And food, there was plenty of. Along with conch stew—a thick, savory blend of chewy mollusk combined with herbs, tomatoes, and peppers—she helped herself to peas and rice, sweet potatoes, and fried bananas. Their drink was refreshing peppermint tea, a common beverage in the islands for it boasted both agreeable flavor and medicinal benefits.
By the time the bowls and platter of food all made their rounds, Halia had regained most of her composure and some of her earlier appetite. With the entire Rolle family at hand, she told herself, surely she could avoid any interaction with the man beside her.
She swiftly found, however, that she had no need of initiating discussion. Her hosts and their offspring kept up a stream of chatter that made her feel quite at home. Between mouthfuls, she answered questions put to her about her home in New York. Malcolm, she noted, received equal treatment, so the conversation never lulled.
Indeed, she wryly thought, anyone watching the sprightly chatter would have been hard-pressed to notice that neither of the guests of honor was actually speaking to the other.
Reassured that the burden of dinner conversation did not rest solely with her, she set herself to doing justice to the delicious fare before her. Halfway through her stew, however, she exclaimed, “John.”
When the rest of the table turned questioning looks her way, she blushed and directed a hasty explanation to Rolle.
“Indeed, Captain, I just realized that I did not know your first name. Then it came to me that if your wife is called Esta and your boat is the Johnesta, it only followed that your name could not be anything else but John.”
Rolle grinned. “You be right ‘bout dat. Me, I just be wan-tin’ to call my boat Esta, but she”—he gave an affectionate nod in his wife's direction—“she be sayin' no, dat it be too big an honor. So I be tellin' her, we be sharin' everyt'ing else, so I be namin' the boat after the both of us...an’ dat be it.”
“An admirable compromise,” Malcolm lightly commented. “You are fortunate, Captain, to have found a woman of both modesty and good sense. Few men are that lucky.”
“Luck has little to do with it,” Halia coolly countered what was, she knew, a barely veiled barb directed at her. Addressing Esta but speaking to Malcolm, she went on, “Most men are so blinded by their own shortcomings that they are hard-pressed to see their partners' virtues.”
Then, not allowing Malcolm the chance to contradict, she turned the conversation back to the subject uppermost, as always, in her mind—the Atlantis site.
“Tell me, Captain Rolle, have you discovered anyone else on the islands who has knowledge of the submerged rock formation that we found?”
“I found a few people—some who be seein' them, an’ some who be hearin' they're somewhere about. But no one be knowin' what they is. They just be here.”
“And that be it,” Malcolm murmured beside her.
Halia ignored the interruption.
“But that is what I cannot understand,” she told the captain. “In almost every case where similar such discoveries were made, there was always some sort of oral tradition surrounding it. Much of the time, the people had simply dismissed the stories as nothing other than fables and legends...but still, those tales existed.”
“Like the Healin' Hole,” Esta spoke up. “It be a place in the mangrove swamps on the far side of the island. Some folks, they be thinkin' it be the Fountain of Youth dat Ponce de Leon be lookin' for.”
“Exactly,” Halia agreed with a nod in her direction, only to catch Rolle's thoughtful frown. Suddenly suspecting that he was keeping something from her, she persisted, “But you know something, Captain, do you not?If not about the stones, then perhaps about my father?”
“It's not what I be knowin', Miss Halia, it's what I be guessin'. But you be hirin' me for a job, an’ I be doin' it, wit’ anyt'ing else not bein' my business.”
“But I want to know what you think. Please, Captain.”
He paused, as if searching out the right words, his usually jovial face taking on a serious expression. Finally, he went on, “I be thinkin' about dat coin you be showin' me, an’ how you say your father be findin' it. An’ then, I be wonderin' how it be dat no one else ever be findin' anyt'ing except him—not even you an’ Mr. Malcolm. An’ a coin, it be so little a t'ing, dat a man, he would be more than lucky to find it in this big ocean.”
He hesitated again, and Halia felt a sudden foreboding well up inside her. Never had she questioned her father's conclusions, save to wonder why he had been so secretive in his final entries. But now, she heard a note of doubt in Rolle's tone that rested uneasily upon her ears.
“Are you saying, Captain,” she carefully asked, “that you believe my father was mistaken in his idea that those rocks are the remains of Atlantis, that perhaps the coin is not genuine, after all?”
Rolle shrugged. “Me, I'm not the one to be sayin' if dat coin, it be real or not...nor the rocks, either. But sometimes, a man, he be chasin' after somet'ing so long an’ so hard, he be losing track of the truth along the way.”
At his words, Halia's feeling of foreboding flared into outright alarm. She quelled her rampant emotions a moment longer, persisting, “You talk about losing track of the truth. What exactly do you mean?”
Like a bitter conscience that refused to be silent, Malcolm spoke up beside her. “I believe what our good captain is trying to say is that your father was obsessed with locating the remains of lost Atlantis. And when all his searching came to naught, in his disappointment he set about convincing you—and perhaps even himself—that he actually had found something, after all.”
“But that is ridiculous,” Halia shot back, turning a heated look on the man beside her. “My father was a scholar of note. He contributed much to the scientific community, presenting papers and lecturing, developing new theories. Why, he—”
“Hear me out,” Malcolm cut her short, his tone holding an odd note that she'd never before heard from him—of pity, perhaps, or even compassion? Grudgingly, she kept silent and nodded for him to continue, though she suspected whatever explanation he delivered was sure to be self-serving.
“I've given the matter quite a bit of thought these past days,” he told her, then gave her a wry little smile that unexpectedly twisted at her heart. “You see, luv, this is what I do best... play upon other people's dreams. And since Atlantis was your dream as well as his, I began to wonder if perhaps your father wasn't doing the same thing.”
Then his smile faded.
“I can assure you that it would have been easy enough for him to do. Once he'd procured his coin, he could search about for an appropriate spot for his so-called find. It would have to be a place with an identifiable underwater formation and possessing some of the attributes of Plato's account. Then, he would just have to forge a journal of his supposed discoveries, an easy enough task for a man of literary bent.”
“I... see,” she replied, gripped by the oddest feeling that she was falling quite slowly from some unseen precipice toward some rocky outcrop below. “So what this means—”
“What it means, my dear Halia, is that it is quite possible that your entire Atlantis expedition is based upon nothing more than a hoax.”
~ Chapter 16 ~
“A hoax,” Halia dully echoed...and then she hit the figurative stones at the bottom of her mental cliff.
Her breath tore from her in a gasp that verged upon a sob, and she shut her eyes. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't. How dare Malcolm presume to judge her father, when the two had never even met. Surely she, as Arvin's daughter for almost a quarter century, knew him better.
Determined not to give way to the torrent of emotion that threatened, she clenched her hands into tight fists, so that her nails dug into the tender flesh of her palms. The pain gave her something to focus on. Deliberately, she opened her eyes again.
“But you have no proof of these claims,” she countered in as calm a tone as she could muster. “You are judging my father by your own way of doing things. Unf
ortunately, as he can hardly defend himself against such slander, you are free to spread about any manner of story that you wish.”
“Just a bloody moment.”
He met her gaze, his dark eyes narrowed in anger. “I have no wish to destroy your father's good name or sully your fond memories of him. I am merely pointing out another possibility here... one that makes perfect sense, I might add.”
“Indeed? For all I know, Mr. Northrup, you might simply be trying to rattle me so with your wild tales that I give up my search and leave the treasure to you. Until I find reason to believe otherwise, I will give my father the benefit of the doubt.”
She flashed a quick look at Esta and Rolle, silently asking their support. They met her gaze with expressions of sympathetic concern, but she noted that neither had yet disputed Malcolm's wild theory. As for the children, they realized something was wrong, for they had halted their squabbling and sat staring at her, eyes and mouths rounded in silent question.
With a final chill glance for Malcolm, she neatly folded her napkin and set it beside her half-full plate, then addressed her hostess.
“It was a lovely luncheon,” she managed in an even tone, “but I fear I feel a bit unwell at the moment. I hope you will forgive me if I take my leave early.”
“You be goin' on, then,” Esta softly agreed, motherly concern written upon her face. “But you be comin' back any time, chile, if you be needin' to talk.”
But talking was suddenly beyond her ability, at least, for now. With a quick nod, Halia shoved back from the table. She caught up her hat and reticule and then, with as much dignity as she could summon, started for the door.
She heard behind her what sounded like a whispered question from Rolle, and his wife's murmured reply, but to her relief no one followed after her. She stepped quickly through the shaded yard past the painted gate and back onto the dusty street. The noon sun gave her a blinding welcome.
The heat evaporated the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks, so that she managed the walk back to the guest house dry-eyed. Stubbornly, she repeated her earlier arguments to herself. Her father was no pot hunter or adventurer, but a scholar. Surely he would never have thought to sully his reputation or that of the academic world at large by such a deception.
But what about those last few weeks just before his disappearance at sea, when he had acted so oddly? Perhaps his behavior had been an indication all was not right. Why else would he have procured a pistol and then refused to let her accompany him on what proved to be his last voyage?
Firmly, she thrust aside the tiny serpent of suspicion that had uncoiled in her heart. She would not believe what Malcolm had said, that her father had deliberately deceived her, and that was that.
For, if it were true, she would be forced to wonder what other lies he might also have told her over the years.
By the time Halia reached the guest house, her head seemed quite ready to burst with too much sun and too many unanswered questions. She hurried inside to the sanctuary of her room, grateful that Lally already had left in search of her herbs. She could never have faced the woman and pretended that all was well.
She poured a scant basin of tepid water and soaked a corner of a towel, then wiped her flushed cheeks. But even as she began to regain her composure, a chilling thought struck her.
What if father's death at sea had been tied somehow to his Atlantis search? What if it had not been an accident, but suicide...or even, murder?
She dropped the towel, which landed in a damp tangle at her feet, and wrapped her arms around her, suddenly cold despite the heat. She stood that way for several moments, staring unseeingly at the ocean view beyond the French doors as several scenarios played themselves out in her mind.
Her father, finding proof of Atlantis's existence, only to be murdered by someone out to usurp his glory.
Her father, fleeing some unknowns who had forced him into this deception, falling victim to their murderous wrath.
Her father, remorseful at the deceit he had perpetrated, rowing out into the Caribbean, and then flinging himself into the waves.
“No, stop this!” she cried aloud and gave herself a firm mental shake. There was only one way to satisfy her doubts, and that was to prove her father's theory true.
An idea hit her, sending swift, angry relief rushing through her. No matter that Captain Rolle and his crew did not sail on Sundays. She simply would take the skiff and spend the rest of the afternoon at the site, searching on her own for the evidence that would prove her father had not betrayed her.
She matched thought to deed, exchanging her boots, stiff shirtwaist, and tailored skirt for her bathing costume, and then tying on her overskirt. Once dressed, she spared another look out the French doors to the blue sky and emerald water beyond.
She had fully half a day left to her, she assured herself, plenty of time to sail out, make several dives, and be back by dusk. While a few high clouds now scuttled across the sun, the wind was light and sea was calm. She could easily manage the skiff on her own. As for diving alone in those shallow waters, it would not be much different from bathing by herself off the beach.
Swiftly, she shoved aside memories of her father's warnings against taking out a craft alone. This was too important, she told herself, trying not to remember what had happened when he had ignored his own advice.
As she started from the room, she caught sight of the tiny photograph of her and her father that she had placed on her bedside table. Impulsively, she caught up that sepia image, taking comfort from this last link to her father. She stared at the beloved features a moment; then, with a fleeting smile, she laid the picture on the bed and then turned toward the door.
“I still believe in you, father,” she murmured as she started down the hallway. “And I promise, no matter how long it takes, I will find something out there beneath the waves to prove you right.”
###
“An’ don'tcha be givin' dat girl any grief,” Esta warned with a final stern look at Malcolm as he started out her door half an hour later. “Miss Halia, she be needin' a friend right now.”
“I promise to comfort Miss Davenport as best I can,” he agreed, though he knew full well that he would simply leave the chit to her own devices.
For it wasn't his place to soften the blow of her father's deception, he reminded himself, ruthlessly shoving aside all memory of her stricken face. In fact, he already had done his part simply by awakening her to that unpleasant if necessary bit of knowledge. Of course, if she found herself in need of some other, more tangible comfort—say, the sort that might be had in the privacy of her bedchamber—then he might be prevailed upon to assist her in that.
Esta must have read something of his thoughts, for her frown deepened.
“You be listenin' to me, Mr. Malcolm. Miss Halia, she don't be needin' someone dat only want to be breakin' her heart. Besides, I be suspectin' dat you be carin' for her more than you be admittin'.”
His first impulse was to disagree, but he knew that to do so would make him appear the cad in her eyes. And, suddenly, he was not prepared to fall from her good graces. He contented himself with a smile and a compliment, instead.
“That was one of the best meals I've had in sometime, Mrs. Rolle,” he truthfully informed her. “As for the company, it was even finer.”
He gave little Viola, who was clinging like a barnacle to his leg, a final pat on the head. Then, gently, he detached the tot's sticky fingers from his trousers and handed her to her father.
“Captain,” he said with a nod, “I shall be seeing you in the morning, then.”
“Me an’ my crew, we be there,” Rolle agreed, “but there be somet'ing I best be tellin' you, first. I didn't want to be sayin' not'ing in front of Miss Halia.”
He indicated the blue sky above, where a scattering of high white clouds had gathered like playful lambs, and then gestured to the barometer hanging by the doorway.
“The weather, it be fine for another day, maybe t
wo, but then it be changin'. A storm be movin' in...maybe even a gale.”
”A gale?” Malcolm frowned. “You mean, a hurricane?”
The seaman shrugged. “Like I say, maybe yes...maybe no. This is the time of year they be comin', though they be missin' the island most times, so all we be gettin' is rain. When the rains pass an’ the water settles, then we can be goin' back out again.”
“But what if there is a hurricane, and it doesn't miss the island?”
“Then we be havin' trouble.”
While Malcolm listened in carefully concealed alarm, Rolle regaled him with tales of times when the islands had suffered a hurricane's full fury. Sometimes, they had been lucky and suffered no loss of life. Other times, a handful or more islanders had fallen victim to the gale, drowned in the flood waters or killed by falling debris. And always, there was the damage—homes flattened as if by a giant fist, tree after tree torn from its roots, boats sunk.
“So you see, we be takin' this serious,” the captain finished as he hoisted Viola onto his shoulder, then flashed Malcolm a grin. “Now, don't you be frettin'. Chances be good, this just be a tiny little storm a-comin'.”
Not much relieved by that last assurance, Malcolm took his leave of the Rolle family and began the dusty trek back through town.
Bloody hell. What was he, a good Englishman, doing in this land of blistering sun and killing gales, anyway? He should have listened to Wilkie and cut his losses back in Savannah. Had he done so, right now he would be ensconced in some elegant hotel with all the modern amenities, including chilled champagne and a welcome artificial breeze from an electric fan dangling from the gilt-trimmed ceiling.
But then, his inner voice mockingly reminded him, he never would have seen Halia again.
He tried to squelch that thought as swiftly as it came, but to no avail. Instead, the images began crowding in his mind, building on that idea.
Halia sitting in the bow of the boat, looking the prim sea sprite with her blond hair billowing about her.
Halia, in that ridiculous bathing costume of her that, when wet, clung to her slim frame in the most interesting manner.
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