Alma set my tea at my elbow. “Look at those papers. All that horror over in Europe. There are whole families desperate to get out. You can hardly square the lives of the folks at your fancy resort with the awful goings-on in this world.”
It was true. There were many newspaper accounts of desperate families squashing into tiny quarters aboard old vessels, in an effort to escape.
She patted the top article. “I’ve been reading about folks who haven’t enough money to book passage out for their families, so send their youngsters off alone, to what they hope will be safety. I’ve heard of Mums sewing a few dollars into a child’s collar and packing crackers for the long uncomfortable days aboard ship. I can’t imagine sending my little Donnie off, then waiting and waiting for word, looking for a letter, praying the ship would make it to safe harbor somewhere, hoping some kind soul would take him in.”
Safe harbor. Like the Madame’s family, aiming here for safe harbor. Many families were trying to come here to safety. As Alma touched a tissue to her eyes, a dreadful feeling swept over me.
What had Daro said about false lights set to lure ships in for their plunder? A shipload of treasures…and children?
****
I left a tad late on the sparkling crisp day, feeling far too full of tea and scones and not eager to get back to Oceanside. I wished I could take the afternoon and gallop Ainslee mare on up to McLellan’s Harbor and contrive a few minutes visit with a certain gentleman. I was needed in the kitchen to help Cook. Heaven knew she didn’t want to be doing extra.
I forgot all about her and my assorted duties as I topped the little knoll and looked down at the footbridge.
Daro stood looking inland at the deep dark forest. Though light sparkled crystal-clear all around him, his shadow obscured all else beyond.
He might well be a visitor from some ancient legend, standing there, surveying a land of lesser mortals. I could see him as a ship’s captain from days of old, fierce and brave, with a great booming laugh.
I am being fanciful again, I thought. He looked my way and smiled, and all at once, shrank down to more human proportions. I stepped along to meet him on the bridge where I had first sensed the odd enchantment of Cape Breton Island. Salty sea scented air met the hint of pine from the mighty trees inland, and the little creek marked the bridge between the two.
Daro folded his arms across his chest and nodded as I approached. He spoke the one word, “Captain.”
I guessed he was here for something serious.
“I need you to remind me of what you saw, exactly what you saw, when we turned the sailboat that first time, south of the point.”
I’d hoped for some more, but what? A friendly, even familiar gesture? “The point,” I repeated, quite stupidly.
“I’ve been thinking on this false light. I know I’ve cast my mind back to Mother Stewart’s readings of the awful tales of wreckings. There’s a thrill to those verses, all talk of hauntings and revenge. I remember those best from when I was a boy, and maybe I am too quick to call them to mind. One minute I think it possible, the next, ridiculous. Tricking mariners into shallow waters. Who here, living on the edge of the sea, would ever do such a thing?”
“Unthinkable,” I murmured. “There’s been no other such light, since? No other boats have reported anything?”
“I did ask others here, fisherman. They’ve not seen it, nor think my concern likely.”
“Did you tell them about Mrs. Trumbull’s missing oil?”
“They don’t want to hear warnings from me. I might-a come from McLellan’s but I grew up down in Sydney Mines.” Daro glared at his feet. “What they think of me is neither here nor there. The thing is, I can’t be sure wrecking is what’s intended. I could be mistaken.”
“I saw the false light from Thistle, too.” I assured him. “It fooled me.”
“Does it mean wrecking, though?” he mused. “For that matter, what can I do about it? I mean, I can’t guard the coast.”
“Who does guard our coast?”
“None who would thank me for fanciful reports.” He looked up suddenly. “There are good guards; the official coast patrol, naval military vessels, fisherman, lighthouse keepers and watchers of all sorts up and down the coast. Maybe there is not so much for me to worry about.”
“I am afraid I haven’t given it any thought at all.” I touched his hand. “I’m still caught up with the very minor doings at Oceanside, and of one unimportant but unfortunate romance.”
He made a face.
“It is a worthy cause. Poor Genevieve is a lovely person, who needs help getting away from…”
Daro chuckled. “I think you might want to reconsider meddling with other people’s romances. In the old poems, that sort of thing never turns out well.”
We started back toward the resort—hopefully, for my part. I so longed for him to speak of his feelings. As he had sought me out this time, surely he meant to speak in some romantic manner? I wanted to stand and talk with Daro on the picturesque bridge forever and ever. The place itself inspired courtship. He would perhaps start with a quote from a poet, in his deep rolling voice. I almost held my breath, waiting for words with some hint of affection.
“What about where watchers are few?” he suddenly asked. “The coastal guards watch the populated places and stand ready to defend good harbors.”
“Stands to reason.” I sighed. “Not much sense in protecting the empty highlands or rocky shoals.”
“Rocky shoals are exactly what a wrecker would need. Truth is, whole stretches of coast are unwatched because they are dangerous areas. We worry about keeping enemy ships from invading, not about them galloping into rocks.” He nodded slowly. “The immigrant ships mostly make their way to New Brunswick around our northern tip. Up there, people are sparse. To lure a ship onto shoals, why I’d go even farther up than Meat Cove, to a place like Trouble Cove. It didn’t get its name for no reason. Its rocks would ground a deep-water vessel and make for easy plunder.”
“Still, even if you’ve guessed right, you cannot guess when a ship will be going by, or if it will be a ship with a valuable cargo. Not without knowing all the ship’s schedules.” The words, ‘ship schedules’ brought another conversation to my mind. Madame Chatillon had said she received information on passenger ships in her letters. Those selfsame letters that had recently gone missing.
“Poor weather conditions would be the most obvious time,” Daro was saying. “Fog or storm. Still, the wrecker would have to be lucky or have some early notice of the approach of a passenger vessel.”
“Mmmm? Early notice of a passenger ship?” Again, Daro’s comment called to mind Madame Chatillon’s words. She had said her sister ordinarily sent word about the ships her grandson might be expected to travel onboard. Would those letters have enough information for a wrecker? In my mind’s eye, I could see the French Lady’s mail sitting on Avery’s desk. Could that account for her ‘missing’ letters?
I could scarcely credit my sudden, horrible thought.
“Wreckers would want to be sure to lure in a passenger ship, with goods, not say, a fishing boat, or coast patrol,” Daro mused, but my mind galloped ahead, trying to sort possibilities.
We walked together back to Oceanside. Daro did not offer me his hand. Perhaps his thoughts were entirely taken up with worry. Perhaps he gave no thought to me at all. I could hardly make sense of my own thoughts.
We walked in silence.
I had so wished for another visit with Daro and now this lucky meeting had caught me unprepared. I struggled to think of conversation. It was my own fault if the poor man never gave me one word or hint of encouragement! Yet, any such light conversation would seemed frivolous in the face of the monstrous crime we both contemplated, wouldn’t it?
We topped the small hill behind the resort, and he stopped quite naturally to view the magnificence of sea and sky before us. Perfect blue and while waves rolled, one after the other, up the sands of the crescent beach. The light sparkl
ed along the underside of the clouds like a spattering of crystals. Softly, Daro quoted “the flying cloud, the frosty light.”
He did not so much as glance my way, but his hand suddenly grasped mine.
****
My heart still fluttered like a butterfly as I slipped in the main door. There had been no elaborate goodbyes, no words or promises and yet, we’d shared moments, long moments.
Ariel nearly leapt out of the foyer with a paper in her hand. “Where have you been? Look, Gen left me this.”
I squashed the urge to turn and run.
“I don’t believe this for one second.” Ariel shook the note under my nose.
Surely, I could have one day without these petty guest problems? I dutifully took the note and read, in Gen’s elegant hand,
Ariel, I am going to stay in Ingonish. I’m waiting for a few things from the dressmakers, and I want a few days on my own. I’ll be ready to go home in a few days, don’t be mad, Gen.
“Surely this is good Ariel, I mean, if she’s getting ready to go back to Halifax?”
“This is not like her. She’s up to something.” Ariel took back the note. “I expected her to be sitting around whining for days.”
Beryl scooted past with a full trash bin, humming the old Barbara Allen song. Dust trailed in her wake. She’d have been dismissed ages ago, if she weren’t the last maid left. She was completely unmindful of how it looked to have a scruffy maid hauling debris out the front door.
“Barbara Allen.” Ariel pressed her hands over her mouth. “A sign.”
Nonsense,” I said. “Doesn’t mean a thing. Probably Beryl’s favorite song, it being so romantic.”
“With the lovers dying for one another,” Ariel almost sobbed.
Oh, dear, why did she have to leap to the dark ending? Still, there was no point in endlessly reassuring her. I gave up and set off for the kitchen. The sound of metallic clicking of the wireless made me stop abruptly. I hesitated outside the doorway to the smoking room.
Ariel shook her head. “It’s not Avery in there. Mark DelaMore. He’s been hanging over the wireless all day.”
“Really?” I tiptoed to the door. Inside, the wireless chattered, but without any background conversation. I eased open the door.
Mark hunched on the footstool by the wireless contraption. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the door, then rose quickly in a gentlemanly fashion.
I held out a hand. “Don’t get up. I didn’t see you at lunch, and thought perhaps you’d like sandwiches brought in?” I scanned every dark corner, but the room sat empty, apart from Mark.
“Very thoughtful of you, Elizabeth. I haven’t wanted to leave these latest reports.”
“News from overseas?” I guessed.
“A massing of armaments, battle expected. Oh, nothing for you lasses to worry about, of course. I’d be pleased if you could send in a tray so I can keep listening.”
‘Nothing for you lasses to worry about’ indeed. As if women couldn’t perfectly well follow news reports. I stomped over to the front and grabbed a dish to put something together for him.
Cook marched by with a large tray of deviled crab and crackers. They joined a salad and a few slices of bread on the side buffet there in the foyer.
“I’m sorry I was held up, Mrs. Buxton.”
Our patient cook silently motioned toward the front hall to where Madame Chatillon stood by the narrow window staring out to sea. She had received no letter again, apparently.
I wondered why Cook made such a point about our French lady standing there. The fancy crab salad would certainly suit the Madame, although she’d hardly make a fuss about it. No, Cook meant to tell me something.
Ariel trotted after me and clutched at my arm. “What should we do?”
I couldn’t think of a thing to do about Gen, and I had the uncomfortable feeling I had missed something. One too many things were going on. I squirmed away from Ariel and hurried back to the kitchen. Cook stood over the oven, carefully lifting the edges of scones to check their bottoms.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Buxton?”
“Discreet of you. Keeping all the French Woman’s story to yourself.” Cook began easing the scones off the hot pan with a spatula. “She’s waiting for her grandson. You knew all along? Her boy in the midst of the war and young grandson anywhere.”
“Yes.”
“I thought she considered herself too grand for us, but here, she’s been waiting and waiting. She’s kept her dignity. Can’t say that about all.” I knew Cook meant to compare the French woman to Mrs. Brookeson, who could pitch a screaming fit like a three year old.
I held my fingers out over the warming oven. Much more had been going on at this hotel than I had suspected. And somehow, I was still here. Avery must have told his mother something about what had happened, but Mrs. Brookeson had not said a word to me about the incident. She was apparently determined that all should appear to be carrying on as if normal.
Cook eased a large loaf of bread out of the oven. “I’ll not be surprised if we don’t have another storm coming. Daro always seems to know. This morning, he said the color of sunrise gave him an uneasy feeling.”
“I think we’re better prepared this time,” I assured her. I so wanted a few moments peace, to think. I wanted to remember my own visit with Daro.
“I’m baking a meat pie for tomorrow. It will only need heating. Might be, I stay home.” Cook hustled around, busy as always.
“You left your lucky stone behind, last time,” I pointed out. “Maybe you better take it with you tonight.”
‘Harrumph.” She straightened and shot me a look as though she were irritated, but said, “Next time, you take the bluestone. Can’t hurt to keep luck with you.”
“Shouldn’t you have it?”
She pushed me toward the door. “You go along and think about something else entirely.”
Chapter Eleven
Decisions
Dawn brought overcast skies and a strange, deepening dark to the day. I set to work in the kitchen, making coffee and setting out toast.
I looked at the bluestone there at the hearth. Silly, I know, but I felt good about it. Cook thought more of me than she had ever let on, and she was a tough one, so I was more than a little proud.
Cook was more disdainful of Mrs. Brookeson than she had ever let on before, too. Still, Mrs. Brookeson was nobody’s fool. With that in mind, I uneasily had to admit that Oceanside’s owners had some other purpose for keeping the resort open.
Madame Chatillon had told Mrs. Brookeson that she regularly received letters with news of wealthy refugees aboard ships; ships that might well be described as treasure ships. The ships carried artworks and valuable household furnishings rescued from the old country, all part of individual families’ treasures. Likely, every ship carried a fortune and they traveled by our very shores.
The Brookeson’s shouldn’t need a fortune, but many of the wealthy s in this part of the world had invested overseas. Much of value had been lost to the German invasion. Lately, Oceanside hadn’t managed to pay all its bills. The fact seemed ominous.
Mrs. Brookeson had decided to stay on here, near a place where ships passed relatively secluded shores, on their way to the ports of New Brunswick on the Canadian mainland. She had also, rather suddenly in the middle of the summer, encouraged a romance between her son and the wealthy Genevieve, who she previously detested.
Mid-summer, the battle of the Somme had spread from Verdun and ravaged France. I had little grasp of distant geography, but whole cities and villages had fallen. Likely, fortunes had been lost right then, both in property and in art, as well as other investments. In times of war, all those with their chief investments overseas stood to lose their fortunes.
What if, sometime this summer, the Brookesons had lost their fortune? Suddenly, the idiotic heiress might seem like a good choice as a bride. And, when they heard of the fortunes sailing right past their shores in the shape of various treasure
ships, I guess they might have decided to claim someone else’s fortune for themselves.
I shuddered at the thought. Although I could not be sure, their behavior and all the events of late certainly suggested I was correct.
Beryl shuffled into the kitchen. “Daro says we should go to Alma’s today. Barometer’s falling. I know my Auntie Alma is happy to have you come and stay, too.”
Beryl stood there shivering on stone floor, no doubt remembering her auntie’s pumpkin muffins and the rich warmth of her kitchen. She would not be unhappy to scoot up there.
“Is Daro here?”
“He stopped early this morning. Sent Old George south on some errand. He just went down to the beach to pull in the resort’s dory.” She scowled.
“Is there more?”
“He’s got to go north he said. He needs to take some provisions. I’m to pack him a bread and a big square of cheese. I’m not sure where he’s going.” Beryl put her hands in her apron pocket and kept her gaze down. “It can’t be good weather for travel.”
I barely nodded. Daro hadn’t even waited for a word with me. I sighed and stumbled forward woodenly. I had to face the truth. I had been fooling myself from the start. My heart sank and I could hardly feel my fingers and I wanted nothing more than to go hide in my room for a good cry.
I fumbled my sweater off the chair back by the stove. “Put this on and muffle up proper, overcoat and scarf, Beryl. Going over the fields to Alma’s is going to feel like a long walk, today.”
“Ain’t you coming?”
“No.” I hesitated, but it couldn’t hurt for her to know. “I’ll go north too, whether he wants me or not. You can pack some extra food for me, if you would.”
I couldn’t allow myself to give in to such ridiculous emotion. Whether or not Daro felt anything for me, I knew I had to do my part to stop what was coming. I believed I’d figured this out, this wrecking. It had to be Avery. Darned if I would sit back while someone else struggled to stop him.
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