Isle of the Seventh Sentry

by Fortune Kent

  She remembered Mrs. Jamison telling her the history of the mansion, how old Mr. Worthington, a tradesman, settled here before the Revolution and built the original wooden-beamed home, married Sarah Taylor, twenty years his junior, newly arrived from England. They had one child, a son, Jared—inquisitive, loving nothing better than to work with his hands—who, at age thirty, after going from one unprofitable job to another for fifteen years, designed and built the Worthington stove. “Better than the Franklin stove,” Jared boasted, and the townspeople smiled and nodded. “That’s Jared for you,” they said.

  Jared rented two small rooms near the landing and at first, working with one helper, lost money on every stove sold; then by word of mouth, sales of the “fire in the iron box” increased, and soon the two rooms weren’t enough so he rented a small warehouse and hired two more men. The business grew, and Jared Worthington prospered, married, fathered Jeffrey and Elizabeth.

  In the autumn after Beth was born, old Mr. Worthington, Jared’s father, died. His widow, heartbroken, returned to England to visit her father who was old and ill. Year after year Sarah Worthington postponed her return to America.

  Jared lived on in his father’s home and built an imposing stone structure enclosing the original house, helping to lay the stones of the turrets with his own hands, proud of his craftsmanship, and continued to build through his lifetime, believing that as long as the house grew he would live. The reverse proved true, for when he and his wife drowned in the shipwreck on Lake Erie and Beth was lost and presumed drowned also, his mother came back to care for Jeffrey, but no rooms were ever added. The house seemed to have died.

  I’ll be swallowed by this cavernous, crypt-like pile of a house, Beth thought, just as Gretel was by the fairy-tale forest. Except Beth had left no trail behind. She imagined feeling her way along its slimy cellar walls with mud oozing in her shoes, running through corridors which twisted and turned without end, climbing stairs to towers where trap doors shut and locked behind her.

  John Price stopped the wagon at the front steps. Beth’s breathing quickened, her legs trembled, panic froze her in the seat. My last chance to turn back, she thought. A gnarled hand reached out to her, and she looked down at an old man in black, his face creased in a smile of welcome. The trance broke and she was able to hold his hand, step from the wagon, and go in through the paneled door to the hall.

  An enormous candelabra was suspended from the ceiling two stories above with hundreds of candles circling upward in an ever-diminishing spiral. Only a few were lit. These flickered in the breeze from the open door and threw dancing shadows on the walls.

  Beth could imagine an evening years ago when richly costumed women entered this hall on the arms of attentive escorts, laughing, greeting friends, sweeping on, their voices lost at last amidst the lilting music coming from within. Tonight the hall stood empty. A stairway ascended counterclockwise to the murky upper floors. Three unlighted passageways led away to the inner chambers of the house.

  “Would you like to be shown your room, miss?” the butler asked.

  “I’ll meet Mr. Worthington first,” Beth said, “if he’s here.” Did her voice reveal the quickened beat of her heart?

  “He’s in the study, miss. This way.”

  He led the two women down the left hallway to a half open door and stepped aside to allow them to enter. Flames crackled in a fireplace extending halfway across the far wall.

  “Miss Elizabeth, sir,” their guide announced from behind.

  Jeffrey was alone. He leaned with one hand on the far side of the mantel, half-turned from her, one foot on the raised hearth, studying a paper in his hand. How theatrical, she thought; he looks like an actor posing for a daguerreotype, un-self-conscious and assured. Beth paused just inside the door and studied him—over six feet tall and slender, hair as black as her own but, she noted enviously, with a gentle wave. He had a strong chin, a rather large nose, and two deep lines etched in his forehead.

  Beth experienced a tremor of excitement, a strange mixture of fear, repugnance, and attraction. She approached him and he turned to her, and his flecked brown eyes met hers for a long moment. She saw his fingers drumming on the mantel top.

  “Beth,” he said. He paused. “Sister?” He left the word a question.

  “Jeffrey,” she said. They faced each other like two duelists during the last few seconds before the handkerchief falls.

  “My grandmother is indisposed.” Jeffrey spoke rapidly as though the words could not keep pace with his thoughts. “She’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “She’s my grandmother, too,” Beth said.

  He raised his eyebrows. We’ll see, they seemed to say. “Nothing serious, I hope,” she said.

  “No, Dr. Smith says her condition isn’t unusual for a woman of eighty-three.” Jeffrey crumpled the paper in his hand, threw it in the flames, then stirred the fire with a poker.

  “She’s eighty-five,” Beth corrected him.

  Jeffrey stiffened. He withdrew the poker from the fire and stood holding it in his hand. “Of course,” he said, “eighty-five. Numbers aren’t my forte.”

  “You used to love doing sums. I remember your copybook filled with them.”

  “I’ve tired of sums as surely as I’ve wearied of games,” he said. He laid the poker on the hearth and ran his hand through his hair. “My turn. Let me do the remembering. What of the time you fell from your horse and—”

  Mrs. Jamison interrupted. “Miss Beth,” she said, “I know you’d enjoy sitting down and reminiscing with your brother until all hours, but you must be exhausted. Why not wait until morning to chat with Mr. Jeffrey?”

  “I am tired,” Beth said. “Would you excuse me, brother?”

  He bowed, smiling ironically. “Until tomorrow,” he said and called out, and a maid appeared to lead them to their rooms. I’m all right, Beth told herself. I can do it. I’ve met him and tomorrow I’ll meet the others and I’ll be accepted. I will, I will, I will.

  The two women parted at the top of the stairs, and Mrs. Jamison was shown to her room in a wing of the house, Beth to a large chamber in the rear. Alone, in a strange room in a strange house, far from home, Beth kept busy unpacking and preparing for bed, pushing the thought of the next day from her mind. She lay on the feather mattress, and the myriad events of the day whirled through her mind and in a few minutes she slept.

  She awakened in the black of night. What had she heard? The curtains billowing inward? The wind? The rain? No, none of these. Beth knew with a terrible certainty that she was not alone—someone had entered her room and now lurked unseen in the surrounding dark.

  Chapter Three

  The wind had risen and rain gusted against the house, sounding like the scurrying of rodents on a roof. Through the open shutters she heard tree limbs rasp on the balcony. The room was dark, a midnight darkness broken only by the pale outline of one of the large windows.

  Beth lay perfectly still. She shut her fear in a corner of her mind and struggled to remember the many times she had told herself what she must do if this happened, if ever an intruder caught her unawares. Be quiet. Be calm. Make believe you’re asleep. Do nothing to frighten him.

  He must be searching through her trunk, she thought. Looking for money? For jewelry? Probably a townsman who had noted her arrival this evening. He’ll certainly leave, she reasoned, when he finds nothing of value, for she possessed little except her clothing and books.

  A thief? Then why hadn’t he struck a match? How could he hope to find valuables in the dark? Not a thief, then. Someone seeking evidence to show she was not Beth Worthington? If so, he wouldn’t be a stranger but a member of the same household which had welcomed her a few hours before.

  But where was the sense in this midnight excursion? Why not wait until she left the room tomorrow and her possessions could be examined at leisure in the light of day?

  Beth, puzzled, experienced a fear greater than any she had ever known. She moved stealthily under the heavy cov
ers to the far side of the bed. Across the room the man, for she was sure the intruder was a man, moved about slowly, quietly, but now she followed him with her eyes since, knowing he was there, all her listening focused on the particular section of darkness where he lurked.

  What was that? She heard—or did she imagine she heard?—the soft rustle of clothing.

  Silence. The storm momentarily slackened. Beth huddled in the bed, legs pulled up, hands gripping the nightgown below her knees. A movement, a slight noise, a pulling on the blankets. He was getting into the bed. She imagined him leaning toward her, hands feeling cautiously over the quilt, searching for her body.

  Her stomach tightened and a scream rose in her throat, but she gagged and no sound came. Would anyone hear? Could anyone hear? The shutter banged in erratic rhythm; the rain once more slashed at the windows and drove onto the side of the great house, trying to force its way through any chink or crack.

  Where was the bedroom door? Could she find it in the dark? And, if found, could she open the door? Her hand still ached from twisting the long bolt back and forth before the rust yielded and the metal rod slid grudgingly into place. Panic flooded through her and she could neither move nor think. The room, so comforting when she went to bed, had become a maze without an exit.

  The bed sagged beneath her as the stranger edged closer. Was escape possible? Beth sensed rather than felt the hand moving toward her along the top of the quilt. What would this man, daring enough to invade her bedchamber, do to prevent the disclosure of his identity? A light pressure on her shoulder. She jerked spasmodically and covered her mouth with her hand to help fight back a cry.

  He knew where she was. Beth trembled, hearing his quick, harsh breath. He was closer, sliding inch by inch to her body. His hand left the quilt, and she knew a flash of hope, the desperate rationalization when you are wounded but before the blood spurts, the forlorn hope that this isn’t really happening to you at all. He would leave, she told herself; he must leave.

  No, he was next to her and the hand, the terrible seeking hand, touched her thin gown, was on her, no quilt separating them. Beth held her body rigid. The hand lay inert on her upper arm. Slowly, so slowly she didn’t realize at first what was happening, the hand crept over her back in a circular, gentle caress. Beth shifted, feigning restlessness in her sleep, and the touch was gone.

  She was still again, and once more she became aware of his alien presence upon her, bolder, a heavier touch. Then he was against her back, his body fitting to the curl of hers, and with an alarm at once frightening and hopeless, Beth came to an awful realization—he was completely unclothed!

  Scream? Run? Too late, too late. Fear crawled along her spine and down her legs. She fought to be calm; she knew she must be calm above all, or she had no chance for escape. She clenched her hands and drew her arms in tight to her sides to keep back the tremors coursing through her slim body. Fortunately the man lay quiet also, to make certain, she thought, that she still slept.

  She felt legs, hard and masculine, on her calves and thighs, his chest along her back, his face nestling in her hair, his mouth hard on her neck. For a few seconds, really only for an instant, she told herself later, Beth relaxed and let the warmth of him flow through her, just the two of them alone, quiet, warm, in a world of wind and rain. The moment came and was gone, but for the rest of her life she would remember and wonder.

  Perhaps her softening communicated itself to him, for he stretched languorously beside her. His hands—she felt both of them on her now—knowingly caressed her back and thigh. He slid lower in the bed, and his left hand moved to her knee, below the fringe of her gown, and skimmed over the smoothness of her skin, up, up, the gown going with his searching fingers.

  His grasp tightened. More insistent, not caring whether she slept or woke, his hand leaving her leg to find and hold her breast between thumb and fingers, caution and stratagems discarded in the face of the demands of his lust.

  Roughly, he pulled Beth to him and turned her over onto her back. He swung his leg across hers and pressed his knee insistently between her legs.

  She must act. Now. Or forever it would be too late.

  Beth drew back her right arm and lashed at his face. Her sudden movement warned him and his arm came up, and she felt her nails rake along bare flesh and she heard him gasp and spring backward.

  She straightened her leg and thrust her knee upward, and he groaned and spun away. Flinging the bedclothes aside, she rolled to the floor and half-crawled, half-ran to the wall. The door. Where was the door? There. At last. She found the bolt, her fingers tearing at the knob, body straining, and the bolt clicked free and the door swung open.

  Beth was in the hall. Candlelight flickered from a holder on the far wall, and she glanced back and saw him staggering away, bent, his back to her. He was at the balcony, tall and dark, and the grotesque silhouette framed by the window was graven on her memory. He was motionless, time stopped, and then he was gone.

  She screamed. At last, cry after fear-filled cry echoing through the hall. She ran. Stumbling, her shadow wavering along the walls, across the somber paintings. The family portraits stared down with cold disapproval. At the stairwell she paused, grasping the knobbed banister, her screams filling the quiet house, the storm muted here within.

  Far down the corridor Mrs. Jamison’s door opened, and she hurried to Beth and they embraced, wordlessly, Beth sobbing, the two women clinging together. Her sobbing ebbed, and she saw others coming to them, candles bobbing along the hall and up the stairs; four, five servants around them, exclamations and questions darting at her.

  “What is going on?” Jeffrey’s harsh, impatient voice cut through the turmoil. They stepped back away from Beth, making way for him, a hush falling, the only sound the wind in the trees. He strode forward, dark and forbidding, his black robe matching the dark tousled hair and the unshaven face.

  Beth, pale, shaking, stepped to meet him. I’ll tell him. I’ll force him to find the man who almost violated me, she told herself.

  Jeffrey loomed over her, stone faced, emotion showing only in the twitching of his eyelids.

  “Sir,” she began. “Sir…” she repeated, and stopped, trembling uncontrollably, her eyes widening and staring in horror at his hand.

  Jeffrey ran his fingers through his hair, and Beth saw moisture glisten in the light. The sleeve of his robe fell back slightly. On the underside of his wrist was a bright red trickle of blood.

  Chapter Four

  In the autumn of the year along the Hudson there is almost always at least one day, one extraordinary day, pristine, perfect, bringing to all but the most insensitive a renewed joy in living.

  Forgotten are the hot, humid August days when drought parches the countryside. Forgotten the snow and ice to come, the penetrating cold and the long nights when life ebbs and the tolling funeral bell reminds men of their mortality.

  A laborer, trudging to work along the shore road as he will six days a week for the rest of his life, sees the mist rise from the river, stops and inhales the fresh newness of early morning. The quarry should be closed today, he tells himself. Yes, and no one should fire the kilns at the brickyard, no pilots guide their ships from home moorings, no millers grind grain, no farmers tend the fields and orchards. Leave the schools empty and the shops shuttered…

  This day is to be enjoyed and savored. For in a lifetime, in a man’s sixty years upon the earth, how many moments like this will he know?

  The day after the storm was such a day. Beth, on the balcony of her room, saw the swirl of mist below and the azure blue of the cloudless sky above. A breeze whispered through a willow beside the summerhouse, and somewhere in the distance a horse neighed. The breeze blew cool on her face, caught her hair, and she raised her arms, stretching, seeming to embrace the morning.

  Beth returned to a gloomy, empty bedroom. Today she must face the Worthingtons. What challenges lay before her?

  Mrs. Jamison, who had spent the remainder of the night w
ith her, had gone downstairs before seven o’clock. “I’ll find out whatever I can about what has happened here since my sister’s time,” she told Beth before leaving to eat with the servants. “The house staff knows more of a family’s business than anyone, including the family.”

  Beth nodded, anxious to be on her own after the months of preparation.

  “Be careful,” Mrs. Jamison warned. “Treat each and every one of them as an enemy. Be very, very careful.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Beth had said. But now, entering the dining room, she was not so sure, felt trepidation flutter inside her.

  A white-haired man sat alone at one end of a long mahogany table. A second place was set with silver, crystal, and blue-on-white china.

  The man rose slowly, one hand holding the table for support. Sixty-five, seventy? she wondered. He was of medium height with curling hair, a square face clean shaven except for bushy sideburns. He was pale, almost ashen, and Beth hurriedly motioned him to sit down as she took her place beside him.

  “Good morning, Miss…” He hesitated almost imperceptibly before adding, “Worthington. I’m Charles Fremont.” He met her eyes levelly, a slight suggestion of a smile on his face. A friendly smile, though, she judged.

  He had noticed her surprise at seeing him at the family table. “Yes, of course,” Charles said. “You remember me as your father’s secretary. I never sat with the family in those days. But times change and one assumes responsibilities. Or perhaps we merely become older and receive, without asking, a reward for having survived. For whatever reason, at one time or another I was”—the suggestion of a smile—“promoted.” He indicated the table in front of them.