, but at least she could speak. “I’ve seen water before. Too much of it. I just couldn’t drink any.”
The memory of bobbing about in the ocean all night came crashing back to her. She closed her eyes. If she tried hard enough, she could still hear the waves, smell the salt in the air, feel the cold water licking at her toes.
“Do you know your name, then?”
She opened her eyes. “Luciana Rene Renaldi.”
“And the year?”
“Nineteen-oh-eight.”
“Then you’re sound of mind.”
“Was I ever not?”
Mrs. Peters laughed. “And you have a quick one, too.”
Luciana struggled to pull herself onto her elbows again. “Have you found ma familia?”
“Well, of course. They washed up on the shore like you. They’re in the great hall right now.”
Relief flooded throughout Luciana’s body. She exhaled, pushing the hair away from her sweaty and warm forehead. The sailor on Charity was wrong, like she suspected. Her family was fine. They were safe. She threw back her covers.
Mrs. Peters pushed her back. “No, no, you’re staying in bed.”
“But ma familia, I have to go and see them. I have to let them know I’m all right.”
“You can do that once you’re fever free. Until then, you stay in bed. Why don’t you get some rest now?”
“But–”
She held up her finger. “Ah. No buts. Just rest.”
Luciana consented, albeit with somewhat of a fuss. She hadn’t the time to rest. She needed to be with her family again. Mrs. Peters could not be swayed, though, and in the end, she fell asleep quickly, submitting to her body’s most dire need.
In her dreams, she saw fire. She saw Charity and men throwing themselves into the rolling waves. She saw herself, falling from the edge of the ship, her hands reaching for nothing. After her back hit the ocean, she couldn’t remember nor see anything else. It was all blank.
She woke with a start, sweat pouring down her forehead, her neck, her back. Her chest heaved. As she settled from her nightmare, the world around her came into focus.
Sunlight peeked through closed curtains and small particles of dust hung in the air. The sound of footsteps and murmured voices in the hallway drifted through the door. She sighed. Turning, she swallowed a shriek when she saw she was not alone.
A young girl stood in front of an oak chest. The lid had been flipped open and books covered the floor. An insignia of a roaring lion holding a wine glass carved on the front grabbed Luciana’s eyes. The girl held a long purple dress against her body. Her hand touched the edges, mesmerized by the soft fabric.
“Mi scusi?” Luciana spoke up, frowning. “That’s my dress.”
The girl whirled, a mixture of shock and elation on her face. She held the dress tighter. “You’re awake. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.” She paused and touched her chest. “I’m Esther Hargrave.”
Narrowing her eyes, Luciana leaned forward. Just where had this girl come from? “I’m Luciana.”
Esther looked at the dress in her hands. “This is a beautiful dress.”
“It was my mother’s.” Luciana looked around for Mrs. Peters, but the little girl was the only other person in the room. “Where is your mother?”
The girl looked away from the floor. “She’s dead.”
Luciana wrinkled her nose, unsure of what to say. After a moment, she asked, “Your father then?”
“He’s in the great hall with the doctor and Mrs. Peters.”
The door opened and, as if on cue, Mrs. Peters bustled in the door. She carried a silver platter of food along with her, humming a chipper tune. She stopped when her eyes landed on Esther. “Miss Esther? What are you doing in here?”
“I’m talking with the mermaid.”
Luciana sputtered. “Mermaid?”
Esther turned her eyes to Luciana. “Yes, mermaid. You washed up on shore like one. I was waiting to see if your tail flipped out from underneath–”
Luciana held up her hand, shaking her head. “I am not a mermaid.”
Mrs. Peters set the tray on the end of the bed, taking Esther’s shoulders. “I daresay not. Miss Esther, your father told you not to bother Miss Renaldi. Why did you sneak in here?” Esther chewed on her lower lip, shrugging. “Never mind that, then. We’ll let him deal with you. Say goodbye now.”
Esther waved to Luciana, but disappointment clouded her face. Luciana knew the feeling of yearning for an elder person’s approval. All through her childhood, she’d clung to her brothers, doing whatever she could to please them. They’d rarely ever glanced her way.
Once Mrs. Peters succeeded in shooing Esther down the hall, she turned to Luciana. “I apologize. She’s the master’s daughter. Always gets into things that she shouldn’t.”
Luciana glanced to the open trunk, pursing her lips. “I’d noticed.”
“She’s rather spoiled, too, being Mr. Hargrave’s only child. He dotes on her far too much.”
“signora Peters, all of this talk about that little girl is... wonderful, but I wonder if I might be allowed to go and visit my brothers now?” She knew she sounded rude, but the desire to see her family safe and whole overtook her sense of common politeness.
Mrs. Peters jaw went slack. Her
eyes widened, shocked by Luciana’s sharp voice. With a quick sniff, she regained her composure. “I’m sorry, miss, but no, you cannot.”
“Why not? I have to let them know that I’m all right.”
“I understand that, but you’re still sick. Mr. Hargrave wants you in this room until you’re without a fever.”
Luciana touched her forehead. To her dismay, it still felt warm and slick. The rest of her body felt fine, despite some uncomfortable soreness.
“I’m sure that he could allow me one trip down the hall,” she said, raising her eyebrows in hope that Mrs. Peters would ease a little on her tight control.
“No, miss. Mr. Hargrave is a strict man. Orders are orders.” She handed Luciana a glass of milk. “And there’s something else you should know...”
Luciana pulled the glass away from her lips, raising her eyebrows. “Si?”
Mrs. Peters wrung her hands together, avoiding Luciana’s eyes. “One of the men that washed up—he passed away during the night. The fever was too much for him to bare, I suppose.”
The news was like a blow to Luciana’s stomach. She set aside the glass of milk, pushing her hand through her hair. “What was his name?” she breathed, afraid to ask, afraid to hear the answer.
The housekeeper just shrugged. “We don’t know any of their names. All they’ve done is sleep since we found them. But don’t worry, miss, I’m sure everything will turn out all right.”
Luciana blinked. How could the woman say such a thing? After just telling her that her brother was dead? Luciana’s friends had warned her of the strange ways of the Americans, but perhaps the British were worse.
“I think I’ll rest now, signora,” Luciana whispered, sinking low into the bed. “Grazie.”
Mrs. Peters looked at the untouched tray of food. “Are you sure? You haven’t eaten anything since you arrived.”
“I’m fine, honest.” Luciana wouldn’t be able to stomach anything now anyway.
“I’ll close the curtains for you, then.” She crossed the room, drew the curtains, and then returned to the foot of the bed to pick up the tray. “If there’s anything you need, pull that cord in the corner and I’ll be here.”