Trouble Cove

by Nancy Lindley-Gauthier

  “Is this real, this hour upon a beach, under the wide-open sky? Where do we go from here?”

  “Where thou goest I shall go,” I quoted softly. It was rash, but seemed fitting. Only after I spoke and I saw his stunned look, did I think on the full meaning of the words.

  My dance partner looked gravely down at me. It was his turn to be tongue-tied, apparently. We gazed into one another’s eyes. The morning might have been lost, or the day. Truly, all sense of time drifted away.

  The day’s light glittered through to light upon us in this fog-shrouded world. I forgot about being too bold, forgot to worry. I too could find inspiration in the light.

  “Captain,” Daro said. “Walk with me.”

  I strolled arm in arm with him, along the beach. Objects loomed as strange, pale shadows, mysteries until we stood right by them.

  Daro paced along as always, escorting me along a beach I knew as well as my own bedroom. “Elizabeth,” he said as we skirted an overturned dory, “are you minding your step?”

  “I do not believe I am, Mr. Michelson.”

  We eased up the sands together to skirt a particularly far-reaching wave.

  “Should I be?” I thought to ask.

  “I should think so. No, I can have no idea what to think.” He patted my hand. “You arrived like light, and my heart lifted, and I’ve no idea what might come next.”

  His heart lifted! Oh, his heart lifted! Finally he spoke about how he felt! My own bubbled like the froth of a wave.

  “A moment is but a moment.” His voice deepened. “I cannot change light, or bend the Sun to my will, but Captain you swept up like light itself and took my hand. Still, there is much in me, I do not wish to change or do not wish to lose.”

  I did not understand, but his tone was grave and he was certainly trying to tell me something. Warning and sorrow filled his words. I felt the magic of the dream world fall away from us.

  Still, I struggled to hold onto the moment. “I would not see you change, Daro.”

  “I cannot say what the future will bring. I can make no promise.”

  A single edge of wave slipped above its fellows to touch swirl about our boots. I laughed. “Why, who can say, about any future? Us, along this beach, no more than those who march to war.”

  “True.” He escorted me back to Oceanside, to my job and my life, without further poetry.

  I tumbled forward into what had become an ordinary day enclosed in the walls at the once-magical Oceanside.

  ****

  I dashed up the main hall stairway with a plan to straighten up the two small guestrooms at the rear. Beryl could simply not do all of the housekeeping, even for the few guests left. I pulled the extra quilt off the bed and stored in the ‘spares’ closet and set about dusting. Sometimes, mindless tasks allow the mind to wander, and in my case, so often given to fanciful notions.

  I fear it was but few minutes before I imagined dashing about a different house altogether.

  Mrs. Trumbull’s house, somehow grander than Oceanside, had intrigued me since my first glimpse inside. I had no trouble imagining it at all. I might stand in the narrow hallway of Oceanside, but in my mind, I dashed along her grand entranceway.

  The main hall’s decoration combined art and furniture; paintings on the walls offered brightness above the dark mahogany side tables, carved banisters and freshly aired throw rugs carefully placed. No cobwebs lurked in her high corners. It was all light and airy and lovely. A candle sat burning mid-window, as if on watch, even in the full light of day.

  I clasped my hands before the candle. Mrs. Trumbull! What a beautiful, tragic story. Here she’s spent her lifetime tending her house and her lights. The gleaming lights along the widow’s walk had saved us the day we brought Thistle up the coast. All her life, she had kept the candles burning in memory of, or perhaps in the hopes of the return of, the greatest and only love of her life. Captain Trumbull.

  I confessed early on my weakness for tragic romance, didn’t I? I am afraid I’d had little time for reading and less for gossip all this long season. One could hardly blame me for a touch of imaging. It was so terribly romantic in a way, to think she’d tended her walkway lights for so terribly long. She must have so loved her husband.

  Her home must be laid out like the best of the Victorians of her day. I could see the upstairs landing as if I were there. Plainly, the master bedroom would sit to the right. Green I decided; a mint-green room with a large mint-green quilt. I tiptoed hesitantly across the threshold. The plump pillows and thick coverlet almost spoke to me. I took one moment to press down into the soft, soft bed and could have tumbled straight down into it. Even the quilt, one of those obviously made from a collection of oddments, felt soft.

  A pair of framed silhouettes looked at one another over the top of the vast double bed, the old fashioned sort with elegant posts, all carved into pineapple shapes.

  Indeed it had to be them; the Trumbulls. I could see the missus’ pert nose, and her hair dressed high and elegantly. He, with his squared off beard and high forehead was the very picture of the old-time sea captain.

  They were mounted and framed side-by-side, looking ever at one another. In the window next to them, I could see the sea, the great crashing waves and imagine this man…setting off, and she, Mrs. Trumbull, a young married woman, watching him go. She had expected him to return of course. She had waited…and waited.

  I clutched my hands before me. Had word ever come? Had she some notion of what sea claimed her love? Oh, if but one letter could have gotten through! I must have reached out to them, or particularly to him; suddenly, he turned and gazed at me.

  The heavy quilts in my hands plunked to the floor and fear I must have followed them down, for but a moment later, I pulled my face up out of the bedclothes. Fainted! Quite ridiculous.

  No sea captain stood commandingly there, nor, indeed, do Mrs. Trumbull’s elegant mint-green room surround me. I had imagined my way all around one of the hotel’s mid-priced rooms. Understated beige was brightened by one small seaside print. The two windows looked southeast, not due east, like the Trumbull home.

  Still, the sea is the sea. I took myself to the window, to the magnificence framed between simple cloth curtains, and thought this, the everlasting blue, the white-caps and the ever-changing view all vastly more impressive than any of my imaginings.

  “She never fit in here, did she?” The captain stood there, hands clasped behind his back, glaring at me from an entirely imaginary wall painting.

  I had gone short on sleep one night too many. Still. It felt only right to tell him.

  “She’s done all right,” I said.“I mean, all right for herself. Became a schoolmarm, earned the respect of all.”

  Captain Trumbull’s face looked so like an old time sea captain, for he was high browed and bearded. Yet, he sent me a good-humored gaze and, impossibly, very young and dashing. Oh! Of course he was. He had departed still a young man, and had stayed like that, all the years Mrs. Trumbull aged. As he looked away south it came to me, what she had said about me not being one of them.

  “You two were like Daro and me, weren’t you?” I mused aloud. “She wasn’t one of you, but it didn’t matter, didn’t matter at all, because she had you. Then when you didn’t come home, well, it did.”

  He clasped his hands and shook his head.

  “She was left all alone here when you didn’t come home.”

  The blue silhouette did not look my way.

  “She told me, you know? Told me I might never be part of things here. I suppose she wanted me to know the risk. If something happens to Daro, I’m all alone here.”

  I stepped closer to the window. “She could have gone home, couldn’t she?” The perfect blue of the crystal sky filled the window, and there, out there, I could almost see a big whaling ship riding the tide in toward the bay. How often had Mrs. Trumbull stared to the east, hoping against hope to see his ship coming in? “She couldn’t leave for the longest time, because she so ho
ped. She stood here, waiting and waiting, looking for your ship, and then, then as hope faded…she’d stayed so long, she couldn’t imagine leaving.” Sadness seemed to tip into me like water pouring in from a pitcher.

  “And she was gorgeous and faithful, and such a romantic, tragic story for all the locals to share, but then, really, still, all alone.”

  The blue swirled all around, and I lifted my gaze, guessing it might be one of those weird atmospheric affects you get up here, but I was merely lifting my gaze from face-down in the green and blue quilt.

  I looked around the room. No portraits hung on these walls, no one stood glaring at me.

  I gathered up the quilt, hefted them onto a hip, and set off down the stairs.

  Ariel stood at the hearth, looking cold. “They called luncheon a moment ago, did you hear?” She seemed no more real than the stern, dashing captain.

  ****

  “Lemonade?” Mrs. Brookeson glanced around the luncheon table.

  Knowing Madame Chatillon’s secret as I did, especially knowing how she was allowed to remain without cost and with not one wit less service than before, I felt much more kindly toward our proprietor Mrs. Brookeson. Lunch today had a warmer aura.

  “Let me fetch the pitcher.” I popped out to the kitchen. Beryl shadowed me, not so much helping, but skulking in my wake. She crunched on something as I reached for the tray of drinks.

  “What have you got there, Beryl? If there are crackers to go out, too, I’ll be happy to take them.”

  She shrugged, all hunched over as if I’d caught her out. Anyone would think she had been stealing, or she’d swallowed someone’s diamond ring. After a second, she admitted, “Candy almond.”

  I clearly recalled the glass dish of Jordan almonds sailing off into a corner, during the other day’s crazy scramble.

  “They got thrown off, thrown away,” she blurted.

  “It’s all right,” I assured her.

  “Cook had me clean up in there. Was all a mess. There weren’t but a couple candies left.” She swallowed. “Papers and map and stuff all wet. I didn’t know what to do with it all.”

  “You knew what to do with the candy, though, I take it. I hope you didn’t eat the ones on the floor,” I stressed, but she probably did. Fancy candies like that hardly fell her way ordinarily.

  She frowned and did not meet my eye. If Beryl didn’t want to say something, you could hardly get a word out of her.

  “If there are any more, you wipe them off real careful before you eat them. Don’t say one word about anything going on in that room to anyone else, hear?”

  Beryl grinned. “There’s always pieces of cigars or bits of cigarettes in there, but never candy. And never any pretty stuff before, just old copies of The Cape Courier or that one cent paper from Halifax.”

  “Was there a drink?” The missus whined from the dining room.

  “Just getting lemonade,” I called. I grabbed Beryl’s arm. “What do you mean, ‘pretty stuff?”

  From the wide front pocket of her apron, she drew a sparkly silver ribbon like you’d use to fasten a gift box. Beryl plopped it into my hand and stood with her head hanging. “I thought I’d keep it for a hair ribbon,” she whispered.

  The ribbon was very pretty, and probably expensive, but little more than a scrap. I handed it back to Beryl. “I don’t think anyone will miss it, and it will look very nice as a hair ribbon.”

  Osten interrupted. “Were you bringing a drink? People are having their sandwiches.”

  “Yes, yes.” I hefted the pitcher. “I’ll pour right now.”

  Beryl slid passed.

  “And not a word from you,” I cautioned her.

  Osten paused in the doorway, wanting to ask.

  “No need for any discussion of poor Genevieve, I should think,” I said briskly, as if I’d been worried about gossip.

  “Oh, quite right Miss Eames. Quite right.”

  Chapter Ten

  Seeking Information

  Our big bay mare strolled beside me to the end of her paddock then spun and bucked when she reached the limits of her fence line.

  “Adieu Anslee-mare,” I called to her. I walked straight back through the wide field of scrawny, browning marsh grass and climbed the first of the hills on the way to Alma’s.

  Left behind, the mare still snorted and pranced. She’d have liked nothing better than a run through the wide-open fields with me. It was enough of a walk for me to wish I’d ridden, before I reached even halfway. I paused at the footbridge over the stream to catch my breath. I felt quite undone by the view.

  The vivid, green-hued hills, now hoary gray with early frost, rose as giants far inland, impressive but intimidating. They were less welcoming than the charming seaside and mostly untroubled by tourists, or any others, so far as I knew. They had been mere shadows on the stormy morn when we had run to Alma’s for safety.

  Evergreen branches glittered with tiny icicles, marking the edge of an old, old forest. Some part of me felt the wildness in there, a wildness not unlike that which harbored in the sea. A great, great presence sat in the shadows of those trees, an awareness, perhaps the soul of the island itself.

  Oh, how entirely fanciful! Still, the place inspired it. A poet might gaze inland here and find verses springing to mind, or a musician discover a symphony. You might think the aesthetic sensibilities of our resident artist might occasionally turn to this sublime landscape of steep hills and distant peaks, as well.

  I suddenly wanted to explore those hazy jumbled peaks. Today, however, luncheon hovered over the back of my mind and spurred me onward. I needed to be back in time to help or else Cook would have to do it all. Beryl had been assigned to clean upstairs and would not be spared to help.

  Alma’s swept doorway welcomed, although by the time I reached it, I was plodding. Had I truly run this whole way during the storm? It seemed utterly impossible.

  Alma popped out as I approached. “Elizabeth, oh how grand of you to call. My Donall took a two-week job up north and I’ve been without an adult to talk to these last few days. My word, he nearly accepted the position for the whole winter, but I wouldn’t have it. Two weeks is long enough. I am already longing for his return and little Donnie’s asking for him every single day. Can you visit long?”

  I stopped at the wooden arch over the lintel. “I’ve actually come with a purpose.”

  “Do come in and I’ll put the tea on.” Alma towed me into the warmth of her kitchen.

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay.” I plumped down on that quilt-covered chair by the fire and felt as if I were melting into the soft cushiony warmth. It was an effort to keep my eyes open. This would never do. I leaned forward. “I’m afraid I’ve come to ask you something.”

  “Yes, yes of course.”

  “It’s gossip, nasty gossip really, but I assure you I do have good reason for asking.”

  Alma paused with one hand grasping the tea kettle over the stove. “Oh?”

  “One of our maids, Siobhan, went home quite abruptly this summer. She was not an inadequate maid, or had any complaint made about her.”

  Alma began poking the fire up rather briskly. Too briskly.

  “I’ve never heard Beryl say one bad word about her,” I said.

  “I should think not.” Alma fiddled with a potholder and turned away.

  “But I bet she mentioned it to you. Did she know why Siobhan left?”

  “I canna think it right to speak of the gal’s misfortune.”

  “It’s not the maid I am concerned about, although I think what I heard is a shame, if true. It’s the devil that got her into trouble that I’m interested in. I want to know if Avery Brookeson is to blame.”

  “Hardly makes a difference now.” Alma kept fussing around the stove.

  “It might make a difference to Avery. In fact, it should make a difference to Avery.” I chose my words carefully. “You see, one of the guests has threatened to share this piece of gossip in order to disgrace Avery. His behavio
r certainly wouldn’t be accepted, in the rather upright social circles of Halifax, nor yet with his church, but only if it were true, of course.”

  “You’re looking for evidence to ruin the man?”

  “Actually, no. I just want to know if it’s true. He departed, very quickly, merely at the threat.”

  Alma nodded, still not looking at me.

  I felt the need to explain. “Even if the gossip about Siobhan and Avery were true, it seems uncharacteristic for Avery to give up so easily. His sudden departure seems suspicious.” I didn’t think I was making headway. “If the gossip I heard is not true, then I am very worried, because he is up to some sort of a trick.”

  Alma deliberately strolled over and sat beside me. She leaned over the stack of newspapers piled between us, glanced down, hesitated and finally said, “It is private, and nasty gossip besides, but I suppose, when you look at all the horror going on in this world, it is petty matter.” She clasped her hands together. “Beryl did tell me when Siobhan got sent home. It wasn’t anything to do with her getting into shameful trouble herself. Siobhan accidentally walked in on this Avery and a guest, a Mrs. Fromart. In the bedroom. You know how I mean. Siobhan got paid not to mention it and packed off straightaway.”

  “So there was something.” I leaned back in the chair. “Something yet nothing. It’s not something we could prove, not like an out-of-wedlock child. He had no real reason to depart.”

  “No one would want that gossip to spread.”

  I shrugged. “It would only be a rumor. An affair, with only a maid as witness? That would not make Avery depart suddenly. It must have suited him to leave.” I thought of the times he’d gone off, to ‘stay in Ingonish.’ His disappearances looked more and more suspicious. Avery could have laughed at our threats and kept right on courting Gen.

  “Perhaps he decided to be kind and do as you wished?” Alma went to see to the kettle.

  “Kind does not describe Avery. No, he had no reason to go, no reason to let us think we had won, yet he’d gone meekly. He must have wanted to leave without arousing comment.”